I CANNOT CARE

My fourth birthday party, Los Angeles, California

When the phone rang I automatically glanced at the corner of my computer monitor and noted that it was exactly 8:55 a.m. I resolutely reached for the receiver. Even without Caller ID, I knew who was calling. When she calls it is always five minutes before the hour; any hour. Her voice was weak and strained, yet strangely composed.

"Kathleen Dear... I...I...I am not doing well, Darling. I need...I need you to come be with me." My mother's voice was turning throaty. I knew she was struggling to swallow her sobs and talk at the same time. "I am feeling so over-whelmed. So...so depressed. I just feel like I am alone. I feel like I am floating alone." There was just the slightest pause. "My body has broken out into something and she told me there is very little that can be done about it."

I cannot care. The words came into my mind without prompting. I first heard them a week ago when my friend Bess and I were discussing strategies to break the bonds of co-dependency in our lives. "A good friend of mine who grew up in a rather dysfunctional family used to say that," she shared.

I accepted the phrase like a gift, not sure whether to keep it or return it. "I have to think about this," I said honestly. "It's not quite empowering enough, is it? Shouldn't it be, I choose not to care?" I didn't want to come across as ungrateful, but practicality is very important to me.

"I don't know," Bess responded without taking offense. "That's what she used to say, I cannot care."

"Well, I like how it sounds," I admitted. But I still wasn't ready to take it out of the box and use it.

I cannot care. The phrase was now muffling my mother's guttural gesticulations. I cannot care. I liked the alliteration. It was even 4/4 time like How Firm a Foundation, one of my favorite hymns. Suddenly Mom's voice picked up both volume and velocity. "I am trying to move ahead, but it has been difficult. I wanted to call you last night, but I felt that you would not be interested."

I cannot care that you read my mind, I told myself as I automatically opened up a new Word Document. It has become my habit to sit at the computer and type what my mother is saying during our phone conversations. I am a genealogist after all, and that's what we do: record family history. There's nothing like mixing business with pleasure.

At Big Bear Lake, the summer I turned three.

"The man who will fix the heater and air conditioner left me a message that his truck is supposed to be ready sometime today," she droned on. "I got the phone number of a realty Lee and David know, and I thought I can find out from him, how to get a lock box, and then I will have to get it. I don't want to spend my life taking taxis. I know that I need a lock box and I haven't talked to anybody from Life Line. She hooked me up, but I know that until it is connected, it is no good. I am feeling that I better be connected."

I cannot care that you are not making sense, I told myself as I forced my fingers to keep up with her rapid verbiage. Sometimes during these dictation exercises my curiosity comes out and I want to ask questions like, Who is she? Why do you need a lock box? And What does this all have to do with taxis? But I cling to the security of my keyboard like a life preserver. Stopping to ask my mother for clarification is like getting dragged underwater by a drowning person.

In our backyard in Palos Verdes, the spring before my thirteenth birthday.

"Yesterday when I woke up and found two more places that had broken out, I was going to call Doctor, but I read my book and read about having more faith. I felt that I would go through my videos again, that it is probably time to let go of them again. I found the Salvation Army number..."

As she spoke I twisted my head and pulled the phone out from under my bent neck. I hit the speaker option and set the receiver upright on the desk. I readjusted my position in my ergonomically-correct chair. I realized that I would need a doctor, or at the very least a chiropractor, if I didn't prepare for these phone conversations like I was preparing for strenuous physical activity.

"I told Coco that I need an extra hour from them. I found the earthquake things and I want them to take them out and put them back again. I know that there are some battery-operated radios. I talked to Bobby and I want to get a new paper cutter."

This is where the real insanity starts to kick in: Mom trying to use my brother, who lives in the mid-West, like a delivery boy. "But I just still feel like I am floating alone and I need someone to be here with me." She finally stopped talking and I knew it was my cue. Despite her desperate plea in the Opening Act, it was obvious that she didn't want me there to hold her hand; she wanted me there to run her errands.

I pushed myself away from the computer and the comfort of my cushioned chair. If I was going to be part of the dialog I needed to be doing something more active than just tapping my fingers on a keyboard. Moving my body is one way to keep my head from exploding while carrying on a conversation with my mother. When my feet hit the tile I kept walking until I came to the end of the hallway, then I turned automatically and walked in the opposite direction. My dad's a pacer, so I blame the habit on him. Maybe it was just his way of surviving Mom too.

My mother's baby shower for Bobby. I was almost four years old.

"Gosh, Mom, I feel terrible about all these problems you are having, trying to run a household, getting rides to the doctor and the store. My voice was modulated, yet pleasant. Chuck calls it my counselor voice. "But I don't know what I can do to change your situation."

"KATHLEEN!" She reinserted herself into the conversation with a characteristic blend of annoyance and condescension. "We helped Peter's mother get established, in what you want me to do, and it was very lovely. She had her own apartment, which was complete with a kitchen, a bedroom with two large closets, and a smaller sitting room, because they had such a beautiful lobby downstairs. The restaurant was on the top floor, and it was beautiful: linen place mats, and a choice of two or three entrees. But you are deluded, because even there, they will say, 'we are going to the mall today, whoever wants to go to the mall may go today.' Or, 'make your doctor appointments in a certain time slot.' But there is no ready, available transportation, and that is what you do not understand."

"And it isn't the house. I am not always going to have to find a lock box," she continued without taking a breath. "Kathleen, some of these things are one thing only, just like I will not have to bury another husband. But right now, I do feel over-whelmed and moving into a community is not the answer."

My mother leaving the hospital with me as a newborn.

"Life isn't perfect, Mom. Every thing's a trade-off. But I'm not talking about moving into a community. Maybe you need someone there all the time to help do these things for you."

"I have added two young women who are very helpful," she stated matter-of-fact, like a business owner taking inventory. But she quickly digressed into her favorite topic: chronically her difficulties getting other Alcoholics Anonymous members to give her rides to and from the meetings.

I patiently continued typing, forcing myself to stay interested in yet another retelling of the same tale of rejection. The way she talks about it, she's the octogenarian counterpart of Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls.


(to be continued...)

copyright 2009 Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

THAT THING YOU DO

Mother and Modesty are two words I have never been able to use in the same sentence. My mom has always had a thing about showing off her body. A few weeks ago I was brazenly reminded that aging has done nothing to diminish this characteristic.

If I ever write a book about my mother the title will be: I'm Ready for my Close-up (May 1992)

The week after Thanksgiving I spent the night at my mother's. If this event doesn't seem remarkable to you then you don't know my history. I decided it was the longest period of time we had ever been alone together. I arrived at 5:30 in the evening clutching my own dinner. I knew the only food I would find at her house would be milk, yogurt, butter, orange juice, tea, and a bag of Trader Joe's Chewy Chocolate Chunk Cookies. I hastily stopped at Panda Express and bought a serving of chow mien and Beef and Broccoli. Not only did I crave something warm, but I needed something I could easily share if necessary.

As a child I remember my mother bragging that she needed to get her legs insured. The back of this photo says: Please note $33.00 Beauty Salon job. The Dunes, Las Vegas, August 1955.

Mom wasn't impressed with my meal. She preferred to wait to eat at the Wassailing Party at the library. I was relieved. I had escaped one of the ways my mother complicates even the simplest of tasks. There are certain things she won't do; eating out of a Styrofoam container with a plastic fork is one of them. First she would have heated up some stoneware plates in the microwave, then heated up the food in its Styrofoam container and then transferred the warm food to the warm plates. Correction---she would have hovered over me as I carried out her explicit instructions.

Mom in her Go-Go Girl outfit (Redding, California 1969)

As I tentatively began eating my take-out food she chattered away about the holiday program we were going to at the library that evening. "This is how Peter and I always started The Season," she reminisced. "And I bought a beautiful new silk dress to wear." Christmas, like Easter, has never been a religious observance for my mother. It's all about the pageantry.

As she spoke, I noticed that she was wearing a loose-fitting robe. She kept fiddling with the sash around her waist. "Maybe she is going to adjust it a little so she can cover herself more discretely," I wishfully hoped. I couldn't help but recall what my brother said just a few months ago when we spent the night together at her condo. I asked him what he thought about Mom walking around in a scanty negligee. "I didn't even notice anything," he responded honestly. "I learned a long time ago to avert my eyes."

'

This was as close to the water as Mom ever got. Although she never learned to swim, she also never failed to pack a swim suit when travelling. " I am very decorative around the pool" was her reason for always having a bathing suit handy. (Salt Lake City, 1958)

Suddenly Mom untied the sash once and for all, quickly slipping the entire robe off her shoulders and into her fidgeting hands. There she was, standing in front of the refrigerator wearing only her underwear. She never stopped talking about the holiday program. In a moment of self-preservation, I instinctively followed my brother's advice: I averted my eyes. I promptly became very focused on my chow mien. I frantically searched for strands of bean sprouts, shredded cabbage, or even a sliver of carrot---anything to save me from making visual contact with an eighty-year-old woman in black lace panties.

Mom enjoyed sunbathing in public. When I was younger I was often embarrassed by her habit of unhooking her bathing suit or pulling down her straps to avoid unsightly tan-lines. (Salt Lake City 1972)

I have no recollection of what the conversation was about after that moment, but finally she excused herself to "go and take a sponge bath." I groped my way to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of cold milk. I was just settling back down into my chair at the kitchen table when she reappeared in the doorway, chattering away as usual. I made the mistake of looking up. This time even the black lace panties were gone. Mom was drying off her bare torso with a small towel. I jumped up out of my seat. "I need to go get ready!" I practically ran to the guest bathroom. My mother never paused as she continued with her one-sided conversation. I cracked the bathroom door. "I can't hear you, Mom!" I called out. "I'm getting DRESSED!" I emphasized the last word like a command.

Mom says this outfit is perfect for her visits to the spa, just a short walk down the street from her condo. (with Peter's grandson in Huntington Beach 2006)

I started singing God Bless America under my breath. At that point it was the only way I could safely say the word God without lapsing into uncontrollable swearing. I was just finishing my make-up when her voice penetrated the closed door. "Kathleen Dear, may I come in? I want to show you something."

"Just a minute, Mom," I pleaded. I squeezed an extra squirt of Colgate onto my toothbrush and jabbed it into my mouth, brushing hard. "How do I avert my eyes when I am in a well-lit bathroom surrounded by mirrors," I desperately wondered. I braced myself for a screaming-in-multiple-images-moment straight out of the classic movie The Fly.

I reluctantly opened the door. "I just want to show you this lovely slip that came with my dress." She stood in the doorway, striking a model's pose.

"Yes, it is very pretty." I forced my head to nod up and down as my mouth foamed with toothpaste. Mercifully, she was wearing the full-length slip.

Although they wore matching shoes to my wedding, Mom and her sister Marlene have little else in common. (September 1976)

When we returned from the library, Mom, who had been complaining all evening about being cold, slipped out of her dress with its plunging neckline, removed her open-toed high heels, and put the lovely slip back into her lingerie drawer. She met me in the hallway wearing only a lavender push-up bra and matching panties. She then led me around the condo on an informal tour as she showed- off her new silk flower arrangements. She paused outside the guest bedroom. It was getting harder and harder to keep my eyes averted and I was anxious to get in my own room and finally relax.

I thought this was my opportunity to say 'good night' but she was just getting warmed up. "You know, I never thought of myself as pretty," she remarked in a totally unconvincing tone. "But I told Doctor that something must be wrong because I am putting on this weight, and it is all in my stomach. From the front I look fine, but from the side I look six months pregnant!" She turned to and fro in front of me as if I was a full-length mirror. "And look at my arms!" She thrust them out vertically and then horizontally like a cheerleader. "I'm not putting on weight anywhere else. It's just in my stomach. I told Doctor that this isn't what happens in our family. This isn't how we put on weight."

My Quintessential Mom: Perfectly posed for the camera in her signature decollete dress with the hemline hiked up above the knee to reveal an ample view of her shapely legs. Maybe it's just my imagination, but it looks like a lot of eyes are being averted in that front row. (September 1976)

She paused for dramatic effect then gave me a look that told me she was seriously worried about this mysterious weight gain. I realized that I was probably one of many that she had shared her concerns with. "Ummm...I think it's normal to become more pear-shaped or apple-shaped as we age," I offered, trying to sound reassuring yet factual. "I believe this even happened to Grandma and Aunt Mayme." I was hoping that the injection of family names into the discussion would bring it back to reality. The thought of either my grandmother or her sister prancing around in brightly-colored lingerie and fretting over their geriatric body proportions made any attempt to fuss over my mother as ridiculous as was her whining. I was certain that Grandma, who died at age 87 and Aunt Mayme, who lived to be 94, were both turning over in their graves at this embarrassing display of narcissism.

My grandmother Sara (right) with her sister Mayme. They both had very practical wardrobes in their later years. (San Luis Obispo, California, about a year before Grandma died in September 1992)

Mom seemed to ignore my attempts to inject logic into our bizarre conversation. "Well, Doctor says I need a colonoscopy to see what's wrong," she stated matter-of-factly. I learned a long time ago that it was futile to argue with anything her doctor of thirty-five years recommended. We said our good-nights and I exchanged an awkward hug with my half-naked octogenarian mother. I gratefully closed the door to my own room.

When Kelley was sixteen she spent Spring break with her grandmother. One morning Mom changed her outfit to match Kelley's so they could be "twins." This is the best she could do: my mother has NEVER owned a pair of jeans. (Huntington Beach, California 2000)

Mom's grandmother Rachel Lea Saiger. She is the same age in this photo as my mom is in the one with Kelley. Obviously Mom didn't inherit her fashion style from the Saigers. (St. Louis, Missouri 1940)

As I tossed and turned on my air mattress I tried to make sense of my mom's exhibitionism. She's been like this my whole life, I told myself, so why am I still not dealing with it very well?

It seemed like forever before Mom finally stopped wandering around the house fussing over her laundry and incessantly humming. At one point I peeked down the hallway, curious to see what she was wearing. I caught a glimpse of her standing in her large bedroom closet methodically going hanger by hanger, inspecting one outfit after another. She was dressed in a very revealing nightgown. Perhaps, I reasoned, this isn't so much a case of mutton dressing like lamb as much as it's a case of Mom feeling comfortable in her own sheepskin. If only, I told myself as I finally started to fall asleep, I could just learn how to pull the wool over my own eyes!

My sister Rebecca often seemed in competition with our mother. (Visiting with Cousin Mark at my wedding, September 1976)

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich

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.