When my son was on Spring break one year in college, he volunteered for Habitat for Humanity. During an impromptu “relaxing” game, a pick-up basketball, played in stockinged feet (!), he incurred a severe ankle sprain. When he returned to his college dorm room in Roberta, NY, with splint in place, I hastened to send a fabulous box of fudge, while I tried to make arrangements to leave Tucson. When I called him to guiltily tell of a delay in my travel plans, he said that he was surrounded by friends – all enjoying the fudge. “Mom,” he said, “Don’t worry; don’t bother to come. Just send more fudge.” And so I did.
This past year my grandson fractured his ankle while playing softball, requiring seven screws placed intraoperatively. I felt terrible that I could not fly out to see him. I inquired of his taste in sweets. And so, another box of fudge (“without nuts”) was airborne eastward – this time to Philadelphia.
Two weeks ago his sister sprained her ankle in the school gym. She too is now sporting ankle hardware, a splint. Guess what I sent to her.