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I'm going over to my mother's home today. I'll take her to lunch and we'll go grocery shopping, then I'll help her with her checkbook. If she's hosting the bridge game this week, I'll set up the table and chairs and cluck understandingly when she complains about being too old to put up with "this nonsense."

My mother is 95 years old.

When we're done with all the chores, I'll sit with her and look at the photo albums. This is the fun part, because I love to listen to her tales of those times. When she was a little girl, she used to run to her window to watch a rare car sputter up the dirt road that's now a six-lane highway. I love hearing about how my grandfather -- who was stationmaster of the local C&O railroad stop -- would check his watch when the evening train whistle blew to see if the train was on time. When she talks about how she coped with raising two little kids while my dad was serving in World War II, I get a clearer picture of what life was like during that time.

I want to absorb these stories; I want to preserve them. I plan to journal in the scrapbooks, adding her stories to the pictures. I'll sort through her memorabilia -- old ration books, forgotten telegrams, and newspaper clippings -- and ask her about the hidden truths behind them.

I want to keep her with me. This helps.