My mother has always been good at asking questions., but she has never listened to the answers. This trend—if you want to call it that—continues. Her questions are limited to what she remembers to ask:

Where’s Rob? (She asks this continually throughout the day and peppers all talk with this question when he is not within sight.)

Where’s Sandy? (Rob hears this continually, too.)

And when you appear: Where were you?

What time is it? (Her attention is strongly focused on the microwave clock when she’s in the kitchen.)

Is it cold out? (We get this every single morning—summer, fall, winter, spring!)

Will you sleep with me? (This is always directed at me. And the answer is always a resounding No! If I give in to this demand, the child who is now my mother will never let it go.)

How did the white dog die? (This is a tough one. I am constantly reminded of Lucy’s death last fall. Mom won’t let this one go and asks it several times a day.)

Does your brother ever come to visit? (This question is directed toward Rob and it’s followed by a series of related questions.)

Where does your brother live?

Does he have any children?

Are your parents still living?

She directs the same questions about my house to me:

How long have you lived here?

How much did you pay for this house?

Who owns this house? (I usually tell her the bank owns it.)

Where is this? (She refers to the State we are living in and always seems surprised when I tell her.)

And some mornings: Where are we going?

And when I get dressed in the morning:

Where did you get that? I like it. You always dress so nicely.

And when it’s time for her to go back to her room or to the bathroom or to the kitchen, she always asks:

Which way? or Where is it? (Bear in mind that there are only 4 rooms in which she navigates: her bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, and on rare occasion the living room or the porch.)

 

When my brother comes to visit, she asks:

How is Margie?

Is she still working?

Does she cook for you?

Does she take good care of you?

 

When my brother mentions his daughters, she asks:

Does she have any children?

How many children? 

That’s about it. Right now, mom is in the kitchen. She has already asked, Where’s Sandy and What time is it? Her response to being told the time is always the same: Oh my God, I can’t believe it. But as I noted, mom never stops to listen to an answer. This is a lifelong habit resulting from her poor hearing. You can tell simply by the speed of her response. On a typical morning, it would go something like this:

Rob, does your brother ever come to visit?

Yes, he came to visit in…

Oh.

Is it cold outside?

It’s nine-…

Oh.

Does your brother have any children?

Yes, he…

Oh.

What time is it?

It’s…

Oh.

Where’s Sandy?
She’s wor-…

Oh. 

Sometimes we barely get the words out before she responds with her inimitable Oh or Oh my God, I can’t believe it. 

Oops, mom just asked another question, a recurring summer question: Do you see that bug? Mom and my brother share a bug phobia. 99% of the time, there is no bug. Other times, she is referring to a bee on a plant out in the garden. My brother shares this phobia with her.

And the grand finale as my mother emerges from the bathroom: Where were you all day, Rob?

Who responds, Sitting next to you.

Oh, I don’t want that bug to come in.

Please don’t ask how I am doing with all this. Enough with the questions already!

 

 

Every day, mom comments on my clothing. She was always a clotheshorse herself and bought me some incredible outfits when I was growing up. I remember going to Fisher Bros. down in New York’s Bowery, then known as the garment district. Fisher Brothers was a building several stories high—I cannot recall how many—where men, women, boys, and girls could be fitted for coats of extraordinary style and quality. All made in the USA! (Those were the days. My dad would always join us for the trips into Manhattan. We’d then adjourn after a day of shopping to some wonderful Italian restaurant or other downtown and then to Ferrara’s in Little Italy for dessert.)

Yesterday at the farm, while I was giving tours through the main house, I called attention to the quality of the woolen coats hanging on the acorn hooks. (Farmhouse homes at the turn of the century did not have closets, but used hooks mounted on bedroom walls on which to hang clothing.) The coats were of such a fine and thick wool, they will probably last forever, or at least as long as the moths will permit it.

Today, I was wearing a shirt that was made in the USA. (I search as often as possible for things made in this country.) Mom admired it, saying, You always wear nice things. As usual, mom asked where I bought it. Sometimes I merely say the store or a catalogue. This time, I told her that was from Hawaii.

Where’s Hawaii?

Well, it’s a state at the far western end of the country.

Ooooh, they have nice things. 

I promised mom we would go out later. I hope she doesn’t ask to go to Hawaii.