Category Archives: Motherhood

Paying Homage To My Mother

Marsha Caron, my mother at age 21

Today I have been thinking about my mother and the legacy she left me. I spent a lot of time being angry at her for things I expected from her that she wasn’t capable of providing me. I was angry that she died from an overdose of prescription pills. Everyone was told by my grandfather, her dad, and my sister that she choked on vomit in her sleep. She used medication to attempt to control her emotional pain, to quiet the regret that ate away at her soul. It was that anger I held against her that prevented me from giving her the credit she deserved.

I was her oldest child and her darkest secret from what I’ve surmised and secretly hoped all these years. All that aside, she deserves the credit for the woman and mother I came to be and am. After all, we are all flawed.

It is because of her that I love to write. She introduced me to VC Andrews novels, Bob Dylan, Styx, Barry Manilow, Saturday Night Live, the comedy of George Carlin and too many other things to mention. She was the one when her husband left us said f— it and took us to Disneyland before we had to make the long car ride back to Kansas. She taught me how to be prolific at cussing like a sailor. As a matter of fact, it was her mastery of the seven dirty words you can’t say on TV that got me expelled from Mothers‘ Day out.

That day started like any other of my childhood. She dropped me off at the Methodist Church in Olathe, KS. I was the class clown. The old ladies spent a lot of time putting me in a chair in the corner or redirecting me from activities such as putting plastic beans up my nose and spewing them out at the kids who were enjoying my performance. This day we were to learn the real names of our parents. The teacher started at the opposite side of the table from me asking what does your mom call your dad. I remember feeling terribly confused and struggling to figure what they wanted to hear. I froze when it came my turn to respond. I honestly didn’t understand what it was they wanted me to say. Other kids had said things like Phil, Tom, Brad and Bruce. I was fumbling through my muddled mind for something to say that will appease the gray haired lady before me. She knelt down to my level in an attempt to help me muster up what my father’s name was. “Come on, Tammy. You can do this. You know what your mommy calls your daddy.” she cooed at me ever so gently. “What does your mommy call your daddy?” her voice was so sickening sweet. I fumbled through my tiny brain looking through all my memories old and recent to come up with an answer. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. A smile began to beam from my face. I had it.

“Asshole. She calls him asshole.” the room erupted in laughter and three of the helpers/teachers left the room in giggles. One of them immediately called my mother. That was one of many times my mother would utter the phrase “God damn it, Tammy! Don’t fucking cuss!” It wasn’t until my junior high school years that I would see the hilarious irony in that admonishment.

My mother Marsha and I in 1973.

All humor aside, my mother was complex and lived a life full of little inconsistencies. Hers was a difficult existence. Ostracized in her youth, for being an intelligent young woman. When I was young I idolized her beauty. I craved her attention. I grew to respect her for the struggles she faced head on and survived. I mourned her loss long before she actually passed away.

She made me who I am. The uber intelligent writer, the outgoing, flirty party personality, the attention whore, the comedienne, the master of curse words, the fighter of unwinable wars and the home schooling, girl scouting, super mom. The type of mothering she gave me determined exactly the kind of mother I would be to my own children. Despite the fact that a lot of my parenting is in spite of how she parented me, it still is due to the way she parented me. I never gave her credit for that before she left and for that I am sorry. When I left work after I got the call she died John Denver’s song “I’m Sorry” came on the radio and I felt a peace come over me as I heard the words to the song. I knew she never intended to be the kind of mother she ended up being. Just like all of us, she had her moments of awesomeness and her low times. In the end and through it all she was my mother. She brought me into this world and deserves credit for who I am and how I view the world.

Mom, I’m sorry I have judged you so harshly. I’m sorry I expected things from you that you didn’t have the ability to give me. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you through your addiction. I’m sorry that I didn’t give you the credit you deserved. I don’t think there are enough words in the universe to express my gratitude for the life she gave to me. I, like many others, have recognized the important things too late to do any good. I’m sure that she knows, now. It just isn’t the same as being able to rectify these feelings while she was here. I made a rose garden as a memorial to the life and spirit of my mother. It was flawed but it was mine and comforts me in her absence. Happy Mothers Day.

The rose garden I planted in honor of her memory.



Illusionary Vinyl

Our connection was deeper than the grooves of the albums you shared with me. As my mother, you were often mean and contradictory but when it came to the music I was a trusted confidant. When you left all I wanted was to keep those small discs of vinyl that brought us together. I didn’t get them but that doesn’t erase what we shared when those magic pieces of vinyl spun on the turntable. It connected me to your joy, pain and the things in your life that you just didn’t know how to say. My earliest memories are of your music surrounding me and filling the room. There was so much wrong with us but when those shiny black discs made their way from the crisp, colorful paper covers everything was right. I miss that, now you’re gone. I still have the music. Styx was on TV last night and I was immediately taken back to sneaking your Grand Illusion album from the stereo stand and listening to it while waiting for you to come home from work. Praying that I would hear your car pull in the drive to be able to dispose of the evidence quickly enough. That was when I was a little girl. When I was older I have memories of attending concerts with you. Bob Dylan was our first. God, that sucked so bad. He was so drunk and that asshole in front of us attempting to school his jail bait date on the importance of Dylan’s music to the sixties counter culture movement and how much we laughed at how asinine that guy’s comments were. The Phil Collins concert that we scared the shit out of each other driving from KC to Wichita late at night passed that haunted cemetery. I haven’t been to a concert since you died. I don’t know why. I just haven’t. Maybe, it would hurt too much to experience it without you. Perhaps I have lost the interest in attending concerts as I’ve aged. After all, it’s just a grand illusion, to be here missing you, missing the music, missing that connection, mostly missing us. The bond we shared over our love for the feelings that could only be expressed through sound.