Missed a dispatch? They’re all right here.

Back at Gila Valley Feed & Hardware Store, while I waited for Deborah and Clayton to open the Simpson Hotel, I had momentarily considered pressing on to Globe, two hours northwest of Duncan.

I ran the idea past the hardware proprietor and his eyebrows shot up. “That’s not a good road at this time of day,” he warned. Highway 70 runs through the San Carlos Apache Reservation, and evening brings a higher risk of collisions—cars, elk, and free-roaming horses.

I’m glad I waited. The road I took the next morning rose and fell through a series of cool, pine-shadowed elevations before opening onto wide golden valleys flanked by soft red buttes. These are not show-off mountains; they provide a landscape that calms your pulse. What I most remember was the air—crisp, fresh, and blissfully free of chemicals or grit.

My journey that day would be blessedly short after so many in a row that topped 250 or 300 miles. I’d arranged to meet Mom and Dad—along with JJ’s daughter Bebe—at a little restaurant just off the highway they were coming in on. They were late. Of course.

Timing as a Family Trait

Time management had always been a struggle for our family as I grew up. Part of it was Dad, who consistently underestimated what was required before takeoff. But most of it was Mom, who refused to leave the house in a mess—or with a plugged-in curling iron. I think this was common among women of her generation, the same cohort that worried about being in a car wreck with dirty underwear.

She used to have this little tic of flicking the light switches in each room multiple times before we left. To make sure the lights would stay off? She never could explain it.

I became an adult who doesn’t want to waste perfectly productive time that I could be doing something interesting. Why arrive half an hour early when the only thing to do is wait? “On time” means you’re there at the appointed time.

I bet you can anticipate this next marital revelation: for Matt, “on time” means “almost late.”

Anyhow, I arrived at our meetup ten minutes early and called to see not if they were late, but by how much. I had to wade through Mom’s story about a missed turn and road construction and something about signage before finally getting the bottom line from twenty-year-old Bebe in the back seat: “Grammy, tell her we won’t be there for another forty minutes.”

Whew. Thanks for cutting to the chase, Bebe.

Listening with New Ears

This was the first time I’d get to know Bebe as a young woman. She’d always been present at family gatherings, but as the youngest adult, she was often edged out by the louder voices and long-established rhythms of the oldsters. Now, here she was—riding shotgun with her grandparents, quick with a straight answer in a calm tone. And for the first time, I wasn’t just watching her grow up—I was listening to who she was becoming.

I’d only had a bite of toast with tea that morning—my stomach still hovering somewhere between East Coast and Central time. When I’d learned they’d be forty minutes late, I went ahead and ordered. Chef salad, hold the croutons. I didn’t need to start the reunion hangry, especially when I was already teetering between old habits and new understanding.

When I’d finished, I still had time to call the Phoenix BMW dealership to get an appointment for a new back tire and a general checkup before making the long trip back east. And let the record show I am not relieved when faced with a chirpy recorded message saying, “...our menu items have changed” and “...we are experiencing unprecedented call volume at this time.” Trust me, businesses, after decades of listening to this script, we’ve memorized it.

I was on interminable hold with the dealership when I saw my family come through the front door. I’d already claimed a corner booth and stood so they’d see me. Bebe stayed behind Dad to hold the door for Mom. I pointed to my earbuds and blew them kisses, letting them know I couldn’t greet them properly just yet.

Dad reached me first and gave me the side-hug we’ve all adapted when the other person is on the phone. I was relieved to see he’d lost a bit of his paunch since his Type 2 diabetes diagnosis and Metformin prescription. When he was in his thirties, strangers sometimes asked if he was Johnny Carson, the late night host of The Tonight Show. I didn’t know who Johnny Carson was as a kid, but the resemblance is unmistakable, even today.

Mom entered looking a bit unfocused and Bebe pointed out our table. Mom gave me a little wave and made a beeline for the restroom. She’s always been a scrupulous hand washer before meals—a ritual that once felt like good manners and now feels like an anchor.

I watched her go, trying to read the cues—was she road weary or was it something more?

The Evaluator’s Dilemma

Noticing her hand-washing ritual made me realize I’d developed a new habit I hate to acknowledge: scanning for signs, tallying what’s changed since last time. I don’t want to be her evaluator. I want to be her daughter. Figuring out how to be both was my next frontier.

Then there’s Bebe—sharp-eyed, steady, scanning the table like a mission brief. She gave me a side-hug with a little bounce and slid into my side of the booth, already reaching for the QR code menu before anyone else even sat down.

While waiting for Mom to return from the restroom, my call finally made it to the top of the dealership’s phone queue. I stepped outside so I could hear the service rep—no way I wanted to go back into the queue again.

When I came back, everyone was seated, and the waitress was taking drink orders. Mom beamed her signature smile—the one her father taught her back when he was an itinerant pony photographer, circa 1945. Papaw went door to door with a pinto pony and a dress-up kit: chaps, toy pistols, a cowboy vest. Kids posed on the saddle while he captured the moment.

That’s where Mom learned it—that perfectly composed, show-ready grin that can light up a football stadium. She’s always had movie star teeth and never needed veneers.

Everyday Grace Notes

The waitress left to fetch their drinks and I got to hear about the drive again. Missed turns, delays, and who said what about when they should have left. I stopped myself from doing the eye roll, even an internal one. Annoyance had no place in our new reality.

As the waitress came our way with a tray of beverages, Bebe nudged, “Grammy, did you figure out what you want to eat yet?”

That was my first clue about her sixth sense with Mom.

Mom startled, like she’d just been roused from a quick doze, and turned to Dad. “I dunno, Jim. Wanna split something?”

I saw it for what it was. Overload. Too many voices. Too much menu. Too many steps between intention and action. And even though I tried not to catalog what I was seeing, I couldn’t help it.

I knew what was coming. Mom’s dining protocol has always started with inspecting the silverware. Something is usually found lacking. This time, it was her coffee spoon. She held it up, tilted it toward the light, turned it in her fingers like she was reading a label.

In earlier years, she might’ve flagged the waitress and suggested someone in the back needed retraining. This time, she said nothing. Just reached across and took Dad’s spoon instead, which—miraculously—passed the test. After decades of watching her run the table, now she seemed to be navigating it instead.

Dad had acknowledged her taking the spoon with a smile that wordlessly said, “Glad that one works, sweetheart.”

Later, after we’d paid the bill, Bebe pulled out her phone. “Okay,” she said, “so here’s what I was thinking...”

Neither of us had known the other had done homework on Globe and nearby Miami, but we’d landed on almost the exact same list of sights and destinations. We laughed at the unanimity of it.

I handed her the virtual baton. “Hey Bebe, what if you mapped out the next two days based on where we are right now? Group things by geography—maximize time, minimize zigzags.”

“You got it, Aunt Tam!” she said, already scrolling.

It was such a small thing, but I felt it—relief, admiration, and a little quiet joy. She was our backstop.

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