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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Brushes with Stardom

Having worked in Hollywood for a bit myself, being married to a guy who still works in Hollywood, having a son who wants that too, my life brushes up against the stars from time to time. Thats how it is when you live in Hollywood. Everybody knows somebody who knows somebody. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.
Here's where mine has sometimes merged on the Hollywood 101.

Tom Cruise: Cruisin’ It
Carey Mulligan: Baby You Can Drive My Car
Robert Redford: My one and only fan letter

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