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Mom and I hot-footed it back to the beach on Tuesday, after her knee could barely make it across the room, much less up the stairs of our typical Virginia colonial. So we’re back to the flat-land, concrete slab condo, with ice packs, Tylenol, and some doc-prescribed walking up and down the sidewalks. Yesterday, we decided she could take a very short walk while I unloaded the car.  And then, I looked around and couldn’t find her.  I walked around the building. Walked the direction she’d headed — no Mama, no walker.  I knew she couldn’t go far, but still, this is the woman I once chased all over Montmartre at midnight, when she defied Daddy and broke out of the hotel to go sightseeing — like we could see anything among the shadowy druggies shrouded in Parisian darkness.  

With that in mind, I turned around and went the other direction — and found her trying to break into the door of 101 in the adjacent building. Another minute and she’d have been inside. Every building here has a 101, which keeps FEDEX, UPS, and the police department hopping.  I hope the residents weren’t cowering inside calling 911 on a walker-wielding woman dressed up as a 97-year-old burglar.