Bettyville: A Memoir

I am doing my best here. I will make it back to New York, but frankly, to spend some time in Paris, Missouri, is to come to question the city, where it is normal to work 24/7, tapping away on your BlackBerry for someone who will fire you in an instant, but crazy to pause to help someone you love when they are falling.

The thing about being a watcher is this: You are never really a part of things, especially if the person you must watch is yourself, always, just to make sure no one ever really sees you. .

old people who are failing get the angriest with those they are most attached to, the people who make them realize they are no longer themselves.

She is of a generation who existed before feelings were spoken of.

Politically, I have a lot of differences with many I encounter here. When visiting the homes of reactionary friends and neighbors, I enjoy hiding their copies of books by Glenn Beck and other lunatics around the house while my hosts cook or adjourn to relieve themselves. Ducking into a garage to deposit the latest ravings of Ann Coulter into a bag of aging peat moss lifts the spirit as unfailingly as a summer tent revival. But I am trying to behave. I

Sometimes I think of all the people who have travelled on their own across the world, people who have gone far from home, from villages to sprawling cities where nothing and no one is familiar. My mother has also travelled - across time for more than nine decades, from one era to the next, from a world she knew to another where much she was taught does not apply. Things are changing so fast; there is no period of adjustment now for anyone. My mother tries to keep up, but it is such a complicated trip. The faces that time taught her to trust are all missing. She lives in a foreign land where it is up to me to try to make her feel at home. She has walked so far, through time.

I am an unlikely guardian. A month ago I thought the Medicare doughnut hole was a breakfast special for seniors. I am a care inflictor.

People forced to live by conventions are always the first to enforce them.

When dealing with older women, a trip to a hairdresser and two Bloody Marys goes further than any prescription drug. . . .

I want my mother to know that I may not be what she expected, but I am someone who tries to be good. I cannot give my mother the kids we might have liked with Mammy’s eyes or Aunt Bess’s crazy, gentle ways. I cannot bring her the child who sings with my father’s voice. But I can wait with her through these strange days for whatever is going to happen. I can sit on a chair by her bed when she is too flustered to lay her head down on her pillow and stay with her until she can close her eyes. .

I can never be a person who has not made mistakes. But I can be someone honest who has lived through them: one of those who look you square in the eye and say, “This is how it has been, and it is okay.” It has been a long, long struggle to hold my head up. I think I have survived because of Betty, more than anyone. I will never stop remembering my mother’s strength, her struggle to remember words, to hang on to the world. I will always hear her at the piano, an old woman practicing, still trying to get it right, to find the right notes. I will see her walking, haltingly, in the dark, doing her best to find her way. We have sometimes struggled with words, but I am Betty’s boy. There are so many things I will carry when I leave Bettyville with my old suitcase. .

When I let my mind wander back that far, what I see is how hard we tried to be our best for one another. In

You must always, always tell the truth. If you are mad, say so. If someone asks you anything, try to find the exact words to describe what you have to say. If you try to tell the exact truth, always, you will ground yourself, become yourself. The truth connects you. It hooks you back up.

Things are different now. A book I read said three things changed rural America: the breakup of the family farm;

Since he arrived and she became more engrossed in his activities, she makes her sounds much less. He is the noisy one now. I know this home is just for now, but I treasure our days. I feel different than when I arrived. Nothing magical or radical, just a little more comfortable with myself. A few more pieces have shifted into place. In my head there is a kind of early-morning quiet. Because I have come through for her. It has taken me so long to feel okay in my own skin, but I feel better, more at home in the world. Most days. .

This is why she has stayed, why she has waited, watching out the window, always looking out for the moment when I will turn into the driveway, always trying to look her best for when I come in the door. She has struggled to keep on, trying not to fall. To try to help me. She has not wanted to leave me alone. She has always wanted to be here for me, to do what she could. .

Things My Mother Does Not Do 1. Complain. 2. Dispose of almost anything, including years-old margarine tubs possibly hoarded for the dispersal of emergency rations. 3. Ignore a coupon. 4. Put anything away. 5. Allow me to talk “long distance” for more than three minutes without yelling in the background. 6. Give up without a fight. O

Betty, whom I recently discovered sorting through the contents of my suitcase, turns on the overhead light in my room, wrinkles her brow, and peers in like a camp counselor on an inspection tour, as if she suspects I might be entertaining someone who has paddled in from across the lake. She must keep an eye out. I am a schemer. There are things going on behind her back, plans afoot, she fears. She has no intention of cooperating with any of them. When the phone rings, she listens to every word, not sure if she can trust me with her independence. I don’t blame her. I am an unlikely guardian. A month ago I thought the Medicare doughnut hole was a breakfast special for seniors. I am a care inflictor. She’s

Every week or so, a gay kid somewhere jumps off a bridge or slashes his wrists. I am told that a boy near here hanged himself because his father could not accept who he was. On television, I listen to the things they say, the right-wingers, and fundamentalists, and all the people who consolidate their power by hurting other people. I want to cover up the ears of kids and say, “Do not take it in.” I took it in. I really did. I heard everything that people in the world around me said about who I was. It hurt me, but I thought I had no right to say anything because I was wrong. I didn’t know what silence would cost, how it would change my life. It takes a long time to outrun the things that the world drills into you. Our

Just a typical American family, torn between love and homicide, but united in our way. “I’ll

He loved me, as so many have loved the children who turned out to be so different, "in spite of." I didn't want "in spite of.

I am a loner, but I hate to lose people. I can only imagine how scary it is to know that the person one is losing is oneself.

On Betty's journey, I have learned something I had not known: I am very strong, strong enough to stay, strong enough to go when the time comes. I am staying not to cling on, but because sometime, at least once, everyone should see someone through. All the way home.

Mandy’s voice on the phone last week was grave. “You know, Betty isn’t herself anymore.” She advises, “George, I think you are going to have to consider assisted living.” I wanted to respond, “Oh goodness. That has never crossed my mind.” People mean well; they just aren’t here enough to get what we are dealing with or what home means to my mother. Everyone thinks they know what should be done, and their suggestions make me suspect they must consider me an idiot who doesn’t comprehend the situation. Actually, I don’t, but never mind. I get what makes sense; I just can’t bear to do it. I cannot imagine the sorrow of dragging her out of this house.

It was October in Pennsylvania and on the first morning the ground was frosted. As I walked to breakfast, some guy yelled out, ‘Thirteen inches in the Poconos.’ ‘Is that I porn film?’ I asked.

Thanks to Steven, I rode on a bus with the Gay Men's chorus, which he and the doctor had joined. All the way they sang. When I looked at Steven and made a face, he looked offended, but I didn't care. It was way too early in the morning for anything from Sweeney Todd.

They stand and say it is their right to say things that injure children who have learned to hate themselves.

My head is full of voices: Everyone up there is talking, yelling. No one thinks I am dealing with Betty correctly. I hear the voice of a writer in Washington, D.C., telling me that my relationship with Betty is “codependent.” Friends in Manhattan yammer in the corners of my brain about my destroying my career by staying in Missouri. My relatives plead for Betty’s entry into assisted living. My father and Mammy join in the fray. In my head, the dead are pushy, opinionated, and easily offended. At Starbucks, they scream into my cerebellum about the price of venti lattes and the calorie content of chocolate graham crackers. Suddenly,