Introduction to the Book

If anyone asked, Mama would tell them she was raised on “a tobacco farm in Marlboro County." (That is pronounced mawlboro, if you didn't know.) Although she did not articulate it in so many words, in her mind it may as well been a “tobacco plantation”. But her memories were wistful. Even as a child I can remember the farm. Pictures I have today corroborate those memories, which differ a bit from those Mama claimed. Depending on her state of mind and time in her life, there were vague references to the farm somewhere between the dust bowl of the depression and Tara. There was the narrative of their family on the homestead trying to get by, like everyone else, during the days of the depression. Then there was the stately farm reminiscent of the land and homes in their glory days before the war, akin to those grand homes Margaret Mitchell penned about so well.

To the best of my recollection there was no long avenue of oaks, no Greek revival home, or some grand lawn in the back that gently sloped down to the river. But, whatever. I guess those are just minor details. Like so many other "details" that interfere with Mama's romantic memory, for her it was just better to overlook some realities. Although it was a rather large working tobacco farm where Granddaddy also raised cattle, corn, and cotton, I still do not think the Oxford dictionary would use it as an example for the word "plantation". As I mentioned earlier, it was lacking some of the more basic elements. 

Friends I have made as I have gotten older often comment, "God, you are southern." My usual response is "You should have known my Mama, she was the poster child." And if they did, they were rarely disappointed. I'm not sure if it is a romantic longing for something that never existed or just believing in the legend you became. Margaret Mitchell was responsible for a lot of this nonsense. 

Mama lived her life with “vim and vigor”, as my Daddy used to say. She was a truly beautiful person inside and out. Looking back on all her years, I realized few people would have survived what she did. She not only endured, but came out a stronger person, looking forward and holding no grudges. Often she told me that she was thankful for every day she had because she knew it was a miracle she was still around. She was strong and never gave up, not only on herself but on all those around her. There are many people today who owe their sobriety and possibly their lives to her. So that day in the hospital, when she looked at me and said, “This is more than I can take,” I knew the end was near.

They say there is a thin line between comedy and tragedy. Looking back on my life, I choose to stay on the right side of that line. Yes, there were some hard times with her as we were growing up. And there were issues I had to deal with that extended far beyond those that usually come between a mother and a teenage daughter. After years of drinking and depression, when the dust settled, what emerged was a wonderful, smart, talented, quirky, devoted person whom I loved very much.

This is the story of her life, as I remember it.