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.