Missouri is a land of borrowed names, meant to draw the world a bit closer: Versailles, Rome, Cairo, New London, Athens, Carthage, Alexandria, Lebanon, Cuba, Japan, Santa Fe, Cleveland, Canton, California, Caledonia, New Caledonia, Mexico, Louisiana, and Paris, where I find myself now.
Then there are the humorously named towns. Licking stands out, along with Fair Play, Strain, Elmo, Peculiar, Shook, Lone Jack, Butts, Lupus, Moody, Clover, Polo, Shake Rag, and the T towns that always end my list—Turtle, Tightwad, Tulip, and Tea.
When insomnia strikes, I challenge myself to recall as many of these names as I can, a game I played with my parents while staring out at the swirling brown waters of the Mississippi.
Tonight, however, I am wide awake. Inside, the air conditioner hums, while outside, darkness reigns, broken only by distant train whistles. The clock reads 2:30 AM, and sleep is futile. This isn’t my apartment; there are no city sounds, no neon lights filtering through the blinds. I am in Paris, Missouri, with a dwindling population of 1,246. I remind myself that my stay is temporary—just a few more days or weeks. This is until Carol, the kind-hearted farmhand looking after my mother, recovers from her shoulder surgery or until my mom can transition to assisted living. Until something changes on Sherwood Road that leads to my mother’s departure, and I must wrap things up.
From the hallway, I hear my mother’s voice: “Who turned the air conditioning up so high? He’s trying to freeze me out!”
There she is—ninety years old, curlers in her hair, chuckling at nothing in particular, peeking into the guest room where I’ve been attempting to sleep. This space, filled with old memories, still bears the remnants of shag carpet and a quilt embellished with stars and moons, the signatures of long-gone farm women, including my late great-aunt Mabel.
In this room, surrounded by Christmas decorations, the desk belonging to Betty’s uncle Oscar, and the bed where I once slept as a child with my grandmother, I find echoes of my past. My grandmother’s home, located in Madison—a small village nearby—was known as the House of Many Chimneys. She tended to her pink roses in the garden, often pricking her fingers on thorns.
The hallway light shines brightly. My mother has wandered into the kitchen for a late-night snack, a ritual she undertakes after being jolted awake by bathroom needs or dreams that cause her distress. Her thoughts, memories, and dreams haunt her at night. A restless sleeper, she ambles in thick white socks, clears her throat loudly, and checks her peculiar version of order, turning on the coffee pot, which will be cold by morning. I try to light her path in the dark, keeping the lamp in my father’s office and one in the foyer lit to guide her.
“Are you awake?” she inquires.
“I am now,” I reply.
My mother, who recently rummaged through my suitcase, turns on the overhead light in my room, scrutinizing me like a camp counselor inspecting for mischief. She’s vigilant, wary of my intentions, convinced that I am plotting something behind her back. She’s not inclined to cooperate; her independence is fiercely guarded. I can’t blame her. I am an unlikely caretaker, having once mistook the Medicare doughnut hole for a breakfast treat.
Her spirit remains unyielding. Just last week, she murmured in her sleep about attending a sale, her finger jabbing as if placing a bid, despite the scorching heat outside. She often takes out her frustrations on me, lashing out when I come too close. Some days, I can’t appease her. Carol, with her nursing home experience, tells me that those in decline often express anger most towards those they love—the ones who remind them of who they once were. But I believe Betty’s irritability is a mask, hiding her humiliation at needing help. When I assist her, she looks away, resistant to reliance after years of self-sufficiency.
“I was worried,” Betty says, “You mentioned you couldn’t sleep last night. I feared you’d struggle again tonight.” She peers at me closely.
“No, I’m asleep. I’m just talking in my sleep,” I assure her.
“You’re in bed fully clothed again.”
“I dozed off reading.” I wear my clothes to be prepared for any emergencies, whether it’s a fall, a stroke, or a shout from her. She appears so fragile when I tuck her in at night. I keep the emergency numbers close by.
“It’s not good to sleep in your clothes… The newspaper didn’t arrive today,” she grumbles.
Our local paper, a source of community news and church happenings, has been inconsistent lately, likely due to the overwhelmed post office. Such delays can send my mother spiraling into a panic; she craves stability.
“Did anyone from the church call today? I can’t find my other shoe, the Mephisto.”
I promise we’ll search in the morning, which seems to ease her somewhat, bringing forth a fleeting glimpse of the old Betty, my dear friend.
In St. Louis, as we turn off Skinker onto Delmar, not far from the University City gates, my mother often reminisces about her days as a young secretary at Union Electric, waiting for the streetcar. She seldom speaks of her past, yet she lights up at the memory of that old stop. In the 1940s, post-war, she was a beautiful young woman with wavy hair, fresh from competing in the “Miss Legs” contest. As she shares her memories, I envision her standing at that streetcar stop, full of innocence and excitement for her new life in the city, despite the expensive dresses she never had. Sometimes I wonder if she ever wishes she had boarded that streetcar to a different future.
By the time my mother recognized her own intellect and beauty, too many doors had closed for her to return. “I just wanted a house with a few nice things,” she once told me. “That was my little dream.”