Missouri is a treasure trove of repurposed names, each one drawing the world a little closer: Versailles, Rome, Cairo, New London, Athens, Carthage, Alexandria, Lebanon, Cuba, Japan, Santa Fe, Cleveland, Canton, California, Caledonia, New Caledonia, Mexico, Louisiana, and Paris—our home.
Then, of course, there are the places with amusing names. Favorites include Licking, Fair Play, Strain, Elmo, Peculiar, Shook, Lone Jack, Butts, Lupus, Moody, Clover, Polo, Shake Rag, and the T towns that always end my list—Turtle, Tightwad, Tulip, and Tea.
When sleep eludes me, I challenge myself to recite as many of these names as I can, a game I used to play with my parents while gazing out at the rolling brown waters of the Mississippi.
But tonight, something stirs me awake. The air conditioner hums gently, and outside, darkness envelops everything except for the distant sound of trains. The clock reads 2:30. I know I won’t return to sleep. Where am I? Not in my apartment, where sirens, horns, and neon lights illuminate the night through the blinds. No, this is Paris, Missouri—population 1,246 and dwindling. I remind myself I’ll be here for just a few more days or weeks. For now. Until Carol, the kind-hearted farmer’s wife who looks after my mom, recovers from her surgery. Or until my mother is ready for assisted living. Until the rain falls, or my mom’s spirit lifts, or I find a steady job again. Until something shifts here on Sherwood Road, and I must wrap things up.
I hear my mother’s voice calling from the hall, “Who turned the air conditioning up so high? He’s trying to freeze me out!”
And there she is—my mother, at ninety years old, curlers in her hair, chuckling to herself for no apparent reason, peeking into my guest room where I have been tossing and turning. It’s the last place in America with shag carpet, and I’ve stumbled upon what I think is a toenail from my high school days.
On the spare bed, a quilt displays stars and crescent moons, surrounded by figures of children holding hands, along with the embroidered names of long-gone farm women, including my great-aunt Mabel’s. I’m settled in here with Christmas wrappings, the desk from Betty’s uncle Oscar, and the very bed where I once slept beside my grandmother, lulled by her snores and the furnace starting up. My grandmother’s home, just ten miles away in Madison, was known as the House of Many Chimneys. In her back garden, she tended to pink roses, fretting over them even in her old age, often nicking her fingers on the thorns.
The hallway light flickers on. My mother must have ventured into the kitchen, searching for a midnight snack after being roused by the need for the bathroom or dreams that disturb her sleep. Her memories—those ghosts from the past—haunt her at night. A light sleeper, she pads around in her thick white socks, clearing her throat loudly, swaying slightly, turning on the coffee that will surely be cold by morning, and checking to ensure everything is in her peculiar order. After she goes to bed, I try to illuminate her path to the kitchen, leaving lamps on in my father’s office and the foyer to help her navigate through the dark hall.
“Are you awake?” she asks me.
“Now I am,” I reply.
Betty, who recently rummaged through my suitcase, flips on the overhead light in my room, squinting as if she’s on a mission to inspect. She must keep watch—after all, I’m likely plotting something behind her back. When the phone rings, she listens intently, unsure if she can entrust me with her autonomy. I can’t blame her; I’m an unlikely caretaker. Just a month ago, I thought the Medicare doughnut hole was a special deal for breakfast.
Her stubbornness is formidable. “It’s a hot day, but I’m going to that sale,” she mumbled last week in her sleep, as the temperature soared outside. Even in her dreams, she’s bidding with determination. She often takes her frustrations out on me, sometimes swatting at the air if I get too close. There are days when I can’t seem to please her. As Carol, who has worked in nursing homes, explains, those who are struggling often direct their anger towards those they love most—those who remind them of their fading selves. Yet I sense Betty’s grumpiness is a disguise, a way to mask her embarrassment about needing help. When I assist her, she glances away, clearly accustomed to being self-sufficient.
“I was worried,” Betty says. “You mentioned you couldn’t sleep last night. I was concerned you wouldn’t sleep tonight.” Her gaze is steady.
“I’m asleep right now, just talking in my sleep,” I tease.
“You’re in bed with your clothes on again,” she observes.
“I dozed off while reading,” I explain. (Truthfully, I remain dressed in case I need to act quickly if she falls or has a stroke. She seems so fragile when I tuck her in. I keep emergency numbers on my bedside table.)
“It’s not good to sleep in your clothes. The Appeal hasn’t come today,” she complains.
Our town’s newspaper, which covers local happenings, charity events, and church news—including the “Movement of the Spirit” at the Full Gospel Church—has been erratic in delivery, likely due to our understaffed post office. This kind of disruption sends my mother into crisis mode. She likes things to happen on her schedule.
“Did someone from the church call today? I can’t find my other shoe, the Mephisto.”
I assure her we’ll search in the morning, and she seems somewhat appeased, almost smiling. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Betty, my former friend who appears less frequently now.
In St. Louis, as we turn off Skinker onto Delmar near the University City gates, Betty always points out where, as a young woman working at Union Electric, she used to wait for the streetcar. She rarely reminisces but cherishes those memories of her youth. Back in the 1940s, post-war, she was a lovely young woman with wavy light brown hair, fresh from the “Miss Legs” contest at the university. As she shares her past, I can almost see her in a secondhand coat, peering down the tracks toward Webster Groves, where she lived with her Aunt Nona. There’s an innocence in her expression, an excitement for the new life awaiting her in the city, standing among women in expensive dresses she never had the chance to own. Sometimes I wonder if she wishes she had boarded that streetcar and chosen a different life.
By the time my mother recognized her intelligence and beauty—qualities that could open doors—many of those doors had already closed. “I just wanted a house with a few nice things,” she once confided to me. “That was my simple dream.”
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Summary
In this excerpt, George Hodgman reflects on the complexity of caring for his aging mother, Betty. He shares memories of their hometown in Missouri, the quirks of his mother, and the bittersweet nostalgia tied to her past. The narrative encapsulates the challenges of familial relationships amid the realities of aging, revealing both love and frustration in their daily lives.