My Mother’s Voice

Alzheimer’s being the conniving thieving bitch that  it is, my mother wasn’t herself in the final years of her life. The  woman I visited in the Alzheimer’s special care unit was a stranger wearing my mother’s skin but not much else, like the invasion of the body snatchers had taken place, month after month beneath the surface, until one day we looked and the woman we knew was gone, replaced by some alien being. An imposter. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. She died back in 2012. Don’t worry; I won’t be getting maudlin on you.  My real mother–not that stranger in a wheel chair, head nodding on her shoulder–is who I want to think about today.  My real mother —Enid Maude Good nee Hayden, a prim, old-fashioned name, perhaps the only thing about her I didn’t love— was British-born and had a lovely London lilt to her voice her whole life even though she left England in the mid-1950’s. I suppose at thirty, her vocal patterns were already frozen in place.  Sounding like a cross between

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Born in Britain

#11 Salisbury Road, Richmond, Surry, UK



Day Two of the A to Z blogging challenge; I'll probably be back to my more lackadaisical posting schedule when this is over but for right now I'm trying to write every day. For newbies I mostly do memoir here, much of it linked by a tenuous connection to the multiple of places I've lived over the years. I'm not telling my personal stories in order because my mind is way too disordered for that; rather as they come to me which is more, how do you say ... willy nilly. I have attempted to map out the route under the heading On the Street Where I Lived Stories. If you're a regular reader this is going to be story #1, the original of those tales. While I can't seem to get close to the correct #11 address, this is Salisbury Road, the street where I lived first of all, the street where I was born.


Born in Britain


My mother said she and my dad had itchy feet, a condition I clearly inherited.While my older brother has responded by living in a small handful of abodes, I've gone for change in a big way. Nothing, it seems, will suffice.

I was born at home in a scene straight out of Call the Midwife because that's how they did it in Britain in the 50's, a midwife sent my father downstairs to the neighbors to boil water and to get him out of my mother's hair. That all happened in 1953, just a few days before Queen Elizabeth II's coronation. I came a few days early so they lost the year's worth of free nappies but I still gained the queenly Elizabeth as my middle name. 


Not so regal was that I was born over a fish and chips shop. While I love the smell of fish and chips, I can't quite imagine being pregnant and loving that smell day in and day out.


At least that's what my mother told me when I was growing up. You know how when you're a kid you're always asking how did you and daddy meet and tell me about the time I was born? Looking back at it now, I've got to wonder how there could be both a fish and chip shop and the neighbor's flat downstairs? Did the neighbors live in the back of the shop? Were my parents friendly enough that the fish and chip shop owners kept them supplied in cod? Does that account for my love of H.Salt Esquire? 


Speaking of fish, something is fishy! I've been googling to get a handle on my birthplace and it's weirdly elusive. My birth certificates clearly states #11 Salisbury Road, Richmond but I can't get any closer to it on map quest or google than the image above. 


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