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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British Isles Friday: Little pink houses for you and for me.



"Ain't that America, home of the free"?
No John Mellencamp, it's not. This little pink house is in London, on Elgin Crescent in Nottinghill. A street known for it's pretty pastel-painted row houses.

When I think of the colorful—colourful?—houses of Nottinghill, I think of rows of shining happy facades, neat as a pin. My mind skims right over the places where they need a touch up, the chipped white painted iron work of the front gate, the dirt that comes with the drizzle of the rain tainting the cornice over the front porch.

My photos from the trip that took us to London last spring clear the misty haze from my romanticized image, revealing the truth. As pretty as this pink house is, it isn't perfect. Still, I love it. I'm a fan of pink houses, turquoise walls, green doors, houses painted in the colors that you see on homes in the tropics.

They're not everyone's cup of tea, many preferring houses that come in shades of white and grey. How about you? Would you dream of painting a home pink or is pink a color that should be relegated to flower beds, silk blouses and a young woman's lipstick?

Posted for British Isles Friday at Joy Weese Moll's blog.


Comments

  1. Hmm. We saw a lot of pink houses in Martha's Vinyard... Btw, the early pink houses were coloured with bulls' blood!

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    1. Ew! I'll never get that out of my head now.

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  2. I hope people look at my face the same way you skim over these houses!

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    Replies
    1. I'm with you there! Constantly glad my husband needs glasses.

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  3. I love the door. There are great painted doors in Dublin, too. The fact that some of them need a new coat of paint just adds to the character.

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  4. True! Like the Velveteen Rabbit.

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