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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Where the Boys Are

Old flames, brief flings, and flirtations, young loves and faded loves. Stories about the boys. 


The Name Game Randy


Surfing Lessons 


Waiting on a Friend  Derek (2)

E-Ticket to Ride  Derek (3)

In the Cups Derek  Derek (4)

A guy, a girl and a GTO  Derek (5)

Curbed Derek (6)


On Sunset Derek (7)


Behind Closed Doors Derek (8)

The Walk   About a boy in Bandol [the beginning]

The Kiss   About a boy in Bandol [the middle]

Garlic & Gauloises   About a boy in Bandol [the end]



Leaving Home  A divorce story

The Sticky Hot Days of Summer




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