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                                                                     C TommyBooks.com

                                        Mater 'tis I

  It's a crystal clear November 2020 morning and I'm taking in the late Autumn sun on my apartment balcony in Sacramento, CA. The smoke and contaminates that had settled into the Valley as a result of all the record breaking fires we have endured this year in CA have all disappeared. For the first time in months I can see the outline of the Foothills, 30 miles east of me. And I'm breathing clean air while absorbing the tepid yet bountiful suns rays infused with vitamin D.

  What a morning!

  Lately I have been experiencing many such moments and my mind started tracking backwards to when this lucky streak started. I don't want to sound pretentious but I've been very lucky all my life. It's just that back then there were some negative events mixed in with all the positive moments. But now there are no downsides, just ups and I wanted to remember when this streak started.

  I went back 18 years to 2002 when my father died. At that time we three siblings were consoling our mother right after our fathers tearful funeral. In a moment of despair my strong-willed 88 year old mother looked at us and with a sob asked that now that she's living alone what's going to happen to her down the road when she'll need help. Both my brother and sister stared at the floor as they waited for someone else to speak.

  I got caught up in the moment and blurted out “Don't worry mom. I'll take care of you.” I heard a faint sigh of relief from my siblings as we changed topics, in everyone's mind that problem had been solved. And I soon forgot about it.

  Five years later, in late April 2007, right after my 60^th birthday my mother fell and broke her kneecap. The three of us jumped in and helped where we could but my sister, the clinical doctor of psychology, figured now was the time to remind me of my promise. That now was the time to deliver. She lived in San Francisco, taught doctoral candidates in clinical psychology at university and had a thriving private practice. My brother, who only lived an hour from my mother, was contending with a myriad of debilitating health issues created first by Agent Orange (which he acquired while serving as a medic in Vietnam) and then the West Nile virus which he picked up while working, for 40 years, as a much in demand medic on film shoots in the movie industry.

  I should add that I too spent time in Vietnam during the war, but not in the military. My lottery number was 269 which was way beyond the 172 cutoff for the draft board lottery. But in 1972 my parents surprised me with a ticket to fly to Saigon and join my family for the Xmas Holidays. Well most of the family. My brother wouldn't be joining us as he was currently deep in the Vietnam bush saving lives.

  My trip was towards the end of the Vietnam conflict and the walls were slowly closing in on Saigon where my father was Director of the Vietnamese-American Association. The fact that my mother was allowed to live with him at that time in Saigon was a huge exception and spoke to my father's powerful position. American civilian wives just weren't allowed to accompany their husbands to Saigon during the war. The only other American wife in Saigon was the US Ambassador's.

  I spent 2 weeks in Saigon over the '72 Xmas accompanied everywhere by a Vietnamese body guard armed with a large tommygun. He drove the Embassy car provided for me as I took in the sights of Saigon. When I wasn't sightseeing I was floating on an air mattress in the cool waters of the Embassy swimming pool basking under a hot blazing sun. My body guard would sit under an umbrella sipping iced tea and chatting with my sister.

  On New Years Eve, because of an 11pm curfew, we spent the night celebrating at the Ambassador's quarters feasting on a pit-cooked stuffed wild boar with native Vietnamese side dishes. Once the holiday toasts were completed a half dozen card tables were brought in and for the rest of the night we competed in a contract bridge tournament which my father, partnered with my sister, ultimately won.

  After that contribution to the war effort I flew with my sister on Pan Am to Tokyo where she was living in a small Japanese apartment while teaching English at a local Montessori grade school. One day I accompanied her to her school which was located in a traditional Japanese building with tatami mats (no shoes allowed) and sliding doors with opaque rice-paper windows. Her Japanese students, all dressed in matching uniforms, were constantly surreptitiously glancing my way before tittering behind small hands covering their smiling mouths. The sight of their teacher's huge American brother squatting down on a small student's stool was more than they could handle. To regain control of her class my sister kicked me out and I returned to her apartment to prepare for my next day's departure on TWA back to San Francisco.

  But I'm wandering. It's easy to do when you've lived the life that I have.

  Back to my mother needing help.

  Neither of my siblings were in a position to adequately assist our mother after she broke her kneecap. But the timing couldn't have been better for me. After a very lucrative 20 year run I was ready to move on from my San Diego transportation business and was looking for another venture. Leaving my care-free bachelor life and moving in with my 94 year old mother and becoming her caregiver was not high on my list, but I had promised. And in my book a child has an obligation to take care of a parent in need. Especially my parents. They had given us such an extraordinary life and if it was payback time, so be it.

  I started selling all my unnecessary personal and business assets and caught a lucky break. This was the summer of 2007, a year before the Great Recession, and I got top dollar for everything. A year later and I would have suffered huge losses. In Aug of 2007 I moved into my mother's home of 45 years. Now before you start applauding my altruistic move you should know that even though I was leaving behind an exceptionally comfortable and carefree life that I had skillfully and lovingly carved out of the San Diego landscape during the 20 years I had lived there; I was entering an even more plush and nuanced environment. I was giving up a lot but getting a lot in return. And I knew it. The big hurdle was going to be meshing my mother's temperament with mine. We were both strong willed individuals and I knew I was going to get a lot of push back as I attempted to establish my regime. With an emphasis on my slowing down.

  For the last twenty years I have been living a peripatetic life. Just like a butterfly. But the day I moved in with my mother was like stepping back into a cocoon. I came to a dead stop. I could not leave her side for more than an hour. And most of my activity was inside, not outside where I had previously existed. A huge change for me. It took a while to adapt but I knew I had too. Mother's needs came first.

  The beginning was very rough. Lots of screaming and arguments before finally, after about four months, acceptance on my part. Once that transpired then my creative side took over as I looked for an answer to the question “What can I do inside that would be both stimulating and rewarding?” I looked at my surroundings and realized that I had a perfect creative writing environment. And after 60 extra-ordinary years I did have a lot of stories to tell. So I started putting my memories to paper.

  During the five years I was my mother's caregiver I completed a novella titled “King Porte”. In this book I chronicled the last decade of my extraordinary life in San Diego. While I wrote this book as fiction, 99% of what I wrote about was true. I changed names and destinations to keep the crazies and lawyers at bay. Next was a collection of 12 true short stories recounting my early years as an international tour guide titled “Tales from the Road”.

  Then towards the end of my stay I really started to stretch my imagination when I created a series of short stories for young adults. This series is about a group of very unusual teenagers who were all attending high school in Rome. “They were the sons and daughters of distinguished diplomats and wealthy capitalists from all over the world.  What made these kids so remarkable was the fact that rather than simply kicking back and enjoying the very comfortable life that their parents had provided; they instead chose to combine their families influence, power and connections to advance world peace. They call themselves the Dipz, the shadow diplomats, and are world-class fixers; problem solvers who prefer toiling behind the scenes and out of the limelight.”

  I had a lot of fun creating and writing the Dipz because I based the short stories on my own unique experiences while, as the son of an American diplomat, I attended high school in Rome. But I soon realized I needed a place to showcase my writings so I created a website called TommyBooks.com.

  Now, when I say writing, you'll never compare my work to wordsmiths like Wilbur Smith, WEB Griffin or James Lee Burke. But after 6 decades of moving around the world sampling it's fantastic cache of treasures and engaging the universal public, I had a lot of stories to tell and I knew how to tell a story. So I started writing like I was giving a tour. I'd lay out the facts and let the reader's imagination draw their own picture. I'm more a story teller than a writer.

  My mother's home was a very large second floor condo overlooking the 13^th fairway of the very private Wilshire Country Club located in the ultra exclusive Los Angeles neighborhood of Hancock Park. My bedroom balcony was 100 feet from the 13^th green. I was trading the perpetual motion ocean for a naturally tranquil garden setting. One could easily argue I was coming out ahead in regard to living spaces. But who I was going to be sharing this space with was another story all together.

  At 94 my mother was still at her mental best. Sharp as a tack and very comfortable with her high society lifestyle. My parents retired to Los Angeles, in the mid 1970's, where they had a large circle of friends, most of whom inhabited the upper echelon of Los Angeles society. While my father was content living a low key life attending Dodger baseball games at Chavez Ravine, USC football games at The Memorial Coliseum and many New Year's Day games at the Rose Bowl, my mother spent most afternoons enjoying a long leisurely lunch with her girlfriends at some of LA's trendiest restaurants. Just about every maitre d' in town knew her and her girlfriend's names. A three hour lunch was not uncommon and never were they rushed by management as she sipped her one glass of chardonnay embedded with a fresh strawberry. Life was very very good for a doyenne of Los Angeles society.

  At least twice a month my dad would dress up in his finest and accompany my bejeweled mother to a wedding, baptism, anniversary, graduation or birthday. He never denied my mother anything. But he did refuse to drive. After 30 years of driving the family on vacations throughout the USA, Europe, Asia and Northern Africa with my mother beside him in the front seat constantly cautioning him in a high pitched voice to “Watch out for that car!” “Ssst! Watch out for that bus!” “Aww! Do you see that bicycle!?” “Eecchh! Watch out!” “Huuh! Slow down!”; when he retired he also retired his drivers license. For the last 27 years of his life he refused to drive and my mother became their chauffeur. It was an arrangement that worked to perfection and after my father passed my mother continued to drive well into her 94^th year.

  This is when I reentered the picture.

  After breaking her kneecap my mother needed a walker to get around. But even then she couldn't walk very far. Walking from her bedroom to her chair in the living room overlooking the 13^th green was about all she could handle with out getting winded. Which meant that I couldn't leave her side for any length of time. Fortunately she had a lady who bathed her, attended to her private needs, did the laundry and cleaned the house. My job was to facilitate Mater's wishes, run necessary errands and prepare her meals. Which was a joke because I'm not a cook. Never have been. I burn water! But somehow in the five years I took care of her I never once poisoned her.

  But I did accidentally solve a problem that had persisted since I was very young. I have a lot of allergies. Molds, dust, animals and scents to name just a few. Growing up I carried a Kleenex box to school with me. I was always sniffing and sneezing. I started taking monthly allergy shots at an early age but nothing completely worked. I always had a runny nose. When I started living alone I shunned all scented products and cautioned my lady friends that I was adversely affected by perfumes which made me a very difficult date. I even experimented with different laundry detergents until I settled on a free and clear brand.

  Then I moved back in with my mother and her lady insisted on doing my laundry. Within hours of wearing my freshly cleaned clothes I was sniffing and sneezing. I went to the laundry room and discovered that my mother, after 60 plus years, still used Tide detergent. I suddenly realized that I was allergic to Tide! Fresh memories came tumbled like a wave over my brain as I remembered growing up with the Tide scent. All those years I was allergic to Tide and no one realized it. Today I can only chuckle at the memory of being teased at school for the Kleenex box under my arm and accept the fact that but for that Kleenex box I could have been President, or at the very least a 'contender”. Which brings to mind a lesson I learned about women and their perfume.

  From a very early age, when we as a family would climb into the car, my mother was always the last to be seated. After she closed the Mercedes door a cloud of Chanel No 5 would drift into the back and settled around me seated directly behind her. I would immediately start sneezing. Mater would clap her hands, partially turn towards me and exclaim “OH! I forgot.” She didn't forget. It was her way of telling me that nothing, not even a sniffling whiny kid allergic to perfume, came between her and her Chanel No 5. A tough lesson learned. Until now. If Mater wanted my help she had to cut back on her Chanel No 5 and she did. It took us about a month to completely rid her home of all scents to where the congestion in my head disappeared.

  We eventually settled into a routine. My mother would sleep till 11am after staying up passed midnight watching her favorite TV shows. Early morning, while she slept, became my time. I'd run errands, make my own doctor or dentist appointments and when nothing was scheduled would swim laps for an hour or more in the condo's pool. By now I was writing and I would swim on auto pilot with my head submerged. That way my creative mind was unobstructed with no distractions and the sentences and paragraphs for my writing just flowed. That pool became an isolation chamber with benefits. Most of my books were written in that pool. I even placed a pen and tablet up on the lip of the pool so I could jot down ideas that I didn't want to forget. At night after my mother was settled into bed I would venture back down to the pool area where I'd have the jacuzzi all to myself. Then I would study the constellations visible through the clear cloudless night sky and plot the next days writings.

  I was there barely two months when we ran into a major hick up. I was in the kitchen preparing my mother's breakfast of a plain Noah's bagel with Philadelphia cream cheese and a hot cup of coffee with a dash of Half and Half, when I heard her cry out in alarm. I rushed back to her bedroom and found her sitting on the floor leaning against a cabinet and crying. She had turned suddenly, lost her balance, fallen and probably broke her hip. I called 911 and when they arrived within minutes they confirmed that she had indeed broken her right hip. They rushed her to Cedars-Sinai hospital where they operated that afternoon and three days later released her to Beverly Hills Rehab.

  A little note about my mother's medical insurance. My father was a career foreign service officer for the US State Department and thus was covered by the same health insurance that the President of the United States has. I have always said that in addition to our great genes the primary reason my parents lived so long (my dad to 91 and my mother to 102) was because they had the best health insurance available. Everything was covered, there were no co-pays and they could see whomever they wanted for treatment. My parents cardiologist, whose office was in Beverly Hills, was one of the best in the US. Likewise the doctors who twice performed open heart surgery on my father and who set my mother's knee and hip. Cedars-Sinai and Beverly Hills Rehab were the best in Los Angeles and became their second home.

  But registration was sometimes tricky. Back in the 1950's my mother and her best friend Elizabeth took a few years off their ages when they re-applied for their California drivers license. Now 50 plus years later the info on her CA Drivers License didn't mesh with her health records and many a time I had to show the doctor or hospital my mother's birth certificate while explaining the discrepancy. They would notice the twinkle in my mother's blue eyes as I told her story and with a chuckle they'd approve and finish the registration.

  Meanwhile I'm freaking out. Two months into my watch and my mother falls and breaks her hip. And all you hear is that a broken hip on a 94 year old is a death knell. Very rarely do they survive but those that do did so because of dogged determination and daily exercise. I knew what I had to do. For the next three months I would daily drive to Beverly Hills Rehab and spend the next 6-8 hours ministering to my mother. We would take daily walks inside the facility and outside around the block. We'd play bingo almost every day and were the champions of her floor. I knew all the staff by name and soon I was being referred to as “the good son”. It got to the point I was receiving so many “good son” plaudits that I started feeling self-conscious and felt I needed to justify my actions. I would ask people what do they expect since it was my mother who had bought me my first car. My mother and her friend would then turn their attention to something else and if a woman's husband was in attendance he'd wait till the women were out of hearing and then would then ask me, sotto voce, what kind of car was it? I'd wait a beat before responding that my first car was a candy apple red Alfa Romeo Spider convertible. He'd invariably smile and nod his head in understanding. Such a mother deserves all the love and attention a son could muster.

  At the same time many of her fellow patients were envious of her familial attention and I started getting resentful glances from the occasionally visiting son or daughter. But I didn't care. My mother was going to beat the odds...and she did.

  Then it was back to our old routine. Only now she moved even slower and required even more attention. But our favorite time of the day was early afternoon when we'd slowly pile into the car and drive the few blocks to Larchmont Village where we'd park in front of The Village Pizzeria. I'd lower her window and then run across the street to Baskin Robbins where I'd buy her a strawberry cone. By the time I made it back to the car one of her many friends and admirers would be leaning down at her window and talking to her. Every afternoon for almost four years she socialized and schmoozed with old friends and new. And if none of her friends were around she would watch and critique the never ending parade of neighborhood glitterati passing in front of her. Meanwhile I'd either sit in the car and contribute my own critiques or sit on one of the nearby outdoor benches and either read or converse with some of my own new found friends. Looking back the word idyllic comes to mind.

  On the days she felt like a drive we'd cruise up Sunset Blvd; cut over Rodeo Dr; and return home down Wilshire. Other days we'd drive over to the Grove, a huge outdoor very upscale mall. My mother would settle into her wheelchair and we'd head to the center of The Grove where we'd park in front of the towering water display and enjoy watching the people and listening to the piped in music. (Recently I was going through some old dvds from that time and I came across a video I shot of my mother nattily dressed while sitting in her chair in front of The Grove fountain. She was nodding her head and keeping time to the old standard “The Sunny Side of the Street”). For me a rocking chair moment.

  I made sure there was never a dull moment. Which wasn't difficult because we were living the good life in one of the most vibrant cities in the world, Los Angeles.

  Then, after my mother's 99th birthday, the family decided (make that my sister decided) that now was a good time to consider moving our mother to an assisted living home. We had reached our collective limit on her care. It was time to turn it over to the professionals. I spent the next six months interviewing homes and eventually settled on an assisted living facility named Chancellor Place of Pasadena located at 990 E Del Mar Blvd, Pasadena. I'm endorsing this establishment because I know how difficult it is to find a safe, secure, competent and caring assisted living facility and I couldn't have been more happy with my mother's three plus years at The Chancellor. There we celebrated, in their well appointed library, my mother's 100^th birthday with a catered bash attended by 80 of her closest friends. People that she has known, loved and been loved by all their lives. Pretty remarkable considering she had outlived most of her contemporaries.

  The facility was expertly managed under the watchful eye of a former nun I affectionately named Sister Mary Holy Water. When visiting my mother's corner room with balcony I had to pass in front of the good Sister's open office door. If she was in her office I would stop and attempt a wobbly genuflection before continuing down to my mother's room. It always elicited a chuckle from the good Sister.

  Once my mother was safely and happily embarking on the last chapter of her long and colorful life at The Chancellor, I was back in her home closing up forty plus years of memories. It took me three months to box and store everything all the while I'm considering my options in regards to resuming my life. I had come up with the idea of manufacturing and selling “Made in the USA” fleece ear warmers. I had spent the last four months manufacturing and then photographing sample ear warmers. I had converted my bedroom into a photo studio where I painstakingly shot hundreds of colorful fleece ear warmers for my prospective web site.

  Then, a month before the big move I got a phone call that sealed the direction for my next act. A family-operated sightseeing company in San Francisco, Mr Toads Tours, had heard that I might be available and would I consider a very lucrative and guaranteed one year contract managing their eight year old company while they decided to either pour more money into the company and hope for increased revenue, or admit that the venture will never be more than a break even proposition and shut it down.

  Of course I would!

  I finished closing my mother's house and moved back to San Francisco in Aug of 2011. Even though I had left Los Angeles I was still constantly in touch with my mother. I'd either call her and greet her with my 40 year old salutation, “Mater 'tis I”, or I'd drive down Hiway 5 from Northern California and spend a day visiting with her at The Chancellor. During these visits our new routine was to bundle her up in her wheelchair and walk two blocks west on Del Mar Blvd to the shopping mall on Lake Ave. We'd first hit Macy's and leisurely walk through the store and critique all the latest women's and men's fashions. Then it was up to Trader Joe's for their free coffee and treats.

  The whole time my very prim and sophisticated mother would flash her twinkling blue eyes and mega watt smile which always attracted favorable looks and comments. Especially from babes. A son pushing his mother in her chair is a natural babe magnet. But I must admit that the only stranger's hug I ever got was from a gay guy. But what the hell at my age I'll take a hug from where ever I can get it.

  By now my mother's memory had started slipping and I was able to repeat that little excursion and make it fresh and new every time I came for a visit. I even started repeating some of her favorite stories because with her faltering memory they always elicited a chuckle or comment. Dementia is a bitch but sometimes it can work in your favor.

  But back to San Francisco. While managing Mr Toad's Tours I was able to increase revenue by 24% and buttress the bottom line. But the company's brand was the antique automobiles they used to conduct their tours and because of age and scarcity of parts they became increasingly more difficult to maintain and keep on the road. The overhead continued to climb and the family finally decided that they'd had a good run in the San Francisco sightseeing business but that it was time to move on. So we closed Mr. Toad's Tour and I too moved on.

  In Aug of 2012 my next stop was Sacramento. I was still excited about manufacturing high quality fleece ear warmers and I knew that Sacramento had a large Vietnamese population. My plan was to establish a sewing factory and I knew that the Vietnamese were exceptionally honest, diligent and skillful seamstresses. So I moved from the most expensive city to live in CA to the most affordable and much to my surprise, livable. After living most of my CA life in coastal cities I was now moving 100 miles inland from what was, for me, life's capstone, the ocean. A big change but one that opened new doors as I closed out my 60^th decade on earth.

  I named my ear warmer business EarWarmerz.com and manufactured high quality colorful ear warmers for about 3 years. But it became apparent that this business was very time consuming and only producing break even results. So I collected enough colorful ear warmers and scarfs to last me a life time and closed up shop. I donated all my remaining stock to grateful senior and homeless organizations. But I wasn't ready to leave Sacramento. I started once again looking and it wasn't long before the Senior Companion Program crossed my doorstep. But before we get into that let's remember the question that had prefaced this whole story.

  How had I become so lucky?

  After my mother's funeral in 2016 I was driving up scenic coastal Hiwy 1 through the spectacular Big Sur, totally consumed by natures beauty, when it dawned on me that God really loves a son who takes care of his mother. I'm not talking about an offspring who anticipates financial rewards because of his or her actions. I'm talking about children who act completely out of love. Since I packed up my mother's home and moved on with my life, everything that I had subsequently touched had turned to gold. My future was so bright I needed sunglasses.

  Today I'm quick to counsel kids who are faced with caring for a parent. I tell them to welcome the challenge and put in a total effort, for God is watching and taking notes. I guarantee there will be unimaginable positive energy when it's over. (WC 4991)