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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Travel: Other Places


Beach Music From San Juan to Santa Monica

Turkish Delight  Izmir, Turkey 


Surfing Lessons   San Juan Puerto Rico

London Blues   Travels with my sister

By the Bay, Barely   On going topless in France

5 Ways to Feel like Youre in France  When you’re franc-less

The first time I saw Paris  Paris when it drizzles


The Height of Hubris  The top of Notre Dame


Storming the Bastille   Paris in the summer of 89


Pretty French Postcards  From Paris to Bandol


The Price of Potatoes  Bandol


Sous le soleil  Bandol


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]



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