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

Search This Blog


powered by TinyLetter

Sous le Soleil: Another Day in Bandol [now on iTunes and SoundCloud podcasts]

I've been linking up with Dreaming of France for the past fews posts, posting some newly recorded stories about a trip to France back in 1973. I was supposed to be backpacking around Europe with a boyfriend but since 'life is what happens when you're busy making other plans' —and he was a two-faced lying schmuck—I'd ended up staying at my uncle's house in England intending to have a look around London, before heading to the continent with my younger sister. We'd been to Paris, and taken the night train to Marseilles, but by happy accident we ended up in Bandol.

After a rocky start we were settling into a rhythm in Bandol.  Good morning we smiled at the proprietress of the pension, so cheerfully we almost curtsied. Bonsoir we greeted her, dipping our heads like novices in a convent, when we returned each afternoon to find the rows of tables newly set with fresh white linen tablecloths. Bonjour! we cried to the owner of the little stand where we bought our lunch every day, his hands reaching for the baguettes before we could get the clumsy 'jambon avec beurre' 'jambon sans beurre' out of our mouths.

Sandwiches, a litre of Coke in hand and beach mats tucked under our arms, we'd head for the Corniche Bonaparte, a tree-shaded avenue that led up the hill and around the point to the Plage Renecros, the beach at the quiet little cove we'd discovered on our first morning. We'd sit on the low rock wall flanking the road, gathering our breath for the climb, as beautiful boys and girls in bikinis came bouncing down the hill on their Vespas. Like my 16 year old sister Nancy, all the French girls seemed to have long glossy brown hair that flew in the wind when they passed. I deeply regretted chopping off my own hair like a Mia Farrow wannabe.

The Plage Renecros was where we fell into the habit of spending our days, floating in the sea, idly wishing we had the extra cash to rent a pedal boat. Lying in the sand, we tried to make sense of the chorus of French voices drifting by, the lilting tones, up and down, as irresistible as any top 40 hit blasting out of an AM radio back home on the beach in Santa Monica. While we'd heard all French women went topless, we didn't spot any at this family beach, but the men more than made up for it in their Speedo-esque swimsuits. The rule of thumb seemed to be the bigger the gut, the briefer the cut, as the European men let it all hang out.

Back home in California our beaches were covered with guys who preferred to cover up; floral trunks, surfer's baggies, cut-offs made from old Levis and jammers down to their knees. Those were the bathing suits we were used to. The idea of seeing le banane—just one of the many slang words the French have for peniscovered with a thin layer of stretchy fabric, was total culture shock. We'd be sitting there, innocently taking in the scene, the turquoise of the sea, those two cute guys on the pedal boat, the group of toddlers digging in the sand, when some grey-hairy-chested man would come loping by, his penis practically swinging in our faces. Glancing at each other, eyes wider with every occurrence, each 'banane' sighting sent us into fits of laughter. Prurient Americains that we were, we couldn't get over it.

We also idly wished we had the extra cash to stay at the Golf Hotel. While we sat cross-legged on our rush beach mats, unwrapping our ham and cheese sandwiches, careful to keep out the sand, the guests of the Golf gathered up their belongings at precisely the same time everyday and sauntered over to the hotel's beachside cafe. Everyday they pulled up chairs at tables under the shade of the hotel's outdoor umbrellas before commencing an elaborate ritual that involved a lot of cheek-to-cheek kissed greetings, the pouring of wine, the breaking of bread, the passing of multiple dishes back and forth, and intensely fascinating looking conversations. I didn't envy them their food; I wanted no part of their bouillabaisse, shells and fish heads swimming in a sea of oily broth, but I fell in love with their noisy communal chattering clatter, their cheek kissing, the way they sat back and smoked at the end of the meal, arms slung over their neighbors chair, their contented gut-patting air.

One day, I thought. One day.

Nancy and I talked about leaving, taking the train to Nice, Cannes or St. Tropez. Shouldn't we go to Monte Carlo? Maybe tomorrow, we thought, licking the crumbs from our lips, taking one last swig of warm Coke before stretching out like cats on our mats, in our own spot of sunshine. Maybe tomorrow.


I'm linking up with Dreaming of France hosted by Paulita at An Accidental Blog.


  1. Fun to see more of this story -- thanks for the tweet! As a midwesterner, all beach stories seem incredibly exotic to me!

    1. That's funny Joy, I never thought of it that way. Then again, to me the shore of a lake or a river, makes for a great beach too. Many happy times on the shores of the Chippewa River in Niagara Falls and the beach on Lake Erie.

  2. I'm so transported to Bandol. Not just the scenery and the language and the food, but the idea of having hours and hours to float in the Mediterranean and examine the "bananes" as they pass. I wonder how your view would change now as a woman of a certain age. Perhaps those older gentlemen might look more intriguing. I hope these reveries are on their way to becoming a book. Here’s my Dreaming of France meme

    1. That's probably the nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Thanks Paulita:)

  3. Sim thank you so much for your very sweet comment on my blog . It is very much appreciated.

    And yes I totally agree with Paulita. These wonderfully written memories are a book in the making!

    1. Aw, you guys! That's a great fantasy. Thank you!

  4. Love listening to you read your stories. It's as good as This American Life. Thanks for playing along with Dreaming of France. Here’s my Dreaming of France meme


Post a Comment

Thanks for stopping by and sharing your comments. Insecure writer at work.