Missouri is a treasure trove of whimsical names, each one a little gift to the world: Versailles, Rome, Cairo, New London, Athens, Carthage, Alexandria, Lebanon, Cuba, Japan, Santa Fe, Cleveland, Canton, California, Caledonia, New Caledonia, Mexico, Louisiana. And of course, our home—Paris.
Then there are the quirky names that always make me chuckle: Licking, Fair Play, Strain, Elmo, Peculiar, Shook, Lone Jack, Butts, Lupus, Moody, Clover, Polo, Shake Rag, and the T towns that end my list—Turtle, Tightwad, Tulip, and Tea.
When insomnia strikes, I challenge myself to remember as many as I can, a nostalgic game I played with my parents while gazing out at the brown waters of the Mississippi.
Awakened by something—though all I hear is the hum of the air conditioner and the stillness outside, broken only by distant trains—I glance at the clock. It reads 2:30 AM, give or take. Sleep won’t return. I’m not in my apartment; there are no sirens, horns, or neon lights. I’m home, in Paris, Missouri, with a dwindling population of 1,246. I tell myself I’ll be here just a short while longer—until Carol, the kind-hearted woman who helps care for Mom, recovers from her rotator cuff surgery, or until my mother can move into an assisted living facility. It’s all temporary—until the rain comes, or Mom’s spirits lift, or I find a steady job again. Until something changes here on Sherwood Road, and I have to pack up and leave.
I hear Mom’s voice from the hallway: “Who cranked up the air conditioning? He’s trying to freeze me out!”
And there she is, all ninety years of her, with her curlers askew, chuckling to herself for no apparent reason as she peeks into the guest room where I’ve been tossing and turning. It’s the last place in America with shag carpet. In this room, I’ve even uncovered what I believe to be a high school toenail.
On the spare bed, there’s a quilt adorned with stars and crescent moons, and figures of children holding hands along the edges, with embroidered names from farm women long gone, including my great-aunt Mabel. I’ve settled in here with the Christmas wrappings, the desk of Betty’s uncle Oscar, and the very bed I once shared with my grandmother, listening to her snores and the furnace sputtering to life. My grandmother’s house in Madison, about ten miles away, was affectionately nicknamed the House of Many Chimneys. In the garden, she tended to pink roses, fretting over them constantly, often pricking her fingers on thorns.
The hallway light is on. Betty has wandered into the kitchen, rummaging for a midnight snack after being stirred by the call of nature or dreams that leave her unsettled. Her thoughts and memories chase her through the night. A light sleeper, she shuffles around in her cozy white socks, clearing her throat loudly and checking things in her own peculiar way. After she heads to bed, I try to illuminate her path to the kitchen, leaving on the lamp in my dad’s office and another in the foyer to guide her through the dark.
“Are you awake?” she asks.
“I am now,” I reply.
Betty, who recently decided to inspect my suitcase, flips on the overhead light in my room, squinting at me like a camp counselor on patrol, making sure I’m not up to any mischief. She must keep an eye on me. I’m a schemer, after all. When the phone rings, she listens intently, not quite trusting me with her independence. I can’t blame her; I’m a rather unlikely caregiver. Just a month ago, I thought the Medicare doughnut hole was just a breakfast special.
She’s not easy to keep in line. Her resolve remains as fierce as ever.
“It’s a hot day, but I’m going to that sale,” she mumbled last week in her sleep, her finger jabbing the air as if she were placing a bid, while outside the temperature soared past a hundred. She’s snappier with me than with anyone else, sometimes swatting at the air if I get too close. There are days when nothing I do can satisfy her. Carol, who has experience in nursing homes, says that older folks tend to get angriest with those they’re closest to, the ones who remind them of their fading selves. Yet, I think Betty’s crankiness is a mask for her embarrassment at needing help. When I do something nice for her, she looks away, reluctant to accept.
“I was worried,” Betty says. “You said last night you couldn’t sleep. I was afraid you wouldn’t sleep tonight.” She gazes at me, concerned.
“No, I’m sleeping. I’m asleep. Right now, I’m just talking in my sleep,” I assure her.
“You’re in bed in your clothes again,” she says.
“I dozed off reading.” (In truth, I keep my clothes on, ready for any emergency—a fall, a stroke, or a sudden shout. She looks so fragile when I tuck her in. I keep the ambulance number and the emergency room contact right by my bed.)
“It’s not good to go to bed in your clothes… The Appeal didn’t come today,” she complains.
Our town’s newspaper, which covers local events, charity drives, and church happenings—including the “Movement of the Spirit” at the Full Gospel Church—has been sporadic lately, likely due to a short-staffed post office. This kind of delay can send Betty into a tailspin. She likes things to happen on her schedule.
“Did someone call today? From the church? I can’t find my other shoe, the Mephisto.”
I tell her we can look in the morning, and for a moment, she seems pleased, almost smiling. In that instant, the old Betty resurfaces, the one I’ve missed dearly.
In St. Louis, when we turn off Skinker onto Delmar, near the University City gates, Betty always points out the spot where, as a young woman working at Union Electric, she waited for the streetcar. Though she rarely talks about the past, she has fond memories of that old streetcar stop. Back in the 1940s, post-war, she was a lovely girl with wavy brown hair, fresh from the “Miss Legs” contest at the university. Listening to her recount those days, I can picture her in a hand-me-down coat, gazing down the tracks toward Webster Groves, where she stayed with her aunt Nona. There’s a spark of innocence and excitement in her eyes as she recalls those moments, standing with other women in exquisite dresses—something Mammy never let her buy. Sometimes I wonder if she wishes she’d hopped on that streetcar to explore a different life.
By the time Mom recognized her own intelligence and beauty, it was too late to turn back. “I just wanted a house with a few nice things,” she once told me. “That was my little dream.”
Conclusion
In summary, this excerpt from “Bettyville” captures the bittersweet experience of caring for a loved one who is slipping away. It reflects on memories, the passage of time, and the struggle to maintain dignity amid the challenges of aging. The author paints a vivid picture of life in small-town Missouri, revealing the complexities of family dynamics and the quiet moments of connection that endure even as everything else changes.