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.