What Kind of Mind Would Paint a Cabbage?

Note: The events that follow occurred in June 2007, and I wrote about them later that year. This is the first time I’ve publicly shared this story. For years, I worried it would come across as critical of my mother. But now, one year after her death, I feel differently. My hope is that this story will bring some comfort (by way of shared experiences) to other adult children caring for a beloved parent with dementia. Above all, I hope you’ll appreciate the abundant humor throughout this story. Yes, caring for a parent in a slow cognitive decline is truly stressful, sad, and exhausting. But let’s be real. Just as often, it can be a real hoot.

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“Look at that woman,” my mother says as we leave the retirement home dining room. She speaks loudly because she’s hard of hearing, and even without looking at the lady we’re about to pass in the hallway, I know my mother is going to say something disparaging about her. I move closer, hoping my proximity will preempt any shouting. 

 

“I’ve never seen such big bosoms in all my life!” my mother shouts. 

 

I glance anxiously over my shoulder, to see if the muumuu-attired woman inching along with a walker has heard my mother’s assessment of her breasts. The walked stops abruptly and the woman is slowly turning toward us, so I hurry my mother along.

 

“Mom, she heard you! You shouldn’t say things like that!”

 

“Say things like what?” 

As I continue to rush her along the hallway, my mother’s attention fixes on the glass bowl of wrapped candy that sits atop the lobby reception desk, next to a bottle of hand sanitizer gel and a box of tissues. She stops. After careful examination, she unwraps a piece of chocolate and pops it into her mouth, leaving the wrapper on the counter. Reflexively, she unfastens the button on her faded pink jeans, which she has owned for over 20 years, and lifts up the bottom of her blouse, exposing a pale white stomach. “I’m getting fat,” declares the woman who weighs approximately 105 pounds. 

 

I make note of the clock, above the reception desk. It’s only 5:45 p.m. Moop — a nickname my nieces and nephews bestowed upon my mother, whose actual name is Ruth — and I have already eaten dinner. We are to spend the entire evening together, just the two of us, at her apartment in an independent living community in Greensboro, North Carolina that my sisters and I moved her into the previous fall. Moop never goes to bed until well after dark. I wince as the realization hits me: Today is June 21st, the first day of summer. 

 

The longest day of the year. 

 

What are we going to do the rest of the night?, I wonder, thinking how short-sighted I was not to plan tonight’s visit. I live in San Francisco and have spent the last two weeks in Greensboro with my sisters, clearing out Moop’s two-story house, cluttered as it was with her collections of 111 Raggedy Ann dolls, rickety wooden chairs, pie birds, potato mashers, Mrs. Butterworth bottles, tractor seats, dusty children’s books, piles of unsorted bank statements, a 40-year-old bottle of Milk of Magnesia, and Pillsbury Doughboy dolls. Not just the Pillsbury Doughboy but his grandparents, siblings, and dog, too — which I helped her acquire during our many visits to antique malls and collectible shops over the years. 

 

Having moved Moop out months ago, the house is almost entirely empty now, except for a few forlorn Paddington Bears, a chicken feeder she used as an umbrella stand, a pile of yellowed hoop skirts discovered in the attic, and a talking Captain Kangaroo doll silenced by a broken string. Just before heading over for my visit tonight, I reluctantly removed the sign Moop had hand-painted and hung on her front door — “Martha Stewart doesn’t live here” — and packed it away.

 

I’m exhausted from the past two weeks. No, the truth is, I’m exhausted from the past two years. 

 

During that time, Moop began falling all too frequently in her home, catching the toaster oven on fire, setting off her security alarm at all hours, forgetting simple things, and driving ever-more dangerously. So, my sisters and I made the difficult decisions to hide her car keys and, when that wasn’t enough, to invoke healthcare power of attorney in order to have Moop declared unable to handle her own affairs. It was the only way we could move her out of her big house, an idea she resisted tirelessly, and into a safer environment in an independent living community. To avoid having to move our mother immediately into assisted living, my sisters and I hired Marcy, my eldest niece whom Moop adored, to care for Moop during the days. 

 

During our first visit to the independent living facility, Moop was recovering from cataract surgery and ornery as ever. As the sales and marketing representative, Kathy, toured us through the facility, Moop kept her sunglasses on, her arms folded across her chest, and said nothing. 

Kathy, bless her heart, did her best to enthusiastically engage Moop, by bubbling on and on about all the wonderful social opportunities Moop would enjoy. 

 

“You can even move into an apartment that’s in a circle of other apartments,” Kathy chirped. “It’s like a small community within a bigger community!” 

Met with an icy, sunglassed stare, Kathy made one last attempt to reach my mother. “Mrs. Martin,” she said, her voice rising in now-weary enthusiasm, “tell me, what would you like most in a retirement community?”

 

Moop wasted no time responding. “Privacy!” 

 

As I walk with Moop down the hall to her apartment, the electric current of anxiety humming through my body borders on panic. My brain scurries desperately for a plan. Is Antiques Roadshow on tonight? Moop adores that program. The suspense of wondering how much a 50-year-old wax portrait of Siamese twins might fetch at auction will surely keep her occupied. Maybe it will even keep her dreaded Sundown Syndrome at bay.

 

Sundown Syndrome is a punishing side effect of dementia. As the sun begins to fall, the accumulation of the day’s confusions and overstimulation rises, causing the person with dementia to grow acutely anxious and morose. I’ve witnessed this with Moop on every one of my visits over the past few years. As the sky darkens, so do her thoughts. Why did my father have to die? Why did he keep smoking, even after his heart attack? Did she kill him with her pot roast? For years, she was convinced her overdone cooking had done in my father. Only recently has she forgotten to accuse herself of his death — one of dementia’s few blessings.

 

If, in the throes of Sundown Syndrome, Moop doesn’t focus on my father’s death, she dwells on her own. “I’m afraid to die,” she will say, “but I’m even more afraid of what happens after I die.” At this point, she will take a gulp of Chardonnay, which she drinks over ice in an orange juice glass, and then she will bang the glass down on her white, enamel-top table. 

 

“When I die,” she will continue, “I don’t want to be embalmed! I can’t stand the thought of being put underground! If you put me in a casket, I’ll come back and haunt you!”

 

“Don’t worry Mom,” I will reply, hoping to lighten the mood. “We’re going to pop you in the oven like a pizza.” 

 

“Huh?” she’ll say, after another gulp of wine. Moop has almost no hearing in one ear and only 50% in the other. She used to blame her hearing loss on a hairdresser, a man she claimed fried her ear drum decades ago with a handheld blow dryer. Now she’s forgotten why she can’t hear, but she refuses to wear a hearing aid. 

 

I will repeat louder: “I said we’ll send you straight to the oven!”

 

She will respond with a blank look. “Good!” she will say, and then she will bang her wine glass down on the table again, like a judge’s gavel, case closed. 

 

 

As we pass through the lobby, Moop asks me what killed my father. I can’t have this conversation again, so I search frantically for a familiar face, someone to help me entertain Moop — and rescue me from an endless night of Sundown Syndrome. I see no one I recognize. Just as we are about to enter the endless hallway to her apartment, I notice a familiar head of short, curly white hair: Audrey. 

 

Audrey sits in a high-back chair in the rear of the lobby, not far from the piano. She is flipping through O: The Oprah Magazine. As always, she is dressed in a white mock turtleneck under a burgundy vest, black polyester slacks, white socks and hiking sandals with Velcro straps. Audrey is one of the few friends Moop has made so far in the community.

 

“Hi Audrey,” I say, overjoyed to see her. Audrey looks up and smiles warmly. I extend my hand, and I’m surprised when, instead of shaking it, she kisses it. 

 

“It’s so good to see you again!” Audrey coos. “Where’ve you been?”

 

“San Francisco,” I respond. “That’s where I live.” I’ve told Audrey this several times before, but it has been months since I’d seen her.

 

“Hi there young lady,” Audrey says, extending her hand to my mother who, having caught sight of a mirror, is patting the back of her hair. Moop is 88 but still has her hair dyed completely blonde and cut in a pageboy. Given her slight figure and small size — she is, as the song she loves says, 5 foot 2 eyes of blue — the style suits her. She’s adorable.

Moop in her independent living apartment

I nudge Moop gently. 

 

“Oh, hey,” she greets Audrey. I notice a smudge of chocolate in the corner of Moop’s mouth. 

 

As Audrey and I chat, Moop turns her head back toward the mirror. She runs her middle finger across her teeth but doesn’t notice the chocolate smear. I grab a clean tissue from my pocket and gently blot it away. 

 

“How sweet,” Audrey notes. “I like a man who takes care of his Mama.”

 

Looking for a way to pull Moop into the conversation, I steer the subject to her artwork. My mother took up painting not long after I, the youngest of her five children, left for college. In the years since, she became an accomplished artist. “Would you like to see some of her paintings?” I ask Audrey. 

 

“I’d love to,” Audrey says. Enthusiastically, she tosses Oprah aside, rises slowly with my help, and clasps my mother’s hands in hers. “I bet you’re really talented,” she adds.

 

Moop smiles blankly. “Well it was good to see you, too,” she responds. 

 

“Mom, Audrey wants to see your paintings,” I explain. “I was just telling her what a wonderful painter you are.”

 

“Uh!” Moop explodes with disgust. “I am not!”

 

“I’ll be the judge of that!” Audrey says. 

 

 

Inside Moop’s one-bedroom apartment, the next hour passes agreeably. I take framed paintings off the wall, present them for Audrey’s inspection, and provide her the back story on each one. I show her a watercolor of a weathered outhouse with a wreath on the door. “This was Moop’s Christmas card seven years ago,” I explain proudly. Audrey clucks and coos appreciatively.

 

“And this one?” I say, handing Audrey an impressionistic watercolor portrait of a pig. I point to the ribbon taped to the top right corner of the frame. “This won first prize in the High Point Art Guild show one year. Isn’t it fantastic?” I realize I sound like my mother did, years ago, when she used to rave to others about my cartoons. 

 

“Oh, and let me show you the cabbage.” I scan the living room walls until I find the photo-realistic still life in oil my mother painted over 25 years ago. “This was in an art show here in Greensboro,” I continue. “Some woman stood there looking at it forever, and then she turned to Moop — not knowing she was the artist — and said, ‘What kind of mind would paint a cabbage?’” 

 

I turn to Moop. “Remember that?,” I ask. The vacant look on her face is my answer. 

 

Before long I’m out of Moop masterpieces to show Audrey. According to the early 20^th century Co-Cola clock on the wall, it is now 7:45. (Moop calls the Coca-Cola clock her “Co-Cola clock.”) Two hours have now passed since we first encountered Audrey in the lobby. Moop has consumed six orange juice glasses of wine, which is a lot for a small woman but isn’t quite as much as it sounds, as Marcy had recently started pouring out half the wine in each bottle and refilling them with water. 

Moop’s apartment, 2007. Note the ‘Co-Cola’ clock

 “How long have you lived here?” Moop asks Audrey. 

 

“About three years,” she answers. “I’m from Boston, originally. Grew up on Ruggles Street, about two miles from Fenway Park.”

 

Moments later, Moop turns to Audrey. “How long have you lived here?”

 

“About three years,” Audrey answers, as if for the first time. “I grew up on Ruggles Street in Boston, near Fenway Park.”

 

The pendulum on the Co-Cola clock swings left, right, left, right. I ask Audrey what her family was like; anything to move the conversation forward, instead of in circles. Moop shoots me an exasperated look and nods blatantly toward Audrey, as if to say: Get rid of her!

 

“My father ran a little corner store on Ruggles Street,” Audrey says. She leans forward in her seat, eagerly, and adjusts her large white-framed eyeglasses. “He always had the freshest produce! Oh, it was a big day when he received a shipment of pineapples. A big day. Sweetest pineapples you ever tasted!” 

 

Moop bangs her wine glass down on the enamel-top table and rolls her eyes at me with all the subtlety of a silent film star. So far Audrey is oblivious to Moop’s growing agitation, but her oblivion can’t last forever. I decide I must find a polite way to get Audrey to leave — if for no other reason than to spare her feelings. Perhaps in the process, I can make my own exit, too. The exhaustion of the past two weeks is suddenly overwhelming me. 

 

“May I have a glass of water, please?” Audrey asks. 

 

This is not what I’d hoped to hear but I smile bravely. “Sure,” I say, and head to the kitchen.

 

Moop turns to Audrey and says wearily, “How long have you lived here?” 

 

“About three years,” Audrey replies quietly. 

 

Moop follows me into the kitchen. “When is she ever going to leave?” she demands, with no effort to lower her voice. “Can’t you make her leave?” 

 

“Ssshhh!” I hiss. “Go sit down, I’ll think of something!”

 

As Moop exits the kitchen with a loud huff, I manage to find a glass that’s even smaller than an orange juice glass — it’s more like a large shot glass. I fill it halfway with water in hopes of discouraging Audrey from lingering longer than necessary. And, what the hell, I load up a wine glass full of watered-down Chardonnay and kick back a few gulps to calm my last-good nerve. Returning to the living room, I hand Audrey her water glass. Moop shoots me another look, more exasperated than the last. This time I’m certain Audrey sees the extravagant eye roll. 

 

Minutes later, with the conversation stalled, I turn to Audrey and say, “You know, Moop is a bit tired. I’ve had her out all day.”

 

Audrey adjusts her glasses. “Oh, I’ll bet she is,” she says understandingly. She places one hand on her purse, which sits on the floor next to her chair. I let out a little sigh of relief. 

 

“Oh heavens no! I’m fine!” Moop says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Audrey smiles, releases her purse strap, settles contentedly back into her chair. 

 

“How long have you lived here?” my mother asks. 

 

Oh. My. God. I want to scream, “She’s lived here three years — and any minute now it will be four years!” 

 

“I wonder if Antiques Roadshow is on?” I try to say calmly, hoping to conceal my angst. I flip through the TV channels but find nothing on except news, Baywatch, infomercials, a gospel program, another gospel program, and an episode of Animal Planet in which a Komodo dragon is closing in on a rooster. 

 

I continue to fumble for an exit strategy. “Is it warm in here to y’all?” I ask, tugging at my shirt. Maybe I can convince them to continue this excruciatingly endless loop of conversation in the air-conditioned lobby instead of my mother’s stifling apartment, at which point I can claim excuse myself. 

 

“I’m right comfortable,” Moop says, polishing off another glass of watery wine. 

 

“Me too,” says Audrey, which prompts Moop to roll her eyes again. The Co-Cola clock says “tick tick tick.” 

 

All I can think of is that the day after tomorrow, I fly home to San Francisco. Home. I miss Nick. I miss our city. I miss my life. I want my life back! It’s ironic, I think; growing up in Greensboro, I dreamed of traveling to great cities like San Francisco. Now I live in San Francisco, and for the past several years, nearly every time I travel, it’s to Greensboro.  

 

“May I use the little girl’s room?” Audrey asks. Moop nods and points disinterestedly toward the bathroom door, which is not far from the door that leads into the hallway. 

 

The second Audrey retreats into the bathroom, Moop leaps out of her chair. “Who is that woman?” she asks, fists clenched, shoulders raised. “Why won’t she leave?”

 

“Mom, lower your voice! She’ll hear you!”

 

“I don’t care! Who is she?”

 

“It’s Audrey! You eat with her in the dining room practically every day! And lower your voice!”

 

“How will we ever get rid of her?” Moop asks, shaking her fists. 

 

“Just tell her you’re tired!” 

 

“Set the timer? What for? That won’t get rid of her!”

 

“Let me handle it!” I say. 

 

“Huh?”

 

“I said ‘let me handle it!’ Just relax!”

 

Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. 

 

Mom is pacing now. “What the hell is she doing? She must be having a ball in there!”

 

“Mom, please relax!” 

 

Fifteen minutes have now ticked by. What the hell is Audrey doing in there? Has she forgotten why she’s in the bathroom, or where she is? Is she ill? Dead? 

 

“Well, I’m going to get some Raid and spray it under the door!” Moop threatens. She’s on her way to the kitchen; I quickly follow. She starts opening cabinet doors, hunting for insect repellent.. 

 

“Mom, stop it!”

 

Moop has flung open nearly every cabinet and is now focusing on the pantry where her can of Raid lives; I saw it earlier, mixed in with her spices. I move to block her when Moop snaps: “Damn it! What was I looking for?” 

 

I throw up my hands in complete exasperation. I’ve got to get out of here! I’ve put up with a lot in the last two weeks. I’ve boxed up Raggedy Ann dolls until I see button eyes looking at me everywhere I go. My sisters and I spent days cleaning out the moldy basement and probably inhaled Asbestos dust in the process. I’ve wiped spider webs off my face and out of my hair. I’ve bubble-wrapped two dozen Mrs. Butterworth bottles and have no idea why I did such a thing. I’ve gathered all the old rusty paint cans in the garage and when I turned one over I was greeted by a half-eaten mouse and I screamed and stepped back so suddenly that I hurt my ankle and…and…and I’m done! I’m leaving! But how?

 

The toilet flushes, followed by the sound of running water. I glance over at Audrey’s purse on the floor, at my mother moving toward to the pantry. I spring into action, steering Moop back to the living room. I tell her not to say anything. I bend down, scoop up Audrey’s purse, and hurry toward the bathroom. 

 

The bathroom door opens. Audrey slowly emerges. She sees me and smiles sweetly. 

 

“Moop is really tired and needs to go to bed now, but she’s too polite to admit it to you,” I say, as calmly as I can. “But thank you so much for your visit. It was great to see you!” I hug Audrey warmly, hand her her purse, open the door and gently guide her into the hallway. “Bye bye, sweetheart.”

 

Befuddled, Audrey turns to blow me a kiss. I return the affection and quickly close the door, careful not to slam it. 

 

“Who was that damn woman?” Moop wonders. “Point her out to me tomorrow! I don’t ever want to get stuck with her again!”

 

“Mom, Audrey is sweet. She just stayed too long, that’s all.”

 

“Well, from now on I’m going to avoid her like the plague!”

 

A few minutes later, I say I have to go, citing fatigue. “Why are you tired, honey? It’s only 9:00,” Moop asks. “The night’s young.”

 

 

The next morning, when I awake, it’s nearly 11 o’clock. I shower slowly, under the hottest water I can stand. I wonder if I’ll be able to speak coherently today. I don’t want to go back to my mother’s apartment. But it’s my last day before I fly home. I won’t be back for at least three months. I must go. 

 

Around noon, I enter the lobby and stop midway, as if I’d just seen a deer and didn’t want to startle it. A few feet away, there’s Moop, in the same outfit she wore yesterday — pink denim pants, long-sleeve white turtleneck. She’s standing beside Audrey, who’s also in the same clothes she wore yesterday. They’re reading the bulletin board’s announcement of that day’s events. 

 

And they’re holding hands. 

 

I walk up and put my arms around them both. “Ladies,” I say, “shall we have some lunch? I’m starving!” Moop hugs me warmly, and so does Audrey. As we move toward the dining room, Moop and Audrey are still holding hands, and I’m surprised to find myself feeling a twinge of regret that tomorrow, I’ll be going home. 

Happy Mother's Day, and It's Off to the Hospital

Among their many, many chores, it seems that mothers are destined to take their kids to an emergency room at least once.

My mother certainly did. In her own words, here's a recounting of Ruth Martin's quick-get-a-doctor moments with my four sisters and me. (I'm quoting from my mother's chapter in a collective family history book published in 1992.)

Nancy (left) and Sandi (right)

"I loved raising my children, but each one of them gave me at least one frightening moment. Sandi once fell down while she was running with a Coke bottle and cut her wrist; we had to take her to the hospital. Another time, Sandi was riding a pony and it took off too fast...and she was smart enough to jump off the pony onto a grassy slope.

"Nancy swallowed a trunk key and we had to take her to the hospital and get her X-rayed. Nancy practically put me in the hospital, too. I got a ruptured disc from carrying her around when she was a chubby baby and had to stay flat on my back for six months.

"Mimi was bitten by a chipmunk and we had to take her to the hospital to get several rabies shots.

Mimi

"Julia's moment came when she was rocking too hard in a little old woven chair on the screened-in porch. It fell over and she popped her head on the floor.

Julia

"And Jim stood up in his high chair one day and fell over, knocking his head on the floor; there went another trip to the hospital."

Me (with drool on my chin)

So, as you wish the woman who gave you birth a 'happy Mother's Day' this Sunday, you might also thank her for taking you to the hospital when you were a kid. I'll bet she'll know exactly what you mean.

My mother, Ruth, as a child

POSTSCRIPT: I did a multimedia version of this post using Adobe's fun new Voice iPad app. Here it is:

My Father and the Mystery of the Doomed Orange Tree

Dear Dad,

You'll remember this story well, but I feel the need to tell it again today.

At the Stuckey's in Danville, Va., I spotted the miniature orange tree that I knew I must have. It was maybe six inches tall and lived in a white cardboard box with cellophane windows. I marveled at its compactness. How could an orange tree be so tiny?, I wondered. The fact that I loved oranges, that they hinted of exotic lands, made this 10-year-old's boy desire even stronger.

I went searching for you, hoping to convince you that I couldn't possible continue existing without that mini orange tree. We were making our usual pit stop at the Stuckey's halfway between Greensboro, where we lived, and Roanoke, where you were from. During this period, I'd ride up to Roanoke frequently with you. Your father, Daddy Jimmy, had recently passed away, and you, being his only immediate survivor, would go up on weekends to settle his estate.

I went along for the ride for several reasons. First, it got me out of Greensboro. Second, I loved Roanoke, loved Daddy Jimmy's big old house there.

There were other reasons, too, Dad, that weren't evident to me then. I deeply missed my grandfather. He was a white-haired, classy, gentle man, and you named me after him, so there had always been a link. And the trips to Roanoke gave you and me quality time alone that never quite happened otherwise.

You worked six days a week, sometimes seven. On your days off, you often loved to fish. It was no secret to you that I loathed it. On the few fishing trips you'd convinced me to go on, I was alternately bored and appalled: bored by waiting endlessly for a fishing line to tighten, appalled at the can of squirming worms into which I was expected to stick my fingers and extract a sacrifice for the fish hook. You also loved to golf. Again, for me, golf = boredom. I'm sorry about that, Dad. But that's just who I was.

Back to Stuckey's. You came in to pay for the gas, and excitedly, I led you to the orange tree. "Isn't that neat?" I said. "Can I have it?" If memory serves, I believe the tree cost $5 or $10—an investment back in the late 1960s.

With your careful photographer's gaze, you studied the Bonzai-ish fruit tree in its box. "I'm sorry, son, but I think it'll just end up dying," you said. "It'll be a waste of money."

"No it won't!," I pleaded. "I'll take care of it. I'll water it!"

"I'm sorry," you repeated gently, and I knew that was that.

A few months later, on my birthday, I awakened and rushed downstairs to see what goodies awaited. There, in the center of the breakfast room table, was the miniature orange tree. You flashed me a sheepish grin. "Happy birthday," you said.

When did you buy it?, I wondered. I hadn't seen you do it during our subsequent Stuckey's stops in Danville, and there was no other Stuckey's close by. And I would've seen you try to sneak the tree into the car. And I'd gone with you on all your other Roanoke trips between the time I coveted the mini citrus tree and my birthday.

You remained mysterious about the orange tree's procurement, which of course drove me nuts. Ultimately, I decided that you drove by yourself to the Stuckey's in Danville, which is about a 45-50 minute ride, specifically to buy the tree. You took time out of your busy work life to buy your son what he wanted for his birthday. I think you did that as a way of saying 'thank you' for accompanying you on all those trips to Roanoke. I couldn't have known this then, but now I know how much you missed your father, and having me there probably gave you a lot of comfort.

And of course, Dad, you were right. I became the little orange tree's unintended executioner. It may have lasted two weeks before browning and collapsing into an exhausted heap. But you never said what many parents would have in that circumstance: "I told you so."

I've bought a few miniature orange trees over the years, perhaps in an effort to show you I could sustain them. Unfortunately, the outcome was always the same: death to the innocent orange tree.

Although my efforts at raising miniature fruit trees have been fruitless, Dad, there are some things I've managed to get right over the years. One of those is, along with my sisters, to take good care of the woman you adored, the woman you were married to for over 50 years, the woman who was never quite the same after you passed away.

You've been gone 20 years now, as of today, Dad. But you've never left me. Just this morning, you came to me in a dream. I was at your funeral, and some man I'd never seen before was giving the eulogy, and I was growing agitated because he clearly didn't know you. I wanted to stand up, move him aside, and talk about the man we were there to mourn.

When I rose to speak, you were suddenly seated beside me in the church pew. You touched my shoulder gently, smiled, and said, "Don't forget to tell them about the little orange tree."

"I will," I said. "And by the way, how did you get that? I've wondered all these years."

You smiled enigmatically and gently waved me toward the pulpit.

Failure to Thrive? Not So Fast

This is a story I never thought I'd write: My mother is expected to be released from hospice care soon.

Since hospice began caring for her in early March, Ruth Martin has gained 10 pounds. Though she used to mostly stay in her room at Heritage Greens Arboretum, a memory-care facility in Greensboro, nowadays she is often found in the main 'recreation' room, participating in a game of ball bouncing or checking out the other residents.

Later this week, the oxygen tanks that have cluttered Ruth's room are to be taken away, as her oxygen levels have returned to normal.

Ruth's unexpected revival has astonished and delighted us all—certainly my sisters and I, but also her caregivers. Rarely have they seen someone her age (93), and in her prior condition, bounce back so dramatically.

This turn of events seemed unimaginable. In early 2013, a bad stomach virus, which my mother caught, had circulated through the Arboretum. Management had strongly advised family and other outsiders not to visit, fearful of spreading the virus even further. And so, for several weeks, my sisters (three of whom live nearby) were not able to visit Ruth.

By late February, my mother had grown extremely weak. She began refusing to eat and take her medications. She slept most of the time and when awake, spoke mostly gibberish. The memory-care facility administrator suggested it was time to bring in hospice care, which to me meant that my mother's clock was now ticking—loudly. Her official diagnosis? "Failure to thrive."

And so, on a Monday morning in late February, I decided to make a hasty trip to Greensboro. With Nick's help, I booked a flight at 11 a.m., cancelled my business appointments for the week, showered, packed, and made it onto the plane for its 1:30 p.m departure.

While in Greensboro, I was determined to get my mother to eat. I bought her favorite junk food: McDonald's french fries, doughnuts, Baby Ruth candy bars. She treated them all as if they were something vile. I bought baby food--anything I could think of she might be able to swallow. During my nearly week-long stay, she ate almost nothing, limiting her intake to cranberry juice and some Ensure drinks.

My mother, late February 2013

During the last hour of that visit with Ruth, I knew I had to somehow say goodbye. She dozed off and on as I paced around her small room, wondering what I could say that would have any meaning for her as well as for me. I decided to keep it simple.

"Thank you," I said, and kissed her on the forehead.

She woke up, looked me in the eye, smiled weakly. "Thank you," she replied.

With that, I walked out of my mother's room, convinced I'd just spent my last few minutes with her.
But in the weeks to come, an alternate scenario slowly unfolded. My sisters took turns visiting Ruth every day, reading to her, painting her fingernails, being by her side. The hospice staff visited several times a week. The Arboretum staff gave her extra care. Her doctor took her off several medications and gave her a drug whose side effect is known to increase appetite.

By mid May, the news was so encouraging, I returned to Greensboro. This time, my mother was alert, her blue eyes looking directly into mine in a way I hadn't seen in a while. She smiled and laughed. She let me feed her, but more importantly, she was now feeding herself.

She is still talking in gibberish, still confusing past with present. But she seems happy and content, and she has moments of clarity. The other day, when an unfamiliar Arboretum resident walked past, my mother said to my sister: "Who is that old lady?"

I attribute much of my mother's rebound to my sisters, and of course to Ruth herself—a tough country girl from North Carolina, through and through, whose mother lived to 100 and whose grandmother passed away peacefully at 95. One lesson to take away: Never, under any circumstances, underestimate a Southern woman.

On July 22, Ruth Martin will be 94 years old. I don't know how much time we have left with her. But since late February, every visit, every phone conversation with her has been what they call in New Orleans a lagniappe—a sweet, unexpected gift.

My mother, early July 2013. (Note the Piggly Wiggly T-shirt under her sweatshirt.)

Uncle Poodle & Being Gay in the South

Will Uncle Poodle get his own reality TV show? If so, will I be able to watch it?

I didn't even know what an Uncle Poodle was until Tuesday, when I discovered he's Honey Boo Boo's gay uncle. I'd been researching potential topics for a short, farcical play about fairy tale characters and wondered if Honey Boo Boo might be potential fodder. After all, one of the definitions of fairy tale is "a made-up story usually designed to mislead." If that doesn't describe reality TV, what does?

So I Googled 'Honey Boo Boo' and discovered Uncle Poodle. I've seen perhaps three minutes of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. It was an episode in which everyone was getting hosed off before jumping into a red-clay mud hole. (I wrote about it in my October 2012 post "Does Honey Boo Boo Get Spanked in School?") Three minutes was all the Here Comes Honey Boo Boo I could consume. I felt it presented negative, country Southern stereotypes so that viewers could feel superior to them (as if most people don't already secretly feel superior to Southerners).

Uncle Poodle and My Great Nephew

But now, I'm intrigued by Uncle Poodle, who apparently got his nickname because Honey Boo Boo calls all gay men her "poodles."

Uncle Poodle and Honey Boo Boo

Uncle Poodle's real name is Lee Thompson. He's the brother of Honey Boo Boo's father, Sugar Bear. (Now there's a fairy tale character name to love.) Uncle Poodle is openly gay in a place--rural Georgia--not exactly known for tolerance and inclusion. Apparently, however, the Honey Boo Boo clan loves their Uncle Poodle. They accept him for who he is--a gay man who also happens to be HIV positive (which he revealed recently).

A Southern family's acceptance of a close gay relative isn't especially new, at least in my experience. Many people outside the South forget that Southerners, as a rule, are big believers in family. And if your uncle or brother or sister happens to be gay, so what? They're family. This is why it's not unusual in the South to meet a woman who votes Republican, listens to Rush Limbaugh, and yet loves her gay brother and his partner. I should know; I'm lucky enough to have such a sister, and three other equally supportive sisters.

One of my favorite examples of my family's "what's the big deal?"attitude occurred in the early-mid 1990s. I was talking to my great nephew, Banner, who grew up in a town outside Greensboro, N.C. Banner, who was about five or six then, suddenly pointed to a home nearby and said, "See that house? The guys who live there are gay." I breathed in, waiting for him to say something unkind. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders. "That's cool," he said.

The Liberace of Littleton

The acceptance of gays in the South extends beyond families, of course, and this isn't exactly 'new news,' either.

In the early 1980s, when I was a reporter for the Roanoke Rapids, N.C. newspaper, I became involved with a nearby small town theater company (thanks to Nick). In this town, Littleton, lived a flamboyantly gay man who played piano for the theater company's productions. Appropriately enough, he was nicknamed "The Liberace of Littleton." Despite his status as an unapologetically flaming queen in a small Southern town, countless Littleton parents hired him to give their kids piano lessons. This was a small farming/paper mill Southern town, and the parents adored the gay piano teacher. And not once did I overhear a resident speaking badly about him behind his back.

I hasten to add that many people who live in or are from the South have not had the most positive experiences being out. At the same time, we can't assume that someone who grew up on the 'more enlightened' West Coast has had an easy time being gay, either. I know of at least one gay man who grew up outside San Francisco and whose parents, after he came out to them, had nothing to do with him for 15 years.

But back to Uncle Poodle. According to recent news articles, he wants his own reality TV program in order to show what it's like to be "gay in the South." If he succeeds, and I hope he does, I'll have to watch at least one episode. But I suspect my own tolerance boundaries--for reality TV--will be severely tested. Especially if they start hosing each other down and leaping into mud holes.

True Confessions of a Technology Addict

Hello, my name is Jim, and I'm a technology addict. (This is your cue to say, "Hi Jim!")

New Yorkers waiting to buy an iPad Mini (photo by Fortune)

You probably know at least one tech addict. Maybe you're one, too. If nothing else, just check out the line at an Apple store when a new product is released. Case in point: Today, some 600 people stood in line at the Fifth Avenue Apple store to buy a new iPad Mini, while other long lines formed at gas stations and grocery stores in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. Whenever priorities seem so out of whack like that, there must be an addiction lurking.

Fortunately, my childhood was free of technology addiction. Of course, outside of a cute, portable, black-and-white Sony TV, there wasn't much consumer technology to get worked up about in the 1960s. The Sony TV only got a few channels anyway, and they were fuzzier than a Chia head eating a peach.

Somewhere around age ten or 11, my father gave me an electric typewriter, a hand-me-down from his photography studio. I was thrilled; it was as if my efforts to tell stories suddenly acquired power steering. I tapped away for hours at a time, drafting incoherent yarns and adolescent plays that embarrassed me then and would mortify me now.

Kaypro PC

I kept the typewriter throughout college, writing term papers and short stories. By the mid 1980s, something even better came along: a PC. I saved and bought a Kaypro, an MS-DOS computer made by a short-lived, family-run computer company whose demise was due to "too many Kays and not enough pros," according to one wag.

Eventually, the Kaypro led to my first Mac, which led to more Macs as well as more PCs and then to laptops and smartphones and iPads, oh my. Today, our home is filled with everything from an iPod nano to a 40-inch Samsung HDTV.

How did this addiction happen? Maybe its roots can be traced to the typewriter. I loved this machine because it gave me a new, easier way to write my stories, and for whatever reason, I have had a compulsion to tell stories since I was a kid.

My father, the Southern gentleman photographer

At any rate, the addiction kicked into a higher gear 20 years ago, when I was working as an editor for Publish. The working environment at this magazine was often so dysfunctional, we nicknamed it "Punish." But I learned something of lasting value there: how to use technology in new ways to not only tell stories but to illustrate them as well. During this period, I got everyone in my immediate family, and most of those in my extended family, to write down the fondest memories of their lives and send me their favorite pictures. I digitized it all, used page layout software to design a book, printed multiple copies, and had the books bound. It was none too soon. My father died a year later.

Over time, someone we loved who has died inevitably fades in our memories. It's sad, it's even a little scary, but it happens. Stories--their stories, in their words--keeps them alive in ways that a photograph can't. Now that I've come clean with my technology addiction, it occurs to me that preserving the stories of people who won't be here one day to share them is my true addiction. Technology is just the enabler.

My Late Father Helped Me Take This Picture

Last month, Nick and I were at my niece Kathleen's wedding in Greensboro. I hadn't been particularly focused on taking pictures during the reception, other than getting a few snapshots of my sisters and me clowning around. Frankly, I was more interested in raiding the risotto bar than attempting photography.

I was standing across the room from the dance floor when the bride and groom had their first dance. I peered over a few shoulders and caught a glimpse, smiled, and went back to the conversation I was in. A few minutes later, Kathleen was dancing with her father, John. Suddenly, I felt an urgency. I had to get a picture of them. I was behind several people, trying to find a good angle; Nick pointed out an opening and I jumped in. I quickly dug into my pocket, pulled out my phone (which has a decent camera), and snapped only one photo. Here it is:

I posted it on Facebook. It was one of my most 'liked' posts ever. John is currently using a cropped version as his Facebook profile photo. He told me he loved the 'thumbs up' Kathleen gave him in this touching moment. And I somehow managed to capture it.

I suspect my late father played a role.

C.W. Martin was a professional photographer for decades, starting out as a newspaper photojournalist and then launching Martin's Studio in Greensboro with his business partner. He was beloved in the community, his photos won awards; the Greensboro Historical Museum put together an exhibit on Martin's Studio that ran for years.

When I was younger, my father tried to interest me in photography. He failed. The reasons why are complex, and I'm still identifying them all nearly 20 years after his death.

On multiple occasions, as a kid I'd asked my father if we could move away from Greensboro. Partially this was because I was getting picked on a lot as a gay boy in the South in the 1960s. I'd also been watching a lot of TV and was longing to see the world beyond: New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Europe.

My father's answer was practical but not wanted I wanted to hear. He'd explain that he had spent years building up his photography studio in Greensboro. It wasn't a business that could be easily relocated to another city. We'd have to go without so many things because he'd have to start all over in a new place, he said.

So I got it into my head, which seems preposterous to me now, that photography was an anchor, or at least, it was my anchor. It kept my father tied to Greensboro, and so it kept me stuck in place, too. I realize now I resented the entire concept of photography for doing this injustice to me. And while I could appreciate an artful photo, the science behind capturing it bored me. Aperture and f-stop were as interesting to me as an isosceles triangle. I'd rather draw cartoons (and did).

There's more to this story, however.

I know now that, as much as I loved my father, I rebelled against everything he tried to teach me. Save your money for a rainy day, he'd say. I'd spend it instead on a designer rain coat. Wear a navy blue suit on job interviews, he'd advise me. Navy blue, in my mind, was the color of Southern male conformity. Instead, after college, I wore an off-white suit on all my job interviews, much to my father's disbelief. (Needless to say, it took me a year to get my first job, and only after I ditched the Tom Wolfe look).

Every Saturday night, my father cooked steaks on the grill for the family, except me. I would insist instead on chicken pot pie; anything but steak. I didn't even eat steaks until I was in my early 20s and had left home.

I'm not particularly proud of this. I regret that I wasn't closer to my father, because he was a terrific man, someone everyone respected. But I rebelled against him because I instinctively knew that if I didn't push him away, he might get a better look at who and what I was: his gay son. I couldn't risk disappointing him or, worse, losing his love. And so, I suspect I disappointed him in a different, though seemingly safer, way. Over the years, I've been letting go of this long-ago father-son drama piece by piece. I'm not finished yet; maybe I never will be.

But then, at the wedding, when my niece danced with her father, I felt as if my father and I had joined forces, too. With his spirit and my camera, we captured something beautiful. The partnership only lasted for a few seconds, but it is a start.

My Mother Busted Me for Going Commando

It was toward the end of a recent visit to North Carolina, and I was down to one pair of clean underwear.

And so I faced a dilemma: Wear my last fresh pair to visit my mother on her birthday? Or save it for the day after, when I'd be flying home to San Francisco? (Wearing dirty underwear, in my opinion, is never a viable option.)

Ultimately, the fear of my airplane dropping from the sky, and my improperly attired body plunging with it, was the deciding factor. The thought of showing my crack in someone's driveway, even posthumously, was just too much. Besides, I reasoned, my mother lives in an Alzheimer's facility. She'll never notice.

When I arrived, my mother, Ruth, was surrounded by two of my sisters, Nancy and Julia. I was wearing a pair of baggy shorts, and I took the chair opposite Ruth. It didn't take long before Ruth grabbed one of my pant legs, peeked up it, and asked me something along the lines of "What are you wearing under there?" Stunned at first by the question, I admitted I was "going commando," and we all had a hearty laugh about the fact that my 93-year-old mother had just busted me for not wearing underwear.

Later, Ruth turned to Julia and asked "Do you bleach your hair?" My mother was particularly fascinated with my shirt, a red Polo shirt with a large exotic bird on it, and with Nancy's Paul Frank monkey-face watch. She looked at us and suddenly said, "I can't believe I gave birth to all y'all." Then she paused and added: "And I kept you, too."

In other words, Ruth was more observant, engaged, and upbeat than I'd seen her in a long, long time.

The afternoon wasn't without its bittersweet moments. Repeatedly, Ruth asked my sisters and me to call our father, who died in 1993. We'd explain that we'd called him just now and gotten a busy signal, or that he was working, or that we'd call him in a minute. Even though the excuses grew easier to make, each one stung just a little.

And then, Ruth announced that this was "the happiest day of my life." That was why it was so important for us to call her husband. She was having so much fun, she didn't want him to miss any of it.

Nancy, Ruth (in Piggly Wiggly T-shirt), and Julia