The more mornings I wake up the more mornings I rise convinced that I haven't learned a damn thing.

Even the definitions of some words elude me; words I once thought I understood perfectly well.

Take "truth" and "honesty" for example. Do they mean the same thing? I used to think so. Today, I wonder.

I remember from grammar school days hearing "honesty is the best policy". Is it? Always? One of the rare disagreements between my brother and I revolved around that very issue.

In the last year of my mother's life her confusion about family facts grew daily. With three kids spanning over 60 years of motherhood she had a lot to keep track of. My brother, my sister and I each tried to follow what we perceived to be our talents. My brother is a masterful musician, my sister was a very talented artist and I...do this.

Like most moms, reminiscing had always been an activity in which ours liked to indulge herself, especially on those rare occasions when all three of her kids were under one roof again. So, like most families, Thanksgiving, Christmas and other get togethers were underscored with stories starting with "Remember when..."

One of the stories my mother began to tell on her last Thanksgiving had to do with a program she and I enjoyed watching together on TV. As the youngest, I was still living at home when the old show "My Favorite Martian" was popular.

At the dinner table Mom paused to access something from her memory and we all wondered what was coming.

"Jimmy", she began. (She would still be calling me Jimmy if she were alive today.) "Who was the actor that starred on that Martian television show that you used to write? Was he a nice man?"

Now to understand the elements of her confusion you would have to know that my very first paid writing job, years before, was in Hollywood writing scripts for documentaries and travelogs for a small production company. So somewhere in her mind she knew that I "wrote" for television.

Before I could open my mouth my brother took it upon himself to straighten her out.

"He didn't write for that show, Mom. You used to watch it together but Jim never wrote for that one. Lord, he was only twelve years old when that show was on. He couldn't have written it."

A glance at my mother told me he had said the wrong thing. Her reaction was painful to watch.

I couldn't be sure whether she was struggling to remember what "really" happened or whether she was upset with my brother for trying to make her look foolish. Maybe both.

After dinner I took my brother outside and told him I felt we shouldn't be so hard on her. What was the harm in letting her have things her way if it brought her pleasure. The doctors had already told us Mom's remaining time was limited.

He felt that the way to deal with her failing memory was to correct her at every turn. As the older brother, and the one living nearest her at the time, his methods won out and I suppose Mom dealt with it okay.

But on this, the fifth anniversary of her passing, I would like to tell her something in my own way.

"His name was Ray Walston, Mom. And he was the nicest guy I ever met."