My mother was an exciting woman. Survived the Great Depression and WWII in Missouri. Roamed the desert in Phoenix, Arizona with her horse and dog in her early twenties. Worked for Western Union. Joined the Navy for four years and served as a radioman in the 1950’s. Married. Had three girls. Helped Dad through chiropractic college. Moved with him until ending up in San Diego. Girls grew up. She and Dad retired, sold everything to buy a 5th-wheel trailer, a dual-wheel, 4-door truck and traveled the states for eighteen years. Over beautiful places they rode hot air balloons, helicopters and bi-planes, and rode on swamp boats, air boats, all-terrain vehicles through unusual places, and went white-river rafting even in their seventies. The hardest adventure for them was to learn how to deal with Mom’s Alzheimer’s and paranoia, broken hip, and other aging illnesses. Mom’s greatest adventure is one we’ll not hear the story of until it’s our turn: passing through the portals of death on the soon to be sunny, hot morning of June 7, at about 5:00, at the age of 87 (or 39, whichever).