Nan McCarthy

author of Since You Went Away, Chat, Connect, Crash, & Live ’Til I Die

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8 Summer Shandies

  • December 23, 2013
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Family · Featured · Parenting · Recipes

In honor of my mother in-law Caryl McCarthy (1930-1992), who was born on Christmas Eve.

Nan McCarthy

(This piece is from the collection Recipes for My Sons: Instructions on Cooking & Life by Nan McCarthy—a work-in-progress of letters to my sons about family, life, and food.)

Other than having a tendency to talk too much on occasion, Grandma Caryl was a wonderful mother in-law to me. Apart from her dedication to family, she was also a Renaissance Woman, and I admired her for that. She was not only a fantastic cook, she was ahead of her time when it came to popular trends and culture. The first time I ever tasted Cajun/Creole food was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house when your dad and I were dating in the early 1980s, and Grandma served blackened fish, red beans and rice, and jambalaya. This was well before all the trendy restaurants (back then at least) began serving blackened fish (or “blackened” anything for that matter).

Grandma was also the one who introduced me to Zydeco music in the mid-1980s. After we were married and back home from dad’s Marine Corps tours of duty in Okinawa and Virginia, your dad and I enjoyed going to dinner at Grandma and Grandpa’s house in South Holland. We’d arrive at the house on a late afternoon in the summer to find Grandma floating on a lounge chair in the above-ground swimming pool out back while drinking a lemon shandy, or standing at the kitchen sink preparing dinner (still wearing her wet swimsuit of course)—but always with music cranked up to eleven on the stereo in the living room, usually Claude Bolling, Johnny Cash, Prokofiev, or Zydeco. After she got sick she’d lie on the living room couch with her eyes closed, the sounds of Enya drifting throughout the house. (You might also remember Nana listening to Enya before she died. It took a long while after both of their deaths before I could listen to any of my Enya CDs.)

How to Make Grandma Caryl’s Lemon Shandy

Grab a cold can of Stroh’s or a bottle of St. Pauli Girl. Pour half the beer into a chilled Welch’s jelly jar glass (preferably Flintstones or Archies special edition), then fill the rest of the glass with lemonade. Add a slice of lemon and some ice. Don swimsuit, turn up the stereo loud enough to be heard in Holy Ghost parking lot, commence relaxing in pool. When lemon shandy is finished, return dripping wet to kitchen, check jambalaya cooking on stove, pour another shandy using remaining beer/lemonade. Get back in pool and repeat process until Pat & Nancy arrive for dinner or Bob comes home from work asking for a boilermaker (more on that in another letter).

***

Of course, nowadays you can take the easier route and just buy the seasonal Summer Shandy beer made by Leinenkugel. (Which reminds me of our vacation to Sleeping Bear Dunes the summer of 2010, searching for Petoskey Stones, watching the sun set over Lake Michigan, a cooler of Summer Shandies always within reach. That was fun, wasn’t it?) But the point is Grandma Caryl, being of German descent and always on the cutting edge of popular culture, was drinking her homemade lemon shandies decades before they became a thing here in the U.S.

Grandma Caryl was also a fabulous knitter, crocheter, and all-around seamstress. Well, some of the handmade sweater vests dad wore in college were a little goofy, but I liked her knitted slippers, baby blankets, and Christmas stockings. (Coleman I’m sorry you never got your own Christmas stocking made by Grandma Caryl—she died the year before you were born, which explains why Dad, Ben, and me all have better stockings than you.)

Grandma Caryl was also an avid reader. She liked all the old Agatha Christie mysteries as well as the newer Sue Grafton “alphabet series.” Unfortunately, she only got as far as “’H’ Is for Homicide” before she died in 1992 (Grandma Caryl that is, not Sue Grafton). She also read biographies and all kinds of other non-fiction including the dictionary and encyclopedias. Yes, it’s true. Grandma read the dictionary and an entire set of World Book encyclopedias from first page to last. (She inspired me to try reading the dictionary once myself, but I only got as far as “apathetic.”)

My own enchantment with classic movies was originally fueled by Grandma Caryl, who would sometimes get up at four in the morning to finish one of her knitting projects while watching an old movie on AMC or TNT (this was before the days of TCM). Grandma got me hooked on all the Alfred Hitchcock movies besides “Psycho” and “The Birds” (which I had previously watched on network TV with Nana), including “Rope,” “Rear Window,” “North by Northwest,” “Notorious,” and “Dial M for Murder.” She and Grandpa also introduced me to a lot of holiday classics. The first time I ever saw “It’s A Wonderful Life” (one of your dad’s favorite movies—he still cries every time he watches it) was at the McCarthy house in South Holland when your dad and I were dating. Grandpa built a fire in the fireplace and we all settled in under one of Grandma’s homemade zigzag afghans to drink hot toddies and watch the movie, Christmas lights twinkling and Paine’s Balsam Fir incense swirling from the miniature log cabin chimney on the fireplace mantel. I had already fallen in love with your father; it didn’t take long for me to fall in love with his family too.

Grandma’s penmanship was illegible (which is why she typed all her recipes) and she wasn’t the greatest housekeeper. But she had other fish to fry—like being a dedicated hockey mom (never missing a chance to ring her cow bell at her sons’ hockey games), Holy Ghost Church choir member and volunteer (cleaning the rectory, among other things), election day poll worker and Democratic Party activist (serving as an Illinois delegate when George McGovern ran for president in 1972), and even working part-time at Dominick’s handing out promotional samples of cheese and crackers and cordials like Midori melon liqueur. All this while raising seven children, in addition to her many other pursuits. I forgot to mention she was also a pretty good oil paint artist, although most of her paintings were done before the kids came along. (Ben you must have inherited Grandma’s artistic leanings in addition to her manner of housekeeping.) It’s hard to imagine she had time left over to lounge in the swimming pool, but if nothing else, Grandma had her shit straight when it came to priority setting.

When I was offered a better-paying job in Denver in 1991, no one was more supportive of dad and me making the move from Chicago to Colorado than Grandma and Grandpa. Which is pretty remarkable, since by then Grandma had been diagnosed with a rare and deadly form of melanoma. Ben, you were only about a year old at the time, so a move to Colorado meant Grandma and Grandpa would get to see their grandson even less. But when I told Grandma the news of my job offer, she didn’t skip a beat in encouraging me to go for it. I appreciated her unselfishness at the time, but my respect for her has deepened over the years as I’ve watched the two of you fly the coop, pursue your passions, and strive for independence.

Before she died I wrote a letter to Grandma thanking her for raising a son like Dad. I told her he was the light of my life, and that I believed he was the man he had become in large part because of her. There’s a certain confidence and stability in people who grow up knowing they are loved unconditionally by their parents, and Dad is one of those people. He was well-loved by both his parents of course, but most especially by Grandma. Here’s to you, Grandma Caryl. Long live summer shandies, goofy sweater vests, and well-loved sons.

caryl

copyright © 2011 Nan McCarthy

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2 Nan’s Top Secret Extra Special Super Duper 
Philosophy on How to Write A Book

  • October 21, 2013
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Writing

“If you find yourself coming up with a list of reasons why it’s not possible for you to get started on that book you say you’ve been wanting to write, you probably don’t want to write it badly enough.”

Nan McCarthy

(This article was originally published on the Rainwater Press website in 1996.)

Many people ask me how I go about writing a book. I have a very simple philosophy on how to approach the writing process. It’s called the Butt to Chair Philosophy. Here’s how it works: You put your butt in the chair and you start writing. You stay in the chair and keep writing until your butt hurts. You may get out of the chair for short periods of time such as when you have to pee or if it’s been more than 24 hours since you’ve last eaten or slept. Otherwise, keep your butt in the chair and don’t stop writing until you are finished with whatever it is you set out to write.

After I tell people about my Butt to Chair Philosophy, they laugh the appropriate length of time, then ask for my real answer on how to write a book. That is my real answer. It seems like an oversimplification of the writing process but what it boils down to is making writing a priority in your life. It’s about making a choice between watering the plants or organizing your files or cleaning your house or taking care of your children or working at some other job and writing. You can’t write and do something else at the same time, no matter how important or urgent the other thing may be. You have to make the decision to not do a lot of other things so that you can put your butt in the chair and keep writing until your head hurts and you begin to feel droplets of blood oozing from the pores in your forehead. (You might also find you enjoy this sort of thing but that’s a topic for an entirely different essay.)

I’m sorry to be impatient, but people who say they want to write yet who offer excuses for why they are not actually writing remind me of when our youngest son was three years old and he would try to get out of eating his broccoli. He never actually said he didn’t want to eat his broccoli. He instead came up with all sorts of reasons why he couldn’t pick up his fork and put the piece of broccoli in his mouth at that moment in time. He had to take a drink of milk. He had to go to the bathroom. He had to get his blankie. He had to eat his garlic bread first. He had to tell me something important. He had to have a different fork.

If you find yourself coming up with a list of reasons why it’s not possible for you to get started on that book you say you’ve been wanting to write, you probably don’t want to write it badly enough.

On the other hand, some nights our son would surprise us and actually eat his broccoli. He always started by putting his butt in the chair.

Your book will never get written unless you first put your butt in the chair. If your butt is not in the chair you probably don’t want to write that book, even if you say you do.

I am not your mother, but if you ask me how to write a book, I will tell you to put your butt in the chair, pick up your fork, and start writing.

copyright © 1996 Nan McCarthy

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7 Gray Hair

  • August 26, 2013
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Family

Gray hair might be fashionable now but it sure wasn’t hip when I first went au naturel in the ’90s.

Nan McCarthy

I started turning gray when I was 18, and I’ve had a full head of gray hair since my early 30s. (I’ll be 52 this October.) My dad, who died when he was 39 and I was 9, also had a full head of gray hair by the time he was 30. My natural hair color as a child was what they called “dishwater blonde”; I added blonde highlights from the time I was a teenager until I was about 32. It was then I noticed my roots looked white so I decided to stop coloring my hair and see what was underneath. I was surprised to find my hair had turned completely gray! That was 20 years ago and I haven’t colored my hair since.

When our boys were little (they’re young adults now) it was sometimes hard on them having a mom with gray hair—like when I picked them up at preschool and their new friends called out to let them know their “grandma” was here. It’s also a little weird running into people I knew in high school or college who haven’t seen me since then. I sometimes wonder if, when they’re trying to pull their gaze away from my white hair (as one does with a car wreck), they’re thinking, “Wow, she sure has AGED.” I’m looking forward to my 60s and 70s though, when people could conceivably say I haven’t aged a bit in 30 years—since I first went all-gray. I did say “conceivably.”

In spite of all that I like my full head of gray hair. There’s the obvious benefit of saving time & money not having to color my hair every 6 weeks. I also like the idea of embracing the aging process instead of trying to fight it. (Although I wouldn’t mind a few less crows’ feet and if my knees stopped making those squishy noises going up stairs.) But one of the reasons I love my gray hair most is that it’s something I inherited from my dad—a piece of him I’ll carry with me the rest of my life.

copyright © 2010 Nan McCarthy

nancy with the laughing face.crop 

photo by KMA Photography

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5 A Journey to the Center of Time

  • August 8, 2013
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Family · Parenting

Sending a child off to college prompts meditations on parenting and the passage of time.

Nan McCarthy

(This column originally appeared in August 2011 in the Kansas City Star.)

In his book Einstein’s Dreams, Alan Lightman describes a place where time stands still—where raindrops “hang motionless in air,” pendulums “float mid-swing,” and “pedestrians are frozen on the dusty streets.” He calls it the center of time. Lightman then asks, “Who would make pilgrimage to the center of time?” His answer: “Parents with children, and lovers.”

At this time of year when parents of college freshmen are packing up the car with mini-fridges, extra-long twin sheets sets, study pillows, and shower caddies, the wish to stop the pendulum, if even for just a few moments, is tempting. Amidst the trips to Target and Staples, the cleaning out of closets and keepsakes, the going-away parties and the final good-byes, it’s understandable to feel wistful for the years gone by and apprehensive about the months to come. We find ourselves remembering moments of innocence and joy when our children were young, and reflecting on our parenting in times of challenge. In these moments of reflection and reminiscence the wish to turn back the clock in order to relive the good times and perhaps get a “do-over” in the bad times is hard to resist.

Add to that the uncertainty and trepidation associated with sending our children off on their own to fend for themselves in an unknown universe where they’ll inevitably come face to face with life’s hardships and everyday challenges. It’s no wonder we find ourselves doling out last-minute advice and warnings to our children as we show them how to use their new ATM card, teach them to do a load of laundry, or gather around the kitchen table for one last family dinner. If only we could send our children out into the world with an amulet that would protect them from harm and tragedy and people with hate in their hearts.

In the place described by Lightman, where time stands still and parents can be seen “clutching their children in a frozen embrace that will never let go,” Lightman imagines a world where our children would “never grow wrinkled or tired,” “never get injured,” and “never know evil.” Yet Lightman also alludes to the trade-offs involved in wishing for this “eternity of contentment,” in which we are “fixed and frozen, like a butterfly mounted in a case.” To be suspended in time requires the absence of movement. A heart that stops beating feels neither pain nor joy. So the choice becomes to keep moving forward, and take the bitter with the sweet. “Life is a vessel of sadness,” Lightman writes, “but it is noble to live life, and without time there is no life.”

Barring amulets and the ability to stop the pendulum, as parents we must choose to bear these rites of passage with dignity and unselfishness. We remind ourselves that it’s not about us really—it’s about them after all—and that this is the way things are supposed to be. And so we seek a place of serenity in our hearts as we pull up to the dorm room, unload plastic storage bins, place fresh linens on the lofted dorm bed, hook up the new laptop, and wrap our arms around our child in one last embrace—offering an encouraging smile—before getting in the car to let the tears roll down our cheeks.

excited to be a hawkeye 
copyright © 2011 Nan McCarthy

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0 Coming Soon: work in progress

  • August 6, 2013
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog

Nan is currently working on a new novel. Watch this space for details in the coming months. Thanks for your support!

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Sunset in the Flint Hills

  • August 6, 2013
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Photos

1 Live ‘Til I Die: a memoir of my father’s life

  • December 6, 2001
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · biography/memoir · Blog · Books · Live ’Til I Die · Titles

Live ’Til I Die: a memoir of my father’s life
Nan McCarthy
(Rainwater Press, 2001) 246 pages, $14.95

In its opening pages, the final days of 39-year old Ben “Buddy” Johnson’s life are chronicled in excruciating detail through the eyes of ICU nurse Maggie Quinn. Here is the story of an alcoholic who doesn’t come out the other side—a brilliant, charismatic young man who comes of age on Chicago’s South Side in the 1940s and ‘50s, rises to prominence in his career as a trade-show executive at the Chicago Amphitheatre and McCormick Place in the 1960s, and dies horrifically of alcoholic cirrhosis in 1971, leaving a wife and two young daughters.

Thirty years later his youngest daughter sorts through the pieces of her father’s life by interviewing his boyhood friends. Through their alternately humorous and heart-wrenching stories, she learns about the man her father was before his mind and body were overcome by alcoholism. At once harrowing and hopeful, Live ‘Til I Die confronts the physical and emotional devastation wrought by chronic alcohol abuse—yet manages to offer up love, laughter, and tears while allowing a daughter to restore the memory of a father she barely knew.

“Studs Lonigan meets The Liar’s Club”

“Charts new territory in the field of addiction memoirs”

Click here for purchase information for Live ’Til I Die.

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Chat: a very modern love story

  • August 3, 1998
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Books · fiction · Titles

Chat: a very modern love story (Book 1)
Nan McCarthy
(Simon & Schuster, 1998) 123 pages, $6

Bev, a tough-minded book editor who’s been logging online for years, cautiously begins corresponding with Max, a restless advertising copywriter who strikes up an email conversation with her. With each email exchange, two people who are at first faceless come vibrantly alive through their sometimes serious, frequently entertaining, and always believable messages.

Readers won’t be able to resist the temptation to “eavesdrop” on Bev and Max’s intimate correspondence as she becomes less inhibited, he becomes more fascinated, and their relationship grows more intense. A tantalizing adventure, Chat brings romance into the age of technology with startling results.

“This is Chekhov for the ’90s: lust, romance, and adultery, cyber-style.” —Mademoiselle

“Draws you from page to page… Sequels are on the way, and I can hardly wait.” —The New York Times

“You won’t need a modem to appreciate the charm of this virtual romance.” —Glamour

“Bev and Max’s mingling is electric.” —Washington Post Book World

“A refreshing twist.” —Publishers Weekly

“Silicon Valley’s Story of O. From the first line, we’re hooked.” —House Organ: A Magazine of the Arts

“Takes a surprising, satisfying turn in a cliffhanger climax.” —Newcity Chicago

“A lively, free-flowing, spontaneous outburst of curiosity, anxiety and hope.” —Syracuse Herald-American

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0 Connect: a very modern love story

  • August 2, 1998
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Books · fiction · Titles

Connect: a very modern love story (Book 2)
Nan McCarthy
(Simon & Schuster, 1998) 125 pages, $6

In the second novel of her acclaimed cybertrilogy, Nan McCarthy continues the wild ride that began in Chat. Readers are irresistibly drawn from page to page while “eavesdropping” on the private email conversations of Bev and Max, two strangers who met online. Their lives now unexpectedly intertwined, Bev and Max reveal themselves only through what they choose to say—and leave unsaid—in their increasingly intimate correspondence.

With a gifted ear for the ups and downs of love in the age of technology, McCarthy creates a story that’s as seductive as it is surprising. Bev and Max’s sexually charged, humorous, and thought-provoking exchanges propel the reader into an online world that proves entertaining, addicting, and filled with unforeseen consequences.

“This is Chekhov for the ’90s: lust, romance, and adultery, cyber-style.” —Mademoiselle

“Draws you from page to page… Sequels are on the way, and I can hardly wait.” —The New York Times

“You won’t need a modem to appreciate the charm of this virtual romance.” —Glamour

“Bev and Max’s mingling is electric.” —Washington Post Book World

“A refreshing twist.” —Publishers Weekly

“Silicon Valley’s Story of O. From the first line, we’re hooked.” —House Organ: A Magazine of the Arts

“Takes a surprising, satisfying turn in a cliffhanger climax.” —Newcity Chicago

“A lively, free-flowing, spontaneous outburst of curiosity, anxiety and hope.” —Syracuse Herald-American

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Crash: a very modern love story

  • August 1, 1998
  • by Nan McCarthy
  • · Blog · Books · fiction · Titles

Crash: a very modern love story (Book 3)
Nan McCarthy
(Simon & Schuster, 1998) 125 pages, $6

The adventure chronicled in Chat and Connect, the first two novels in Nan McCarthy’s heralded cybertrilogy, comes to a jolting conclusion in Crash. As the reader continues to “eavesdrop” on the private email conversations of Bev and Max, two strangers who met online, their relationship grows more intense and complex than they ever imagined.

With a true storyteller’s flourish, McCarthy brings to a close a love story told entirely through two people’s impassioned exchanges. Laced with humor and provocative confessions, the tension-filled conclusion will leave readers thinking about Bev and Max long after the last page.

“This is Chekhov for the ’90s: lust, romance, and adultery, cyber-style.” —Mademoiselle

“Draws you from page to page… Sequels are on the way, and I can hardly wait.” —The New York Times

“You won’t need a modem to appreciate the charm of this virtual romance.” —Glamour

“Bev and Max’s mingling is electric.” —Washington Post Book World

“A refreshing twist.” —Publishers Weekly

“Silicon Valley’s Story of O. From the first line, we’re hooked.” —House Organ: A Magazine of the Arts

“Takes a surprising, satisfying turn in a cliffhanger climax.” —Newcity Chicago

“A lively, free-flowing, spontaneous outburst of curiosity, anxiety and hope.” —Syracuse Herald-American

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