AIN'T NOTHING LIKE THE REAL THING

Philip J. Berg, Esquire

I've been following with interest the legal battle over the President-elect's proof of citizenship. A few months ago Philip Berg, a Pennsylvania attorney, filed a lawsuit stating that Barrack Obama:

1. Is not a natural-born citizen; and/or
2. Lost his citizenship when he was adopted in Indonesia; and/or
3. Has dual loyalties because of his citizenship with Kenya and Indonesia

In June of this year the Obama campaign released a digitally scanned image of his birth certificate in an effort to quell speculation that he might not be eligible to serve as President of the United States. The image only prompted more skepticism and so the debate continues both online and in the courts.

When my brother was a preschooler my parents started celebrating his birthday in May instead of March. Even though I got upset and questioned it, they steadfastly insisted that I was mistaken about the date. Many years later they finally confessed that they altered his birth certificate in order to give him an advantage in school. Despite their shenanigans, he proved to be mentally gifted and eventually graduated from high school a year ahead of his classmates. (Bobby's second birthday party, Los Angeles, California)

When I told Chuck that I wanted to write a post about Obama's birth certificate, he was concerned that I was entering controversial territory. "How are you going to relate that to Family History?" he wondered. "Boy, he really has no clue what I do all day!" I thought to myself. I spend countless hours viewing microfilm trying to find just such evidence as Philip Berg is looking for to support his case. I'm never completely convinced either until I obtain primary sources to validate my research.

I shouted with joy when I finally found my grandmother Ayleen's birth record. It confirmed my hunch that family members assumed aliases shortly after her birth. (photo taken about 1910, San Antonio, Texas)

Genealogists are always more credible when they can base their research on information found in a document originating at the time of the event, instead of relying on a secondary source, such as Obama's newly-created Hawaiian Certification of Birth.

A few years ago my father asked me to obtain a copy of his half-sister's birth certificate. He was convinced that Judith could not possibly be a blood relative. "Marilyn [his wife] says that she doesn't resemble me or my father in any way," he offered as an explanation for his sudden obsession. He also believed that his newly-divorced stepmother was probably pregnant when she married his father. "I remember Dad kept saying, 'that was an awfully short nine months!'" When Judy's certified birth record showed that she was born over eighteen months after the wedding, my dad begrudgingly accepted the fact that they probably had the same father.

Although the LDS church has microfilmed millions of records, they haven't achieved 100%...yet. But that's okay with me, because there is just no substitute for going to the source and holding the real thing. That's what happened this summer when we traveled to northern California and visited the Searls Historical Library in Nevada City.

Searls Historical Library, Nevada City, California (June, 2008)

I was looking for evidence to determine what had become of an ancestor's first husband. I wasn't satisfied with undocumented sources that claimed she was a widow at the time of her second marriage. Imagine my excitement when I stepped inside Judge Searls old law office on Church Street and discovered the complete file of my ancestor's 1856 divorce! I spent all afternoon reverently unfolding, flattening, and then carefully placing page after page on the Xerox copier. A silver-haired volunteer, unfamiliar with the machine and just as uncomfortable with my pervasive presence, stood by wringing her hands. "Surely you don't need a copy of everything!" she kept saying. I just smiled, and continued to push the green button on the copier. It was obvious that this lady hadn't yet grasped the significance of the real thing. She didn't relax until I stopped copying just moments before closing time and wrote out a check for all sixty pages.

A partial view of a room in Judge Searls' law office, showing his original filing cabinets full of legal documents from the 1800s.

Before I left I reluctantly refolded the faded blue papers. They were held together by thin strips of ribbon, sewn through the corners of each page. Some of the ribbon had tragically ripped out of the packets when the volunteer carelessly brushed up against the xerox machine while answering the telephone. I muffled a gasp when she reached for a stapler. It seemed almost sacrilegious to tamper with the integrity of the original document. She must have read my mind, because she hesitated, then grabbed some paper clips. "I sure hope those don't rust," was all I could think as she fastened the papers together. I placed the packets back into their snug wood and metal holders. I respectfully watched the volunteer slide the drawer once again into the judge's sturdy cabinet. I couldn't help but wonder if it would be another 150 years before anyone touched that incredible packet of papers again.

My grandfather's sister Sophie changed her name to Shirley. Later she married a man named Meyer Levy who was known to everyone as Mike Meyer. When I viewed a digitized copy of her original birth record, there was a line drawn through the entry. The name Shirley Goblinger Meyer was handwritten above the line. Her father's name was Morris in the original record. It too was crossed off and the name Joseph inserted. A notation stated that the record was changed in June 1961 by affidavit. (Aunt Shirley and Uncle Mike, 1976)

In 1968, Shirley's older sister Betty (aka Beckie) also had her birth record altered. This is particularly disheartening because she was born just a few years after the family immigrated to the United States. It's impossible to decipher the surname in the 1903 record because of the line drawn through it, but it is definitely not G-o-b-l-i-n-g-e-r. Also, her mother (Fannie) is Dora and her father's name looks like John in the original record. It's unfortunate that the clerks in the city of St. Louis were allowed to deface these documents. I believe they could have provided valuable clues necessary to trace the Goblingers back to their origins in Europe. (Betty Goblinger Sirkin, 1990)

Genealogy is all about finding the records. Over the years I've gained a real appreciation for the importance of analyzing original documents. I'm sure most genealogists would agree with me that the Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell song, Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing, could be our theme song.

My grandmother, Sara Saiger, dropped the "h" in her name when kids in her fifth grade class started calling her Sahara Desert. I recently found the names of her mother and older brothers on a ship's manifest. They sailed from Liverpool, England to Boston, Massachusetts in February 1904. The original family surname was ZEIGER. Her birth records were lost by the City of St. Louis when she was still a child. I remember Grandma telling the story of how the principal had her open her mouth and then looked at her teeth to determine whether or not she was old enough to enter school.

My sympathy goes out to Philip Berg in his quest for certified copies of Barack Obama's original birth certificate, as well as supporting documents pertaining to his citizenship. Most genealogists passionately believe in the accessibility of public records. I've included examples in this post from my own family tree to illustrate why I live for the moments I get to sing out loud, So glad we got the real thing, baby!

One of my most challenging projects has involved researching my rather well-known ancestor, Charles S. Howard (pictured above on left). Howard owned the famous racehorse Seabiscuit. I was initially dismayed that I was unable to enlist the cooperation of living Howard cousins to help me complete my pedigree chart. Now, however, I am enjoying the rewards of doing my own work. Finding C.S. Howard's birth record is just one of many exciting moments I have experienced while tracing my father's maternal line. (p.s. to my Howard cousins: Charley was not born in Marietta, Georgia).

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

THE SIBERIAN SOLUTION

My sister phoned last week to let me know that her "mind has been working for awhile" on a plan to help our mother. Perhaps, I thought, she has reconsidered the benefits of living near Mom. Maybe she is finally willing to help with simple household tasks, basic transportation, and just being there to protect Mom against her increasing vulnerability.

My mother, pregnant with Becky, holding a kitten called Miss Misty. (September 24, 1950)

"It's obvious that Mom has always been a cat person," Becky began, as I tried not to drop the phone.

"She hasn't owned a cat in over 25 years!" I managed to cough out.

"There's a reason for that. Pete was deathly allergic to flea bites, and Mom was worried that if she had a cat, it would have fleas. I kept telling her that she lived on the third floor, and there are no fleas on the third floor! We all know she needs a cat and it's obvious the time has come."

Becky holding her cat Pushkin. She has always been the designated cat-lover of the family. (July, 1984)

"So I've been researching Siberian cats," my sister continued, ignoring my silent astonishment. "They are intelligent, low maintenance, and affectionate."

"Can they change light bulbs? Mom had to pay someone last week to change a light bulb. She also had to go door-to-door until she found someone who would untie the knot in her bathrobe."

"Oh, Mom loves having Staff. She loves having servants." Becky quickly dismissed my concerns as irrelevant. "Putting that aside, there are health benefits and psychological benefits to these cats. She would really chill out a lot. But there is no DNA test. You can't just go to the pound and say, 'that looks like a Siberian to me.' To be sure, you need to go to a breeder. So I've been looking for catteries. And I found one in California! Guess which city?"

I couldn't even respond. I was stuck on the word cattery. "Is that synonymous for feline factory?" I silently wondered.

"LOS GATOS!" Becky practically shrieked. "Can you believe it?"

Me, leaning against my front door in Palos Verdes and relaxing with the neighbor's cat. Gomer always hung out in our yard. (March, 1967)

"What about her allergies?" I was beginning to feel stupid. I couldn't believe that I was still trying to have a conversation based on reality.

"That's the beauty of the Siberian," she cheerfully explained. "I was happy when the hypoallergenic cat came out, but they're $8,000. These cats only run about $1,000, and they're for people with allergies. They'll even send you a clipping of the fur so you can test yourself for allergies. You just tape the fur near your nose and eyes and see how you react. So I'm going to find out where these catteries are. You need to look in your local paper in case you see an ad for a Siberian cat."

Becky and I enjoying our Siamese cat, Singh. He disappeared the day we moved out of Los Angeles. He was never allowed in the house because of my mom's allergies and asthma. (August, 1961)

My father as a young boy, holding an unknown feline friend. (undated)

There was nothing more to say. True to form, Rebecca had expeditiously solved another of life's challenges. Why are my brother and I spending so many hours trying to figure out ways to help our mother? She simply needs to get a Siberian and "chill out." I got off the phone and picked up my own cat. Stewart may be just a domestic short hair, but as I stroked his fur and listened to him purr, I found myself saying, "Don't worry. It's all going to be okay."

My brother Bobby and Cat Boy in a peaceful place. Cat Boy was the first animal allowed in the house. He was totally spoiled by my mother. He was the only pet to become a long-time member of the family. When our parents were going through their divorce, my mother quietly had Cat Boy euthanized. ( photo about 1967).

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

A VISIT TO DYE FOR

A few months ago I invited my sister to spend Thanksgiving with us. Now I'm scared to death that she might accept our offer. Recently I received an e-mail with the subject line: RE VISIT. I gasped when I opened up the attachment. It was two pages long and full of very strong language.

Phrases like poisonous phthalates, toxic chemicals, hazardous to humans, fish-killing perfume-poison, pesticide residues, harmful fumes, and neurological poison were strewn throughout the document. Yes, I said document. This isn't your typical RSVP. But then again, my sister isn't your typical house guest.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? I'm a little nervous about my sister's upcoming Thanksgiving visit. (photo taken 1999)

Rebecca suffers from Multiple Chemical Sensitivities, or MCS. She has become increasingly handicapped with this condition. She struggles daily to keep herself in an environment devoid of common man-made products or, in her words, "poisons."

According to my sister, even unscented products are subject to scrutiny. She claims that St. Ives fragrance-free lotion probably contains a scent-blocker, or a perfume ingredient to drown out scents. Her explanation: "kind of like putting a blindfold on someone so they won't see how messy the room is."

Rebecca is going through some tough times. Not only is she single, homeless, and without the ability to provide for herself, but she has virtually no contact with her daughter or son. A resident of Alaska, she has balked at traveling to the "lower forty-eight" in recent years, believing that chemicals used in airplanes will seriously compromise her already weakened immune system. I've been encouraging her to try and step out of her comfort zone and take another look at some life options. Our eighty-year- old mother is recently widowed and lonely in her beachfront condo. She must pay someone for basic household services. This is a situation where mother and daughter could benefit by living together or near to each other. My brother and I have both offered to build small guest homes on our respective properties, and essentially take care of our sister for the rest of her life. But she is adamant that only Alaska provides the combination of clean air and sparse population critical to her survival.

Rebecca claims dryer sheets or fabric softeners irritate lungs, eyes, and skin. They use a petroleum-based oil to soften clothes. Breathing the fumes is called huffing. Everyone should switch to dryer balls. The best news is, they are cheap and last at least two years.

When I invited my sister for Thanksgiving, I was hoping that she could benefit not only from our mild Arizona temperatures, but also from the warmth of our extended family gathering. I didn't want her to spend another holiday alone. Initially she sent me a few tentative e-mails: What are the average high and low temperatures in your community in November? Is there room in your home? Would I extend an invitation to our mother? These were easy questions to answer. I'm just not sure how to deal with her latest communication. Rebecca's e-mail was an explicit list, detailing acceptable products that she can "use and that those with MCS can usually be around." Of course, she couldn't resist a healthy dose of unsolicited advice and name-dropping:

I know Mensa members who refuse to have [bleach] in their homes, as it's so very dangerous in the event of an earthquake or fire.

Dr. DeMain says Tide---even Tide Free--- has formaldehyde, which is an eye, lung, skin irritant, also a poison.

To keep drains free of clogs, put a little Rid-X, powder version only, down each drain about once a week just before bedtime.

A packet of black Rit dye is $2 or less, and good for an entire big wash load of clothing that has faded. The Soap and Detergent Assn. says it's best to just turn your darks inside out to keep colors bright by reducing abrasion and pilling.

Rebecca calls Black Woolite a "vicious product...loaded with fish-killing chemical perfume-poison."

While I discovered some interesting household tips in her letter, learning that I can renew faded jeans with black dye does nothing to prepare me for my sister being a house guest. I know this visit is going to require more than just leaving the light on and hiding a key under the mat.

The owners of Rebecca's last apartment went all-out to accommodate her MCS. The walls were repainted without the use of Volatile Organic Compounds (VOC). Carpet, flooring, tile and windows were all replaced. They even moved her upstairs to a corner unit so she could have the cross-breeze that she requested.

Several years ago she brought a law-suit against the owners of her apartment complex. She insisted that the residents stop using items such as dryer sheets and scented candles. She even demanded that the outside grounds and parking lots be off-limit to smokers. In a letter to the apartment manager, she complained that "at any particular time, one or more neighbors smoke in or near this building; there is no respite. Smoke travels throughout a building, emerging from electrical outlets or light fixtures, as well as hallways and under doors. Whether or not I smell it, my body registers it. I need your help. I am handicapped and need clean air in order to live, to avoid death or further disability. I ask for that accommodation---now."

I need to come up with my own practical accommodation for my sister this Thanksgiving. Knowing what I know about her, I'm worried that I don't have the ability to meet her stringent environmental criteria. And how much do I inconvenience the other house guests? I will have daughters, their husbands, my in-laws, and several babies visiting our house at the same time. I definitely need help thinking outside the VOC! (Sorry, I just could not resist that...)


copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

YOU DON'T TUG ON SUPERMAN'S CAPE

When I woke up this morning and automatically turned on my radio, the first headline tease line I heard was: "Hockey Mom Ices Democrats." Of course I knew what it meant. I've been hooked on politics since I was eight years old. My family didn't own a television set in 1960, but I convinced our next-door neighbors to let me sit in their living room and watch live coverage of Jack Kennedy accepting his party's nomination. Eventually all the adults trailed off to bed, but I refused to leave that lumpy couch and go home until the station went off the air.

Last night as I watched yet another national convention, it didn't seem like I stayed up quite as late as that night forty-eight years ago. The images on the television were in living color and easy on the eyes. As I lounged comfortably in my family room, I felt like I was part of the energetic crowd as their thunderous applause surrounded me. One of the great opening lines last night, as Sarah Palin accepted her party's nomination for Vice President, was actually an ad-lib:

"You know what the difference is between a pit bull and a hockey mom?" (pause) "Lipstick."

A lot of things came to my mind when she was speaking, but the words of an old Jim Croce song sum it up best:

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim

Apparently, others are also impressed with her tenacity. Here are some quotes I culled off the web this morning from various media sources that likened Governor Sarah Palin to some strong personalities:

"It is the age of Sara Palin, the Wonder Woman..." ( the Scotsman)

"The great leaders sometimes come from the countryside, from the most remote spots. Remember Joan of Arc! Sarah could be our modern Joan of Arc." (U.S. army veteran Bill Coll, Le Point.)

"Thrilla From Wasilla" (Townhall.com reader comment)

I've participated vicariously in many conventions beginning with my childhood days of sitting in a dark room, watching a flickering black and white television screen. But this election is different. I love how last night Sarah Palin said, "If we win," not the presumptuous "when we win." It was a refreshingly honest sentiment, one I've never heard voiced in a political speech. I'm enough of a realist to know that anything can happen in politics. But last night I heard someone say all the things I've been yelling at my television and radio for months. I'm not going to mess around with Sarah Palin. I'm going to vote for her.

YOU SHOULD GROW LIKE AN ONION---WITH YOUR HEAD IN THE GROUND!

My daughter Kelley phoned the other day to break the news that "Palin's daughter is pregnant!" I had so much trouble understanding her that I actually thought she said, "Have you heard Caitlin, your daughter, is pregnant?" I was so relieved to learn that it wasn't my daughter who was pregnant that I wasn't even irritated that this was the third day in a row that Kelley had found something with the McCain/Palin ticket to gloat about. However, after reading her blog this morning, I realize that my daughter needs to get back to her roots as far as insults go.

Sarah Palin's appearance on the cover of VOGUE seems to reinforce the slogan: Alaska: Coldest State, Hottest Governor. (She should suffer in the midst of pleasure!)

Just a few days into the vice presidential nomination, and pathetic Sarah has already made Kelley's dreaded "fashion-crime" hit list. She was spotted at a grocery store in Wasilla dressed in a native-inspired outfit only someone in Alaska would wear. Even worse---she wears (gasp) glasses! Kelley is convinced that this is just a gimmick on the part of the governor to fool the public into thinking that she isn't a "ditz."

Come on, Kelley. Ditz? You can do better than that! Don't you know that if you can't say something nice, say it in Yiddish? It's so much more colorful and creative! What other language gives you an endless number of ways to tell someone to drop dead? Let me give you an example of a REAL curse: Let what I wish on her come true (most, even half, even just 10%). Or how about: She should be transformed into a chandelier, to hang by day and to burn by night.

Governor Sarah Palin should continue to be kvetch-worthy for a long time. Surely someone in the family has ripped a tag off a mattress, or put a glass bottle in an aluminum recycling bin. (My enemies should be as ugly as she is beautiful!)

Kelley, the way this election is going, you are going to need all the put-downs you can accumulate. I recommend spending time with the language of your great-grandparents. When it comes to insulting someone who really needs it, like the shlemazl Sarah Palin, may you never be at a loss of words again. And should you ever feel the desire to pay me back for my helpful advice, don't do me any favors!

A LEGACY OF LINOLEUM

My dad has undertaken a house remodeling project. He started in his family room and has now moved into the kitchen. Tuesday, he interrupted his work long enough to phone to let me know that he had experienced a near-death experience. While eating lunch at the local coffee shop he had started choking. He could not stop. It got really scary for everyone. Some other diners and even the restaurant manager tried unsuccessfully to help. Fortunately, by the time the paramedics arrived, he was okay.

"So, did your whole life flash in front of you?" I asked my eighty-three year old father.

"No," he responded honestly. "But two things came to mind that I'm bothered about." I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, poised for a True Confession moment. "I feel terrible about the bombs I dropped on Germany."

"Dad, it was war time. You were doing your patriotic duty and serving your country." I tried not to act too irritated, but his latent concern sounded so disingenuous, so out of character.

"I know," he lamented. "But these were horrible weapons...huge destructive bombs! Now [in the current war] anytime there's even a single death, there's such a fuss in the news. Goodness, hundreds were killed every day when we flew our missions."

"That's true," I agreed, still trying to figure out what he really wanted to say.

My father was a tail gunner on the B-17 Flying Fortress during WWII. As a member of the 8th Air Force stationed in Kimbolton, England, he flew 35 missions with the 379th Bomb Group. The survival rate was 66% for those making it to the 25 mission mark.

"And something else that bothers me is the horrible things my father did during the war."

"What kind of things?" I calmly asked, repositioning my pen over the paper.

"My dad was in charge of the entire Air Transport Command while stationed in Italy after the war," he explained. "When Vi [his stepmother] found out that she could get hundreds of dollars for a few packs of cigarettes and some booze, she had a roaring business going. She got involved in the Black Market and she got my dad to help her. Then there was the scandal in China. Dad was the Air Director of the China/Burma/India Theater of War. But he suddenly ended up in Modesto. That's when he took early retirement. I was always too embarrassed to ask him what happened. But now I want to know. I want you to get his military records. I want to find out why Stilwell passed him over for promotion to General."

My grandfather, an Air Force officer, had a distinguished military career beginning in 1921. No one in the family knows why he abruptly retired in 1947. My father wants me to solve the mystery.

"Okay." I relaxed a little. Now it was all beginning to make sense. This was the dad that I knew. We talked for awhile about what might have happened to end my grandfather's career. I reminded my father that most of the military records of that era were lost in a fire in St. Louis.

A devastating fire in 1973 at the National Personnel Records Center destroyed 80% of the records for Army personnel discharged between 1912 and 1960. I'm hoping that my grandfather's records were not among the 18 million damaged or destroyed files.

"What about you, Dad? Isn't this the time for me to help you record your life story? You don't want to leave your family wondering about your life, the way you're wondering about your father's." I was always trying to work the subject into our conversations. I would be on his doorstep in a heartbeat, if I could just get him to put out the welcome mat.

"My sails are full," he protested, as I listened for the latest round of excuses. "You know I have a trophy wife," he bragged for the thousandth time. "I'm busy redoing our whole house. When I'm done in the kitchen we're moving to the living room." He spent some time going over the details of each project. He was doing nearly all the work himself.

"That's great, Dad," I replied. "I can just see us all standing around talking at your funeral. 'Gee, aren't we glad he got those cabinets hung! I feel so much better knowing that he was able to caulk that grout before it was too late!'"

Robert S. Goodrich holding his great-grandson, Jonah Nalder, Christmas Day 2007. This was the first holiday in 25 years that my father had spent with any of his children or grandchildren.

My father started laughing and telling me how funny I was. Then he quickly excused himself. He did, after all, have important work to do. As we said our good-byes, it was not easy for me to mirror his nonchalant mood. I've never been able to convince him that time spent with things such as nails and paint can never replace time spent with your own flesh and blood. My siblings and I have been perplexed by this mind-set for twenty-five years. We know what he's leaving his "trophy wife." But what isn't he leaving his children and grandchildren? A legacy of linoleum just won't mean a darn thing.

I NEVER SANG FOR MY MOTHER

Many years ago I saw the movie, I Never Sang for my Father. As I recall, the film didn't get rave reviews. But I've always remembered it because of Gene Hackman's acting and because of the subject: parent/child relationships. Hackman plays a middle-aged man struggling to get close to his father, who just retreats into self-centeredness and detachment.

As far back as I can remember, my mother depended on doctors and drugs to get her through another day of living. She claims that her addictions really took hold about the time my brother was born.
(My mother holding Bobby, 1956)

I often think about this movie when thinking about my mother. She phoned a few days ago and happily chattered non-stop about a recent visit from her granddaughter and great-grandsons. It dawned on me, that for the first time in years, my mother can carry on a lucid conversation, write with a steady hand, and walk without stumbling. As her voice rattled on, I was almost lulled into thinking that I could have a real relationship with her---almost. And then I heard her complaining about how the weather was making her ill and how Doctor was out of town for a few days. All of a sudden I was jolted back to reality.

When I was growing up, there were long periods of time when my mother never got out of bed. I remember Mom routinely calling me into her bedroom and telling me to get her basket of medicine off the closet shelf, then bringing it to her as she carefully propped herself up in bed. She would open vial after vial, shaking-out a capsule here, breaking a tablet in half there, until she held a handful of multicolored and multi-shaped pills. (This prescription has been saved in her scrapbook for about sixty years.)

Doctor is the name my mother affectionately reserves for her personal physician of more than 30 years. Mom's trips to see Doctor rapidly escalated over the years until she was averaging three office visits a week. Then in February, her neighbors got fed-up with her disturbing routine of wandering the condo complex, screaming and banging on doors. Someone finally called the paramedics. She spent several months of involuntary residence at a psychiatric hospital de-toxing from a steady diet of drug cocktails; her medical team releasing her only on the assurance that she hire round-the-clock care.


Her caretakers, thinly disguised as household help, were really there for one reason: to document her intake of medication. She had help 24/7 for months after release from the hospital. It was almost a contest to see who would prevail. Would a girl quit, or would my mom beat her to the punch, and fire her before the end of the day? I learned in our phone conversation that she has eliminated all but one favorite helper, who works just the week-end shift. But what's really troubling is hearing about her return to regular visits with Doctor.

When my stepfather suffered a stroke while hospitalized, Mom thought that he had died. She immediately put this notice on her front door. He lingered on for three more months. She never saw nor spoke to him again.

No one in the family has ever figured out what is in the injections Doctor so freely dispenses at every visit. Many years ago Doctor told my father that he always wanted his patients to leave happy. "I give them something to make them happy," he explained to Dad, without really explaining anything. Even Mom does not know, does not care to know. "It's something for my heart, something for my lungs, some estrogen...something to build me up." She always sounds defensive when I try to get the facts. "This man has saved my life more times than I can remember and whatever sanity I retain is to his credit as well," she asserted in a letter two years ago. "Nobody understands that he is the reason I'm still alive after all these years."

My mother is convinced that if any medical personnel other than Doctor provides treatment, it could prove fatal. I found this warning taped to her kitchen phone, just in case anyone was reckless enough to call 9-1-1 in an emergency. Last year, when her husband fell in the middle of the night, he needlessly suffered for hours because of her edict.

She's right. I don't understand. I've always been disgusted that she could never make even simple, personal decisions without consulting Doctor. I've never comprehended why this man was ever elevated to savior status. We only have to look at how her health dramatically improved when she was under the care of different physicians, to know that something is not right with Doctor's treatment plan.

As my mother ended her phone monologue about grandsons, I heard her voice take on a familiar tone. "Of course, I expect a visit as soon as Chuck gets his vacation time."

"Well, Mom, you know he's been working real hard for over a year with very few days off, " I replied, meaning, we might have our own plans.

"Well don't you forget, she admonished, again using her self-righteous voice, "that your mother spent twelve years without any time off, taking care of a very fragile and very dear husband." Suddenly she pleaded exhaustion and quickly hung up the phone.

And there you have it. Her suffering is always greater. Her needs always trump everyone else's. Her reality of events is never open for discussion.

In 1984, I encouraged my mother to see me and her grandchildren when we came to Los Angeles for a visit. She wrote a lengthy response to that suggestion. I maintained my "disparaging" status for another 15 years until she reluctantly deigned to see me.

As a young boy, Gene Hackman's character, Gene Garrison, would sing while his mother played the piano. But his father always stayed upstairs, alone in his room. That's the simplistic reason why Gene never sang for his father. I don't need to get complicated either. I know I too will never sing for my mother.

While I was in high school, Mom worked a recovery program and eventually triumphed over her demons. For more than a dozen years my parents enjoyed life together. Unfortunately, the good times did not last. (American Samoa, 1977)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich