Fox news — Update!

Back on January 5, I wrote a post about the fox or foxes that were frequenting our little lot up on the mountain. After enjoying seeing them for a while, I decided that they were getting too familiar with people and not respecting all the harm people can cause, so I started throwing rocks at them, and they disappeared. For a while. Now one is back. I presume it’s the same one as before. I heard Zeke barking and went outside to investigate. He was barking at a fox that was relaxing on the leach field, which we can see from the elevated walk that leads to our front door. The fox ignored him. He watched as I tried to get a shot, but was pretty nonchalant.

The fox came back.

The fox came back.

I had a suspicion what he was up to. I have been seeing what I presume, and now am pretty sure, was fox poop around the front of the house, including on the paved part of the drive in front of the garage. That’s where Leah puts out cat food for the outdoor cats. So I took up the food and watched the fox. Sure enough, after a while he got up and wandered up onto the driveway.

Looking for cat food

Looking for cat food

It was close to dark for both of these shots, so I had to rest the camera on the railing and hope the fox would stay still enough to get a decent shot. He moved a little in the second shot. After I took his photo, he checked where the food usually is, and then turned around and left.

Apparently he has forgotten about the rocks, or he decided I wasn’t really serious. At this point I’m inclined to leave him alone and let him eat whatever cat food he finds.

Doris loved Lucy

My mother Doris got Lucy sometime probably in 2005, when Leah and I got married. She was mainly my idea. I thought my mother would need someone to keep her company. It turned out that Lucy did that quite well. Mother eventually started letting Lucy sleep on her bed with her. Lucy knew when it was bedtime. She ran back to Mother’s bedroom, jumped up on the bed and burrowed beneath the covers.

I'm supposed to be here, so you can just leave me alone.

I’m supposed to be here, so you can just leave me alone.

Now that my mother is gone, we have inherited Lucy. I prefer big dogs*. Like most small dogs, Lucy is too yappy, and her little legs seem so fragile I’m afraid I’m going to break them when I dry her feet on rainy days. Lucy is also spoiled and disobedient. That’s the result of seven or eight years of getting treats and her way all the time. My mother couldn’t lean down to give her the treats out of her hand, so she just sort of dropped them towards Lucy’s open, waiting mouth. As a result, Lucy learned to snap at food. So one thing she’s going to learn pretty quickly is not to nip the hand that feeds her. She’s a pretty smart little dog, so I think she’ll learn.

The one problem is that having Lucy may mean I don’t get another doberman pinscher. I have had four, and I wanted another after Zeus died two years ago. Now if I got one, it would mean we would have three dogs. Of course we do have six cats, so …

Lucy in her new home

Lucy in her new home

But now she’s here and we both agree that’s where she should be. She has her own bed. She won’t be getting on our bed, but she burrows into the comforter that I got for my mother.


*Zeke weighs about 90 pounds, so the average weight of all of our dogs is over 50 pounds. Zeke and Lucy both could stand to lose a little weight.

The song that was my mother’s life

The song that was my mother’s life ended Tuesday afternoon.

I thought of a lot of words for this post a couple of weeks ago when I woke up at about 3 am and couldn’t go back to sleep again. Then I was thinking about something I called “the story that was my mother’s life.” But a little while ago as I walked the dog down the driveway, I was thinking about this post and the words that I thought were “the song that was my mother’s life.” I don’t know where “song” came from, but I figured that must be the right word.

Sisters, Doris and Beatrice

Sisters, Doris and Beatrice Kennedy, sometime in the 1920’s. I don’t know whether this is in south Georgia or Akron, Ohio. This is one of my all-time favorite photographs.

And really, it is the right word, because my mother loved singing. Many years ago when I was just a teenager I told her I felt like I was living in a musical comedy, because every time I asked her a question, she responded by singing words from a song she knew that were actually appropriate for the question.

When I was a boy it seemed like she was singing or humming all the time. To this day, any time I hear a woman singing or humming to herself, I get a flashback to my childhood, and I feel kind of like crying. My mother sang her whole life. She sang in her high school chorus. She was good enough that someone expected her to become an opera singer. But that was in the Great Depression, and not many girls in Akron went to college or sang in the opera. When she graduated from high school, after a visit to her Aunt Grace in Rome, Georgia, my mother went to business school.

Vaughan and Doris Paris, sometime in the 1940s. This is almost certainly after they were married and before my father went overseas in WW II

Vaughan and Doris Paris, sometime in the 1940s. This is almost certainly after they were married and before my father went overseas in WW II

While on that visit to Rome, she worked behind the candy counter at a five and dime store, probably S.S. Kresge. She met the Paris sisters, Francis and Alva Ruth, and also their brother, Grady Vaughan. One day Bo, as he was known to his family, screwed up his courage, circled the candy counter a couple of times, and asked her out. One thing led to another, and in November 1943, they were married. She followed him for a while during his Army training, and when he shipped overseas to Europe, she went back home to Akron. After the war, they lived in Ohio long enough to have their first child, Henry, and then moved back to my father’s home in Rome, where I was born.

My brother Henry and my mother, holding me. This must have been shortly after May, 1950, when I was born.

My brother Henry and my mother, holding me. This must have been shortly after May, 1950, when I was born.

When my brother and I were old enough to start school, my mother got a job as a secretary in the Celanese textile plant in Rome. She worked there for the next 20 years, until they closed the plant. She was one of the last employees to walk out the gate. During those 20 years, she worked all day, and when she got home, she did all the things for her family that she had done before she started working. Many time she came home with a head-splitting, nauseatingly-painful migraine headache. She did all the things she needed to do for a husband and two sons, went to bed, and woke up the next morning, still with a headache.

But during it all, she sang. She directed her church choir for a long time, and after they got a minister of music, she sang in the choir. She sang in the community chorus. She acted for the Rome Little Theatre. And she danced.

And they traveled. They got an Airstream trailer and went all over the country, from Florida to New England, from the Ohio River Valley to the West Coast. They went up into Canada and they spent a winter in Mexico.

And she had health problems. Once she thought she was going crazy, and all the doctors didn’t help, until she found one who diagnosed her hypothyroidism and prescribed the supplement which made her life livable again. She remained loyal to him as long as he practiced medicine. She had a hysterectomy, and gall bladder surgery, back when they opened up your entire abdomen so the doctor could reach in with his hands. She had a shoulder replacement, and had the cartilage scraped out of her knee. And then, about 14 years ago, she had an acoustic neuroma removed from behind her right ear, and the right side of her face was partially paralyzed, and she lost her sense of balance. She was plagued by falling for the rest of her life. She fell outside in the front yard. She fell in her bedroom. She fell in the bathroom, in the kitchen, and in the hall. She hit her back, her shoulder, and her head. We really don’t know how many times she fell, but it was a lot.

The Paris family, Mark, Doris, Vaughan and Henry, Christmastime, probably in the mid-to late-1970's, at home in Rome, Georgia.

The Paris family, Mark, Doris, Vaughan and Henry, Christmastime, probably in the mid-to late-1970’s, at home in Rome, Georgia. We were all young then, and life looked pretty good.

And then a few weeks ago, after her 90th birthday, she had a stroke and fell, or fell and had a stroke, or something. Anyway, she went into the hospital, where they found that not only had she had a stroke, but her bone marrow had also given up producing blood. There was nothing to do. The doctors sent her home with hospice care to die.

And Tuesday, with her family around her, she did just that.

The last three weeks of my mother’s life were not pleasant. In the hospital she became marginally responsive, spending most of the time sleeping and talking in her sleep. The food was not good, but at least she ate. When she came home after a week, she was bedridden, but responsive. She got to the point that the only way she could answer a question was to blink her eyes. And then she got to the point that she couldn’t do even that. She spent most of the last week or so with her eyes closed. I don’t know whether it was sleep or something deeper. She had not eaten or drunk anything for the last seven or eight days. The only time she reacted was when she was fairly strongly stimulated physically, like when they had to give her a bath. I had to listen to the moaning over the remote monitor. Later, towards the end, she started having bladder spasms. Her face and her body registered pain. I hope very deeply that she was not conscious of that pain. She was getting morphine regularly, so maybe she wsn’t. In any event, it did not last long. Her breathing became shallow and eventually simply stopped.

Before she died, and before she stopped responding, I told her that I loved her and that she was the best mother in the whole world. I think she understood that.

So it was a pretty ordinary life, full of the kinds of things that ordinary people who are lucky do and have. And it had an ending. It was not a “they lived happily ever after” kind of ending. That’s not an ending, that’s a middle, and I think her life was that kind of middle. The end is the point beyond which there is no more. And this is that point: The End.

I feel like a part of me is missing. It was like that when my father died 13 years ago. It’s hard to process. But at least when my father died, I still felt like I had a connection to him through my mother. Before she left the hospital, we were talking to a hospice nurse, and we mentioned that Mother had prescription coverage through my father’s America Postal Workers Union policy. I suddenly realized that when she was gone, I would never again see APWU in the mail; that connection would be gone. And now it is. And now I feel like I have lost my father again as well.

There is a connection that remains. It’s in my head. It’s not much, but it’s all I have, and as long as I can remember, I will.


We are waiting. My brother, his wife, my wife and I have been around and in and out of my mother’s home for a little over two weeks. The hospice nurse has been expecting the wait to end momentarily, but my mother is not following that script.

On the night that my father died, as we sat in the ICU waiting area one night in March almost 13 years ago, there was a mockingbird outside the open window. It was probably 3 am. We were waiting for my brother to come back from Chattanooga so he could be there when we gave the order to disconnect life support. The mockingbird sang and sang whole time we sat there.

Now the sound I hear in my mother’s room is the whirring of a humidifier. At least the oxygen concentrator has been turned off, so its hum, gurgle and hiss is gone. We put a television in the room and connected it to my old laptop so Mother could watch her NCIS reruns, but by the time it was set up, she was no longer interested. Later they found some big-band music and some classical music, but now all the TV does is rotate through my screen images. She’s uncommunicative. Her eyes are closed, and she hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in a week. None of us can understand how she keeps on going.

She’s damned tough.