And even though those questions on the surface sound kind of snarky, in Mom’s defense, which are three words you might be surprised to hear me say, Mom really can’t help asking questions like that in situations like this. Mom thinks presentation is everything. It’s just how she is. So, seeing Gram dressed in such an ill-mannered way probably raised all the hairs on the back of her neck and made her feel like she was possibly going to break out in hives.

Gram held my hand as the three of us walked toward the luggage carousal, and she explained, with a grin that was bigger than the hug she’d given us, that the “Sunshine Sisters” was the nickname the pickleball group had given her and her partner.

Gram went on to tell us that pickleball was a ball-and-paddle sport (which I already knew from gym class), but what I didn’t know was that my grandma was now playing this sport with enough frequency to actually have a partner.

The look on Mom’s face told me that her next question wasn’t going to be about flip-flops, polo shirts, or pullovers. And I was correct in my assumption, because what Mom said next was, “Pickleball?!”

To which Gram answered, “I know. Weird to think I’m playing any kind of sport, isn’t it? But it’s a real hoot!”

And all I could think was that the weirdness of Gram playing pickleball was one thing, but Gram uttering a sentence with the word “hoot” in it was way past weird. It was about as absurd as me being voted best all-around athlete or first-chair musician in my middle school. And even though, most of the time, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what Mom is thinking and what she’s likely to say next, this moment was so out of the ordinary, I had no idea.

But if you think that’s mind-boggling, wait until you hear what happened when we left the terminal.

Gram led us outside to the parking lot and stopped behind a red Mustang convertible.

“Mother, what are you doing?” Mom asked sounding like the effects of our early morning flight coupled with the unexpectedness we were experiencing with Gram so far was causing her to get a little irritated.

But when Gram clicked her key fob and the trunk of the Mustang opened, Mom’s irritation morphed into what I would call slightly confused shock.

And both Mom and I said together, at exactly the same time, like it was a rehearsed line of dialogue from a play, “You’re driving a Mustang convertible?!”

“Don’t you just love it?” Gram asked giggling.

Well, I don’t have to tell you that Mom didn’t giggle.

Flip-flops and T-shirts were one thing, but a convertible Mustang that Mom didn’t know about was in a whole different league.

But I didn’t giggle either.