"Ya Love That Dog, Doncha, Cahlah?"

Marco came into the world as Nana was getting ready to leave it. They met once at Christmastime in 1994, in Plymouth, Massachusetts. She petted him and fell asleep but not before she looked at him, a pup of 13 weeks in my arms and then at me and declared “You love that dog, don’t you, Carla?”

Marco is my dog. He is my source of unconditional love, consumer of cookies, my comfort and joy. He is a 33 pound, salt and pepper Standard Schnauzer whose father, Pa, won “Best in Breed, Group and Show” at the 1997 Westminster Dog Show. Marco is 13 and a half years old. Four months ago, he was diagnosed with cancer and given that many months to live without chemotherapy. His other mother and I decided against treatment. We didn’t want to make him sick in order to try to make him “well”. Our decision was affirmed by friends who are veterinarians and know Marco, as well as friends who’ve been down similar, wrenchingly painful paths with their dogs.

Four months have come and gone and my sweet boy is still with us, robust as ever. He eats like a food vacuum. He plays ball with the ardor, ability and addiction of the Red Sox’s Dustin Pedroia (but much cuter with more hair). I am grateful for every second I’m with him. But I become still with fear imagining what it would be like without him. I cry and become crazed with a deep, unremitting sense of loss. I try to not get embedded in this chasm and rather focus on the present. If he’s with me, I hug him, give him a cookie and tell him how much I love him and how much better he’s made my life. If he’s with his other Mother, I say a prayer of gratitude for him and pick up the phone to call and see how he is.

What has my beloved canine given me? Understanding how to be a better human. Accepting tears as an appropriate expression of emotion and learning one should not run away from tears or those who cry them; move closer and “be” with them. Taking time to play regularly with gusto and earnestness. Using eye contact and touch to best communicate feelings. Showing love with zealous devotion, no matter if you’ve been waiting for hours, if someone’s been cross with you or if someone has made a mistake or hurt you. Asking for what I need with humility. Adopting courage to be strong in myself while being open and gentle with those who I love. And making people laugh by acting goofy or smiling so your teeth show.

How does this tie to Nana? I had similar feelings of fear about losing her--- the stillness, tears, and unthinkable future without her. This wonderful woman tried to teach me it’s OK to cry, that people need the love of others and that laughter is a gift. Sadly, Nana’s life lessons were lost on me at the time for whatever reason. But in the continuum of life, Nana stayed with me, and successfully continued her tutelage through Marco. Faith assures me that Marco will also continue with me. His spirit will be with me and guide me. Both his and Nana’s will. I just have to be still and hear them. And trust that when a source of love and wisdom goes away--- it never really leaves.

“The Sights You See When You Haven’t Got a Gun”

I spend time in Texas, but I haven’t started firing six-shooters if cut off in traffic. I dislike guns: they kill people and animals. They sometimes are discharged in passion or error (e.g., Cheney mistakes a colleague for a mallard).

The “Sights You See…” was a phrase used by my maternal grandmother, Helen McCabe Murphy. She used it when someone offended her sensibilities.

Boston Public Gardens, circa 1967: Nana sees young people bathing loudly and gleefully in a fountain. Nana’s chagrin was palpable. She hiked her “pockabook” up her arm and hastened my gait toward the fountain and the “hippies”. She emitted a “Tsk, tsk”, shaking her head slowly from side to side. Loud enough to be heard over someone screaming “BLITZ!!!” (-- hard core “Bingo” played in smoke-filled basements of Catholic halls in Dorchester, MA).

Once noticed, Nana looked at me, looked at the fountain bathers, and back at me, bellowing: “THE SIGHTS YOU SEE WHEN YOU HAVEN'T GOT A GUN!!!” The “gun” reference went over big with the bathing crowd who’d placed their anti-war signs by piles of their discarded clothing… I was eight and mortified. I know we survived because I came to in Bailey’s, eating ice cream slathered with hot fudge and marshmallow. It revived me. Good thing, because I was too young to knock back a vodka.

I was (and still am) amazed the “hippies” hadn’t pulled us in and held our heads under water. In gratitude, I became sympathetically anti-war, figuring if the peace children had stared down the barrel of Nana’s verbal gun without retaliation, they must be on to something.

She wasn’t pro-war but was intensely loyal to family. And part of her family -- her nephews -- served in Vietnam. She supported them in their service, but “wore her fingers out” praying the rosary for their safe return. Her directed outrage was with perceived disrespectful conduct. Bathing naked in a fountain in the Public Gardens didn’t fly with her. Or, as they say in Texas: “That dog don’t hunt…”


Nana used “The sights…” phrase with some regularity in public. It’s a miracle that she was never assaulted. Definite proof of a Higher Power’s intervention. Made me believe.

All Write!

Why do a blog? Was I inspired by Tracey Ullman's take on Ariana Huffington's blogging the "State of the Union" series on Showtime? Don't think so. I like to write. And I've noticed in my dotage that a passion for certain issues, relationships, objets, locales are becoming more prevalent in my thoughts. Enough to move me to write about them. So, I'm trying the blog.

About the title... My mother had a distinct shorthand in her communications at times. Probably because she was using most of her breath smoking; words in the air might have been considered a waste of breath. When discussing things with her, or merely talking, her assent was a passionate: "You got that right, Josie!". No parsing of thoughts or semantic debate or dangling participles. Straight and to the point with a sprinkle of humor and a nod to the ancestors.

Who was Josie? Perhaps a cousin to my grandmother (Nana-- there'll be a lot of reference to her in the future) and her 10 other siblings in a house on Gates Street in South Boston. In a 1910 census, this "Josie" was listed as a "servant". However, my cousin has found in her extensive genealogical research, oftentimes in the early 20th century any resident household member who was not directly related to the family was listed as a servant. But God knows with 11 children and an Irish work ethic, my great grandparents would not have entertained the idea of a servant from the old sod or elsewhere.

So, the title of this blog is a nod to passionate views and my maternal ancestry: roots in Boston, my mother and Josie--- whoever she is.