A Guide To Surviving Your Mother's Death ... or ... How To Not Screw It Up When Your Mom Dies

First of all you’ll need a friend, a confidant, or a shrink to ask you one very important question ...

“Do you want to be The Adult in this or The Child?”

Deep, deep down you’ll find that every fiber of your being wants to run out into the streets screaming,

“THE CHILD!”

Because that’s what you’ve been all your life, your Mother’s Daughter. You know that role, it’s comfortable. And frankly, it’s the easier role.

But then, ever so slowly, it’ll start to creep in - the sense that this could be one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make.

You’ll want to curl up in a ball in a dark, dark room, and you’ll want to stay there for a very long time

But, instead, with the help of a few persistent angels, you’ll answer,

“I want to be The Adult.

Everyone knows that daughters know how to do death. Mother’s sons – not so much. They don’t know what to say or what to feel. But you will know. Daughters always know. 

You’ll know when it’s time to look at your mother and SEE everything.

You’ll see the face and hear the voice that may have hurt you, cut into you, and made you feel small. You may even hear words that steal away the love that you know must be there.

Then something will happen. You’ll see that same face, hear that same voice, listen to those same words and you’ll understand. Like you, she is her mother’s daughter … and that changes everything.

You’ll see her hurt, her pain, her reasons. You’ll see her life and how she survived it. And you’ll see she was living and loving you the best way she knew how.

You’ll remember her strength, her dogged persistence, her intelligence, her humor. How she protected you. How much she taught you. How much she endured on her own. And, yes, how much she loved you.

Settle in. Look at her face. It’s pale and sick. The deep rich voice that used to sing beautiful songs now groans like a metronome to quell the pain.

Then …

• When she calls telling you Ted Turner is trying to kill her – reassure her he’s not. He’s just a guy showing old movies on TV.
• When she calls you at work saying she can’t breathe, believe her. Air hoses do come undone.
• When you visit her every night after work, wear that sweet sleeveless floral-print sundress, because this is how she envisions you.
• Buy her a life-size poster of Marilyn Monroe because it reminds her of  better days.
• Explain to her that morphine does strange things and again – reassure her that the nursing home doesn’t turn into a Chinese Drug Ring at night.
• Watch Cary Grant and Kate Hepburn. And when Judy Garland comes on, remind your mother how much you love it that she taught you to tap dance.

Know that you’ll sit hours on end watching her endure the pain as you massage her back that bulges with disease. You’ll paint her toenails, comb her hair, and keep the nurses on their toes. You’ll talk to her of her past, helping her find those happy memories that were part of her long and painful journey to now.

There will come a moment when you know it’s time to talk about dying. She’ll want to, even if she doesn’t ask to. No one else will do it. It’s up to you

Sit next to her bed, hold her hand and ask her if she’s afraid. Then just listen and keep holding her hand. Look into her eyes, eyes that seem to be searching for an answer, eyes that haven’t yet come to terms with what’s happening.

Tell her you know, you really know, that her father, her mother and her husband will all be there when she passes - and they’ll take her hand - and it will be lovely. It’s very important that YOU really believe this, because she desperately wants to believe it too.

As she listens to your words, she’ll relax. Then it’ll be time for you to show your own courage. Your heart will know what to say.

Tell her that you don’t know what you’ll do without her. Tell her that you’ll miss her everyday. You’ll search for words that quell your own fears. But that’s okay.

Then, lean in closer, deeper into her weary eyes and say,

“Mom, promise you’ll always watch over me and guide me, okay? I’m gonna need it.”

You’ll mean every word of it and she’ll know that - and she will promise. And, with that promise she’ll feel hope.

As you kiss her cheek your tears will begin to flow. Tears that you’ve never let her see all your adult life and in that last moment of truth and vulnerability, its okay, let yourself be the Child. The one you always wanted to be.

Lay your head in your mother’s lap. Feel her frail arm cradle your head and gently stroke your hair one last time and know - this is just as much a gift to her as it is to you.

It’s because you chose to be The Adult in this that you were able to let yourself be the Child - the Child you longed to be.

Oh, and one more thing, ask your mom if she has any life advice for you. She will. And, it’ll be the best advice anyone has ever given you.

She’ll simply say…“A girls gotta do, what a girls gotta do.”

A line right out of the old movies she so loved.

And, a line you’ll run with -- the rest of your life.

Top Photo side note:  Mom at the helm - her dining room table and makeshift office. It's where she fought many of her battles - whether it be writing a letter to the editor of our local newspaper fighting City Hall or striking a deal as a real estate agent ... or writing pages upon pages of yellow pad paper to her kids when she absolutely needed to let us know how she felt. Written on the back of the photo, in Mom's handwriting, "Dot 1983. Meditating? Or a clip from a Bette Davis movie?"  Mom had quite a flair for the dramatic. Oh, and the snow scene behind her? Yep, she painted it.

Bottom Photo:  Me and Mom, Christmas 1959.

Story posted on Mom's birthday - January 5th. Happy Birthday, Mom! 

                              

  

How She Won The War

Barbara moved with a purpose that seemed like urgency to those who didn’t know her. It took me some time to realize this about my friend who had flown for the military during World War II.

Many, who describe Barbara, use words such as, all business, to the point, curt, black and white, focused. What I can say about her is that she lived her life with a sense of urgency, but only because, in her opinion, it was the more efficient way to live. There was no fear attached to it. It was always about getting the job done right, striving to accomplish a goal, not letting opportunity pass you by … and why in the hell would you want to dawdle or ponder anyway? Just do it!

These beliefs stuck with her all throughout her life and reveled themselves in so many endearing ways.

In 1992, the first time I flew down to California to visit Barbara, she was 72 years old. I found out that if you were a pilot for most of your life - time will always play a major role in your daily life. I’ve actually found that to be true with every pilot I’ve ever known. Time matters.  How long will it take to fly to my destination with an 8 knot headwind? What will my ground speed be? How much longer will it take if it’s a 15 knot headwind? What does that do to my fuel consumption? My ETA? Time matters. Not paying attention to it can cost you your life.

During that first visit with Barbara we went grocery shopping at the local Ralph’s - not too far from her house, but far enough to wonder if we were going to make to back home alive. She drove like a bat outta hell. She tailgated, constantly changed lanes with practically zero clearance – all the while exceeding the speed limit. I was white knuckling it the entire way. Who was this pint-sized, daredevil Greatest Generation grandma I was riding with? I didn’t know her well enough yet to tell her to “SLOW DOWN!” So, I just hung on, for the duration.

As we got closer to Ralph’s my death grip on the armrest began to loosen. I suddenly realized, “Hey, this woman actually has it under control.” She was maneuvering and navigating with impressive precision. She knew exactly what she was doing and she’s doing it with a ferocious sense of purpose. Time and efficiency. Time and efficiency. We made it to Ralph’s without me making one peep….or fearful gasp.

Dragging me in her wake, I watched her beeline into the store in her just-below-the-knee straight black skirt, tailored black and white striped blouse, black blazer with a B-17 Bomber pin adorning her lapel. Purse in one hand - shopping list in the other.   She was a force. She moved with the same sense of urgency she had moved 50 years earlier as she strode out onto the flight line to get into the cockpit of a P-51 Mustang fighter. Parachute in one hand - checklist in the other. Her purpose … win the war.

I caught up with her as she was selecting a cart. She pulled one out from the line and almost without notice she did a pre-flight on it. She rolled it forward a couple feet and jiggled it to see if there were any issues with the wheels. Everything checked out so, once again, off she went – charging down the aisle like a shopping spree winner. I followed, imaging this 72 year old woman as a 22 year old pilot. A pilot that was awarded the Army Air Medal for flying a record breaking 8,000 miles in only 5 days, delivering four different planes to destinations across the country - because - that’s what it took to win a war.

When the shopping was over, the bill paid and groceries bagged, Barbara relinquished the rest of the mission to me. A true commander, she let her lieutenant do the grunt work. I pushed the cart across the parking lot. I don’t know why, maybe out of politeness or maybe a little twinge of white-knuckle syndrome, I asked, “Do you want me to drive?” The words just slipped out. I cringed inside because I know that pilots, even 72 year old pilots, never want to relinquish that pilot-in-command seat. Barbara paused, gave me a glance and said, “Have at it, kiddo.”

I climbed in the driver’s seat and quickly tried to acquaint myself with her 1980 Chrysler LeBaron. I backed out and drove to the exit. In front of me was a busy six-lane street. Cars coming, going, slowing down, speeding up and here I am in this boat-of-a-car I’ve never driven. I sat, waiting for that safe, sure moment to enter traffic. Is that enough room?  I don’t think so. Wait a minute, is it!? Oh damn it, it was enough room. I just couldn’t pull the trigger. And there we still sat, Barbara not saying a word.

Finally, I saw my window, a big window, a REALLY big window. I looked both ways three times and cautiously pulled out into traffic. Whew! I made it! Out of the corner of my eye I could see Barbara staring at me. I finally said, “What?” She stopped staring, looked straight ahead and said, “If you were driving, we never would of won the war.”

My Tara ...

Every kid has a secret garden, even if it only exists in their own mind. Luckily, my secret garden really did exist. It came in the form of acres upon acres of land surrounding our home in the country.

It wasn’t really a secret garden. Secret garden sounds so British, so flowery with high walls and secret doors with secret keys. My secret garden wasn’t like that. It was more like a 70 acre Hollywood backlot. Probably MGM’s backlot where musicals and high adventure reigned supreme. It was all my land – my Gone with the Wind Tara land. As God as my witness, it was mine and mine alone.

There was a path behind our house. A 14 year old worn path. A path that wound its way from our back gate, through tall dried grass, around bush after bush of scraggly shaped Scotch broom with pea pods that snapped, crackled, and popped in the summer heat.

The path led me back to an abandoned gravel pit. I wore a short cotton sleeveless sundress with my clunky, calf-high, black leather boots. I loved my boots. I wore them come winter, spring, summer or fall. I knew, even at the age of seven, that real adventures only happen when you wear boots. It didn’t matter that it was 85 degrees out – you can’t be an explorer without wearing boots.

I’d climb down into the bowl of the gravel pit, sit down, slip off my boots and plunge my bare feet into the soothing warmth of the heated pebble sized gravel. Somehow, I instinctively understood that sometimes explorers needed downtime, too.

Some days my path would lead me all the way into Sherwood Forest. I don’t know where my fascination with Robin Hood came from, possibly those Errol Flynn “Adventures of Robin Hood” movies or maybe Frank Sinatra and his 7 Hoods. I’m not sure, but my mom noticed my fascination. Being a first-rate seamstress, she made me a Robin Hood outfit, Errol-style, not gamblin’ Frank-style. It came complete with pointy green cap and feather, a green thigh-length tunic, green tights, my black boots - of course, and the coolest part – my own long bow and a quiver full of real arrows that I slung across my back. I followed my path deep into my forest of Doug Firs where I found endless ways to take from the rich, give to the poor and also become the hero.

One of my favorite TV shows growing up was “Combat!”. Every week I’d tune in to watch Vic Morrow take on World War II as he and his unit fought the good fight. So, at times, my path led me back to Nazi Germany. Once again, my mom came through. She didn’t sew me an Army outfit this time, she bought me one.

In my green fatigues and Army boots, with BB gun in hand and canteen strapped to my belt, I crawled in, out of, through, and around my Tara, which was now located behind enemy lines. Scotch broom during the winter snows made for the perfect soldier’s hideaway. An umbrella of snow clung to the broom’s branches keeping me hidden and safe – at the ready to ambush any passing Nazi on patrol. 

One of the last treks I took down my path landed me on the moon. It was the summer of 1969. The moon landing had captured my imagination. I wanted to be an astronaut more than anything else in the world. The stars, the planets, the moon – they all called to me, as did the really cool gear. I put on my brother’s ski pants, jacket and boots – of course the boots – and my drug store plastic space helmet and went on an excursion to the gravel pit - aka the moon. Once I arrived, I took off my backpack and very slowly (slowly because you know there’s less gravity on the moon and you move much slower) and collected my moon rocks … placing them in my pack for the walk home. My love of space exploration stayed with me. I never did become an astronaut, but I did become an explorer of the skies – I became a pilot.

Today, my Tara is no longer mine alone. When my mom died in 1987 we sold our house along with our five acres. We were no longer the only folks living on our country road. Families moved in, more developments were built. Part of my Tara became a Little League baseball park and the rest of it – people fought for years to keep the land, my backlot, undeveloped. I helped them fight that fight. As I listened to others talk about my Tara I wanted to say, “This is my secret garden, my backlot – my history. I was the first one here. Do you know how sacred this land is? Do you know how much it has given to me? How it helped forge who I am today? How all my dreams began here?  My adventures, my connection to nature, to land - it all began by walking my path and wanting to do good things in the world…wanting to be the hero.

Last year I walked my land for the first time in fifty years. It had been that long since I took my trek to find my warm, soothing pebbles. I could still feel her. It was still Sherwood Forest. I was still Robin Hood. Still growing were the scraggly, snow laden Scotch broom of Nazi Germany and I still wanted to fight the good fight. Every adventure I ever took as a kid, it was all still there. And secretly, I knew … my Tara remembered me and welcomed me home.

Cottonwoods & Whippoorwills

As I lay curled up in my mother’s drugged womb, I realized it was showtime! 

It was my time to shine, my time to shiver and contort out into my new world. When I say drugged I don’t mean mom had popped a few sleeping pills or several of Patty Dukes “dolls”, I mean that special sweet “twilight sleep” drug that all women in the late 1950s were given to quell the pain of childbirth. It also quelled anything I was feeling as I struggled out through that long dark tunnel. Birth. Some can recall, some can’t. Somewhere along the line while partaking in the therapy revolution of the 1970s I had a memory of feeling paralyzed during birth. Ah, the beautiful beginning of that profound mother – daughter bond. We were both high on twilight bliss. Pissed off and stuck and why in god’s name isn’t anyone helping me OUT!! Eventually, there I was out in the world, exhausted, but ready to be named. Mom? What say you? I know you must have thought of the endless possibilities. What? You’re still too drugged to name your only baby girl? Dad? What say you? What? Tami?  What the hell kind of name is that?  Yes, I know you’re a musician and you love music, sweet music and you love that song. THAT song, “Tammy!” Oh dear God no, please don’t let him …oh God no … “I think we’ll name her, Tammy.”  Nooooooo!!!

The deed was done. My father named me after the Debbie Reynolds song in the movie, “Tammy and the Bachelor”.  It truly is a beautiful song. A song about cottonwoods, whippoorwills, hootie owls, and low murmuring breezes off the bayou. But really, Tammy?!?  It’s such a weak sounding name used to identify some ditzy hick girl in the backwoods of Mississippi. Mom!! PLEASE WAKE UP!!

Well, mom did wake up, hated the name, changed the spelling to Tami and gave me my legal name - Tamara. That was only the beginning. When I was in grade school I heard endless renditions of “Tammy oh Tammy oh Tammy’s in love. Tammy, Tammy, Tammy’s in love.”  Barf!  I lived with that song for years. Damn you Debbie Reynolds! If you just hadn’t sung that melody so sweetly, so heartfelt and so beautifully maybe, just maybe, I could have been a Kate or Nora or Jane. I’d have a name I could be proud of, a name that felt strong and bold and adventurous – but no, I was Tami. I was a child that was lopped in with all the “ie” girls: Tami, Cindi, Sheri, Bonnie, Candy, Sandy and of course, Debbie.

Overtime I tried using all my names out for size. I was Belle, my middle name, for about two weeks until I realized everyone was saying, “What? Bill?” Then I took Tamara. That one stuck with all my aviation friends. And now, after 58 years of Tami, I’ve gown to love the name, because it came from my dad and it’s a beautiful song. And, I no longer care about names. You can call me Jill, Jo, or Jane … whatever.

My “Tami” story came full circle twelve years ago when I got to meet Debbie Reynolds. Kat bought us two tickets to go see Debbie perform at the Lucky Eagle Casino in Rochester. I was thrilled! I was finally going to see one of my golden era screen stars that I had loved for decades (despite my disgust for my name). There she was, live … and what I really mean is – she was ALIVE – on stage. Debbie was, 72 years old, singing, dancing, impersonating other stars and tap dancing. Boundless energy! There were costume changes and wig changes. She was the consummate professional entertainer. I had come prepared to track her down after the show to meet her and get an autograph. I was a Debbie groupie for that one evening. Before leaving for the show I had gone online and printed out an 8x10 glossy of the “Tammy” song sheet music for her to autograph. I was ready to meet one of my screen idols.

After the show we made our trek outside behind the casino and found the backstage door. That’s where we found about six other Debbie groupies waiting. Finally, a door opened. I could barely make out the figure walking toward us. I heard the clickity clack of heels on asphalt and then, out of the darkness, a tiny, tiny woman emerged. It was Debbie! She walked up to us and coyly said, “Oh, are you waiting for me?” In her hand she had 8x10 glossies of herself, ready to sign for her adoring fans. When my turn came I handed her my “Tammy” sheet music and proceeded to nervously babble on and on, telling her the entire story of how my dad named me Tammy after her song. She took my sheet music and as she was signing it she listened, patiently, very patiently. As I ended my story, she looked at me in a very “Oh honey, you really don’t know how MANY times I have heard this story and how many Tammy music sheets I’ve signed …”  and then simply said, “That’s nice dear.” She was gracious, kind and I knew that she didn’t give a rat’s ass about hearing another Tammy story for the millionth time. But, she was a pro and she has always valued her fandom and she politely listened because she knew it was important to me. She made my night.

Debbie Reynolds will always be very special to me – the work she has left for us to admire and enjoy - her legacy of love, graciousness, and her example of what it is to be a pro. Oh, and the fact that she did have a hand in naming me.   

We’ll miss you Debbie dear - and your brilliantly talented daughter.

Piano Man

My dad was a piano man. His soul thrived in the world he created. A world chock-full of notes, words, treble and bass, majors and minors, flats and sharps. People tell me, people who knew him back then, people who knew him longer than I did - they tell me he was gifted.

During the war, wherever he was stationed, whenever the battle was done, he’d sniff out a set of Ivories. Upright or baby grand, it didn’t matter, he’d always find a piano to play, alone or surrounded by his buddies … always looking for a welcome distraction.

When he came home from the war my dad formed his own jazz trio, piano, bass, and drums. In their crisp white dinner jackets, creased slacks and skinny black bow ties, my dad’s combo played the circuit from Olympia to Seattle and beyond. They played standards of the 1950s along with songs my dad had composed himself.

At home, when we were kids, we’d have jam sessions. Pop on the piano, my brothers strumming their Spanish guitars. And me, I’d shake, shimmy, twist and shout my little body as fast and as hard as I could, as my dad and the boys played the Beatles.

When I felt left out of the music-making Dad would give me a tambourine to slap-rattle or set me up in front of his xylophone. He’d stick a mallet in my hand, tell me to go at it, and I’d plink and plunk away on the bench of metal bars. Sometimes Mom would join in singing. When she didn’t she’d man the 8mm movie camera as we jammed it up good - with Pop enjoying it just as much, if not more, than his three cub musicians.

Every night, before I drifted off to sleep, my dad would quietly enter my room, sit on my bed and sing me a lullaby in his silky southern drawl. With each hushed, loving inflection I felt cradled and harbored by the deep resonance of his voice.

At the end of the lullaby he’d smile, lean down and we’d finish our bedtime ritual. Butterfly kisses on my cheeks, an Eskimo kiss on my nose. And lastly, one extra kiss on my forehead to sleep on and a quiet … “G’night sweet pea.”

The day my father died, the day he took his own life, truly was the day the music died.

All I have left of my father’s gift is stored away in a box, I cannot find. The voice that comforted and soothed me still lives on in the form of a shellac 78 rpm record, made in 1942.

Though it’s become brittle, a bit like me and scratched, a bit like me, I can still hear my dad’s voice - his words and his music etched into each worn groove. It’s a duet, my mother and father - their rich voices playing off each other. One voice reminds me of my southern roots and the other my Irish heritage. Together, the voices reveal how much the two loved each other, at one point in their lives.

The world we live in right now seems to be breaking apart, and with it, breaking parts of me. How I wish my dad was here to tell me it will all be okay. Here to brush eyebrows, flutter eyelashes and sing to me.

I’ve searched for the missing record many times. I know I’ll find it someday, probably when I’m not looking. Until then, I’ll remember the kind, gentle man sitting at his piano smiling - whose soul lived to play his music, write his words, and make his little girl feel safe and loved - every single night of his life … with one extra kiss to sleep on.

Dress Blues

My dad fought in his generation’s war as a sailor, a Yeoman 3^rd Class. The uniform he father wore still hangs in my closet. Every now and then I revisit his winter dress blues. I lift the clear plastic cover and gently run my hand across the scratchy wool – the flared trousers with the thirteen-button front flap and the cuffed jumper with white piping. It seems so small. How in the world did my dad’s 6’2” frame ever fit into it?

I look at the vacant uniform stationed in the closet and I see a sensitive, naïve 19-year old – who when he received his deployment notice said, “I was as excited as a kid going to a picnic.” This was the uniform he wore to fight the good fight – the fight to save the world. But my father was only a Yeoman. A Yeoman is not a warrior, or hero. A Yeoman is an administrative clerk - he types, files reports, and answers phones. How is this courageous? John Wayne never typed anything … ever. 

I always wondered, was my dad afraid to fight? For decades, I thought of my dad sitting behind a desk while the Marines landed on Iwo Jima --- or of him making coffee for his superiors while brave men died on Omaha Beach. I learned many years later … I was so wrong.

My father took his own life in 1964 – eighteen years after he was honorably discharged from the Navy. I knew and loved him for six years and then one morning - he was gone. No more sweet bedtime songs or silly Eskimo kisses. I was no longer his little girl. The years following his death were filled with sadness and anger.

In my mind he was a coward for leaving his family behind. Why didn’t he fight to stay alive? I didn’t want to feel this way. I knew it was wrong. I wanted to feel compassion for my dad, but I couldn’t find it.

Then one day, my older cousin told me something about my dad I never knew.  She said that her mother had told her that Uncle Fred was never the same after he came back from the war. He came home broken. I also found out he wasn’t only an administrative clerk – he was part of a radio group that set up communication stations for General MacArthur’s return to the Philippines. He was in the thick of it.

He wrote to my mother, “Two Japs lying in the road being dragged away by a truck. Another one blown to hell along side the road. Manila is full of snipers. Being tall is no advantage. Riding in the back of a jeep I stick out like a sore thumb. The stench of death is over the city – so many dead.”

It took decades, but I finally understood what had happened to my dad and why he shot himself. He experienced the carnage and chaos of war. He saw it, smelled it, and tasted it … and never found a way to forget it. I finally found the compassion I had lacked my entire adult life. The guilt I feel for not understanding sooner will probably ever leave me. He was a sailor who never found his way back home. He sacrificed his sanity for his country and in the end, like so many other casualties of war – it killed him.

With my father’s death - my mother, brothers and I also became casualties of war, but we survived. I’m thankful my Pop had the strength and courage to stick it out as long as he did. He left me with some of the most loving memories a little girl could ever have.

The Raccoon Wars of '06

“Hurry, Hurry, Hurry! You’re gonna die pretty soon!”

Every morning, during that magical transitional time between sleep and awake – that place where creativity flows, visions waft, and feelings weave - this is what I would hear in my head. My stomach would clench, my heart would race. “Hurry, Hurry, Hurry! You’re gonna die pretty soon.” I’d bolt out of bed and start my day – in a panic.

This subconscious morning ritual began while I was “going through the change”. Going through - as if it was as simple a task as going through a door, a car wash or the motions. Now wouldn’t that be nice?  Well, I can tell you, it’s not nice. It’s not even polite. It’s like going through a brick wall. It’s like going through the gauntlet. At it’s worse, it’s  revisiting the journey through the birth canal - dark, wet, warm, and scary as hell. That bridge to menopausal change didn’t lead me to a world of wisdom, understanding or spiritual enlightenment. It dumped me off in a world filled with irrational fears, insecurities, heart palpitations, hot flashes, night sweats and a complete and utter lack of self purpose. I understand now why my mother was a complete psycho during her mid 50s.

The “Hurry, Hurry, Hurry! You’re gonna die pretty soon”, wasn’t about dying. It was about not living – not having a mission. It was waking up every morning with a sinking feeling in my gut that I had failed. I failed my people ... my parents, my grandparents and everyone who had known me as a passionate person. I was failing myself. I knew passion at one time. I had skills. But a back injury combined with a variety of unchecked hormones hijacked it all. I was a 47 year-old menopausal woman who desperately needed a mission, a purpose. And, I found it.

I’ve never killed anything before. Yes, I’ve killed spiders, slugs, flies, fleas and bees (Nooooo! Not the bees! I know, but I have). I may have killed a robin once when I was 7 years-old. I say may because I’m not sure. I did aim my brother’s BB gun at the bird as it sat peacefully perched on a telephone line and I did pull the trigger. I knew I would never, ever hit it, but I did. It fell to the ground in an awkward flip-floppy spiral. I was horrified. Too afraid to look at it, I dropped my gun to the ground and ran inside bawling, “I didn’t mean to hit it!” I’ve never killed anything with a face - a face like ours. A face with a stick out nose, curved ears, a set of canines and eyes that can, if they choose, look straight through you.  

My mission in life became apparent to me during the summer of 2006. Raccoons were murdering our cats. Ten were killed in our neighborhood within a two week period. This particular gaze of raccoons was more than just a bit abnormal. They were a different breed. They were urban raccoons and they weren’t afraid … of anything. Oh, they looked normal with their cute little bandit faces, tiny black paws and bushy striped tails. But, make no mistake, they were diabolically evil.

One attack took place a block away late one night. Three raccoons worked in unison as they attacked a cat on its own front porch. The owner and several neighbors tried their hardest, but were unable to get the raccoons off the cat before it was seriously injured. When they finally got the cat away from the crazed raccoons they took it inside their house. What happened next was right out of a 1950s horror movie. The raccoons began to head-butt the front of the house, still in kill mode, trying to get at the cat. Shocked witnesses said, “They were throwing themselves up against the outside of the house.”

It was bizarre behavior, even for a raccoon.

My neighbors across the street found their cat dead near their front porch. She was torn apart in the way raccoons with sharp claws are known to do. The cat’s stomach was zippered open and mutilated. If you’ve ever heard the bloodcurdling shrieking of a raccoon attacking your cat, a beloved member of your family, you will never forget it. It’s terrifying.

I pleaded with the city to help us, but their hands were tied. Now, if it had been a bear or a mountain lion roaming the back alleys of West Olympia – then they could help - but not raccoons. They were just nuisance wildlife. I tried to tell them, “Are you nuts? These raccoons are bloodthirsty bionic bastards! They frickin’ carried a little dog away!” It didn’t matter to them. All the city could do is give me a list of animal trappers, so I hired one.

Trapper Tom, a good ‘ol boy from Arkansas, in his Filson tin cloth duster jacket and ten gallon hat, taught me everything you’d ever want to know about raccoons. He taught me how track, trap, and think like a raccoon. I patrolled the neighborhood late into the night, sometimes staking out a particular spot to determine the beast’s travel routes. Yes, I had found my passion. I was going to save the cats, no matter what it took.

We set live traps throughout the neighborhood. I’d get up early every morning to make my rounds. We caught opossum, rats, cats, and squirrels, but no raccoons. They were just too damn smart. They knew all about traps and how to use their opposable thumbs to get out. Trapper Tom and I even watched as a mother raccoon taught her kits how to maneuver in and out of a trap successfully. More cats were being killed and our plan of action, live trapping, was not working. It was time to up the ante.

Tom came to me one day and said, “There is another option, ya know.”

I looked at him perplexed, “Whadda ya mean?”

He stared at me for a moment, “Dispatch ‘em, ma’am.”

I stared at him. What the hell did dispatch mean? Was I supposed to just tell the raccoons, “Move along, now. You’ve overstayed your welcome. Here is a map to get you to Tumwater. There’s plenty of room over there for you and your gang of barbarous murderers. Move along.” 

“Ma’am, if I could, I’d dispatch ‘em myself, but I’d lose my trappers’ license – seein’ you live in the city limits. It’s illegal.”

I still didn’t get it. What the hell was he talking about?

He realized I wasn’t catching his drift, so he leaned into me and whispered, “You shoot ‘em ma’am.”

My mind swirled. Could I do that? I don’t believe in killing.

A neighborhood meeting is organized to brainstorm raccoon options. The neighbors disagree on everything. The solutions range from continued trapping, to spear guns and pepper spray, to complaining to the city. Most can’t bear the thought of killing the little furry ball of cuteness. Folks who have lost cats cry. Some folks complain about no governmental support. I felt like I was in the middle the Clint Eastwood movie, “High Plains Drifter”. Brazen outlaws are taking over our town, making life hell, and no one had the balls to stand up and fight back.

As I sit silent, listening to the group’s sincere angst, Trapper Tom turned to me and said, “Ma’am, if you do this it’ll have to be a clandestine operation. You have two, maybe three, friendlies in this group.” I nodded. After hearing all the sadness, fear, and anger – I no longer had to question anything. I was a hormonally imbalanced, mission-seeking, crazed menopausal woman who was ready to do whatever it took to save our neighborhood cats and save myself from sinking any further into a life that lacked purpose. I felt as though I had no choice. It was my destiny. With Tom’s help I would train, track, stalk, bait and shoot the devil raccoons – all within the dark shadowy clandestine corners of our neighborhood.

Trapper Tom and his buddy Blenn took me to the shooting range for some target practice. Like Tom, Blenn was a good ol’ boy. He was a rotund fella who always wore a t-shirt, jeans and suspenders. At times he looked and sounded like he’d just stepped out of the remote Georgia wilderness. But, the guy had a heart of gold and would do most anything for you.

My water-soaked pink and white cowboy bandana was tied around my neck. The plastic safety glasses slipped down on my nose from the sweat on my face. It was damn hot!

I looked over at the Range Master and in an unsure voice said, “Range Master. Is the range hot?”

The Range Master replied, “The range is hot!”

I push my protective glasses up on my nose, steady my .22 pump rifle, and looked down the barrel of my gun. The bead of the front sight wobbles in the cradle of the rear sight. The last time I shot a gun was when my ex-boss took me out in the boondocks to target shoot at some abandoned gravel pit in the 1980s.

Trapper Tom watched as I steadied my rifle and took aim at the target 50 yards down range. I pulled the trigger. Crap! The shot is at the very edge of the paper – off target.

As the afternoon wore on, I began to reclaim my gun prowess. Tom and Blenn gave me some pointers, corrected my form. Relax, breath, gently squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it.

“Range Master, is the range hot?”

“The range is hot!”

I set the bead steady in the rear sight and quickly shot off five rounds. Tom looked through his target telescope. Blenn looked too and turned to Tom, puzzled.

“What? Did I totally miss it?”

Without much expression, Tom says, “Ah, no ma’am. You hit it.

I looked in the scope. All five shots hit the bulls-eye dead center. I looked at Tom, feeling pretty puffed up and damn proud of myself.

Tom gave me a little grin and said, “You’re ready.”

Blenn hollered out, “Raccoon stew!”

Tom said I was ready and I felt ready - ready to kill my first raccoon. It felt like I was living I an alternate universe. I’d always believed in not killing – and here I am gearing up for a kill. I felt ashamed and excited at the same time. I remember wearing the Army uniform my mom bought me when I was seven. It wasn’t the camo fatigues of today, but the olive drab green uniform of the war I watched on TV every night – the war in Vietnam. I’d put on all my gear - helmet, boots, canteen, BB gun – and head out into the acres of Scotch broom that covered our five acres of property. It was the best thing in the world for playing Army. If you belly crawled into a big patch of it you’d eventually be enveloped in a cave canopy of broom. My mom and dad looked at the plant as a weed. To me – it was Nazi Germany and I was on a mission to destroy the enemy and save the world.

I had a strong background in “having a mission”.  All my heroes as a kid had missions. Of course there were no bonafide female heroes to emulate when I was growing up – only male ones and my mom made sure I had outfits for each one: Neil Armstrong, Robin Hood, and the American soldier. When you lack purpose in your life one of the quickest ways to find it is to go back to when you were 8 years old. Kids have purpose in their pretend world. I did. I think the raccoon war took me back in time to how good and exciting it feels to be on a mission – a hero’s mission.

It was July 4^th and it was still hot. Trapper Tom had decided it would be a good day to commit the crime of shooting a gun off within the city limits. The popping and blasting of all the fireworks would provide excellent cover for the sound of a .22 rifle. We set the shot up at a neighbor’s house that was surrounded by trees. Her back deck was converted into a bait/kill zone. I hate saying words like this, but there’s no other name for it. We laid a couple of hard boiled eggs out and waited. We waited just inside my neighbor’s house with the two French doors open to the deck. I sat in a hard back chair, rifle ready. Tom sat right behind me in another chair – looking over my shoulder. I learned later that Tom had questioned my partner as to if I could handle killing something. My partner wasn’t sure, but knew I was committed to doing the job nobody else wanted to do.

My heart raced as we waited for a coon to show up - my gun at the ready. It was 94 degrees out - sweat dripped down my face, neck, and back. We sat for two hours in the heat and then heard the alarm. Crows – lots of crows squawking frantically. Crows hate raccoons, especially when they encroach on their territory. Their squawking is how we knew a raccoon was approaching. My adrenaline surged. I still wasn’t sure I could do this. I knew I could shoot a gun, but could I kill? I found out soon enough. A raccoon poked it’s head up in one of the 4 inch spaces between the deck railing. I nestled the butt of the rifle into my shoulder, released the safety and aimed the sight right on the raccoon’s forehead, right between the eyes – so it would take only one shot. I sat there frozen – with my aim on the target. I had a perfect shot, but I couldn’t move. All I could see was the raccoon’s eyes looking straight into my eyes. Neither of us moved an inch.

And then from behind me I hear a whisper, “Miss Tami, if you can’t do this – I can do it for you. Can you do it?”

Tom’s voice snapped me out of my stare down with the coon. I thought to myself … there is no way I’m going to let you do this for me. Without saying a word to Tom, I took a deep breath, released it and gently pulled the trigger.  The gun BLASTED, the bullet hit it’s mark perfectly. The raccoon dropped to the ground and I dropped my rifle on the floor in a panic - just like I did when I shot the Robin off the telephone line.

My adrenaline was running so high after that it took until later that evening to begin to feel the ramifications of killing an alive being. It didn’t feel good, but I did kill four more raccoons in the same way… to save the cats. It never got easier – it only got harder. After my fifth kill I couldn’t do it anymore. The devil coons killed a few more cats that summer. The Associated Press picked up the story and gave it the title, “Psycho Killer Raccoons Terrorize Olympia, Washington”. I was interviewed by radio stations across the country, in New Zealand and the UK. National Geographic came to our neighborhood and filmed a special about the wacky Olympia raccoons and then ... the killing stopped. It just stopped. No goodbyes, no nothin’. We found out a year later that some guy in our neighborhood had been feeding the raccoons pot and steroids just to see what happened. He moved away and our raccoons went back to being less evil and less deadly.

What will remember most about the Raccoon Wars of 2006? Just one thing – the eyes of the first raccoon I shot - staring straight through me. I found out that killing those five raccoons broke a part of my soul. If I have to do it again to protect myself or my family (even if its “just” my cats) I’ll do it --- but it will hurt.