Makar Murphy

Excerpt -- "Crazy" -- novel in progress

Fri, 11 May 2012 08:34:00 -0400

I often wish I were a drug addict. Or an alcoholic. Then, I could give up my vices, get myself and my life in order, and everyone would welcome me back — the prodigal daughter, fresh from rehab, having dropped 40 pounds with a new health club membership, firm, foxy, with a new outlook on life.

“God, you look mah-velous! It’s wonderful to have you back, Nan!” But I’m not an alcoholic, or an addict. As a matter of fact, my name’s not Nan. It’s Patricia. Patricia Miller.

And what I am is crazy. No ten-week stay in a clinic, no treadmill, no amount of will power, is ever going to put my life in order. Some people think it’s because my mother died of breast cancer, leaving me the functional mom of my four brothers at the age of 12. I don’t know. That may have caused my anorexia during my teen years. But why it would launch panic attacks in my forties…well, that psychobabble doesn’t help anyway. Finding the supposed causes just gives doctors a label to hang around your neck. And after having one or two or three hung around mine, I discovered a nasty little secret. Not a one of them has an instruction for recovery attached. No cures, just a name for how absolutely shitty you feel. Agorophobic? Depressed? Anxious? Maybe. Sure. Why not? But why not just say, “Crazy” and get it over with? A rose by any other name…

I’ve never really been quite right. I mean, take for example my disdain for highways. I can’t drive on them. I’ll be a reluctant passenger all right, but a driver, never. Absolutely never. A fear clutches me that’s so intense I just about have to drive over the guardrail to escape.

Picture a cat that doesn’t want to be given a bath and you’ll get a pretty good idea of the attitude my psyche is taking. I’ve discovered more back road ways to get from here to there than any other person in Youngstown. That’s me. I don’t like it any more than you do.

Then there’s performing. Now, not just anything. Some things, like speaking in front of a classroom, I’m fine with. But piano playing — that’s a disaster. I begin all right and then it’s like a freight train starts pounding down through my brain. I sweat. A roaring fills my ears and I get whoosey. If I’m lucky, I finish at break neck speed and no one is any the wiser. If I’m not… well, it hasn’t happened yet, cause I don’t play in public anymore.

Okay, so a little Zoloft might help. I’ve tried it. Not that I’m one of those middle aged women bouncing from drug to drug. I have three kids, two planned, one a lovely surprise (honestly, now that I have him, I know that), so I can’t exactly live on Planet Krypton or anything. And besides, deep down inside, I have a secret fear than any drug will lead me down the path my mother followed. The doctors? Well, they aren’t all that smart, after all, are they?

“Hormone replacement therapy, Nan.”

“Estrogen?”

“That’s right.”
“But my mother died of breast cancer.”

“You certainly wouldn’t be at risk with these.”

And so I just smile and go home and wish I had a different doctor.

Of course, I don’t go home via the freeway.

Fish auction, Moraira, Spain by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 08:40:30 -0500

Fish auction, Moraira, Spain

by Diane Makar Murphy

Poland Woods, Ohio by Diane Makar Murphy

Tue, 14 Feb 2012 12:06:05 -0500

Poland Woods, Ohio

by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 12:04:05 -0500

by Diane Makar Murphy

Storybook Dog

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 06:00:28 -0500

Update: This essay was written seven years ago. Zeke is now 14 and somewhat more mellow.

Last night, I sat in front of the TV and massaged the shaggy front paws of my dog, Zeke. Zeke, who is seven years old, just discovered he likes massages.

There’s a bit of irony in Zeke lying down next to me like that, because, though he is the sweetest, most wonderful dog in the world… to me… much of the time, the rest of the time, and to most other people, Zeke is a grade A curmudgeon.

If you tell Zeke “Good Night,” he grunts all the way to his bed, and then, he growls if you pet him.

If a friend of my daughter or son stops by, no matter how many times he or she has visited, Zeke barks so hard that he lifts himself off the floor, like one of those remote control dogs on the table in front of a toy store.

Zeke doesn’t like to be touched by non-family members; so if my kids’ friends try, Zeke delivers a deep, throaty warning, and they stop.

Also, during these teen visits, Zeke rushes to empty his food bowl, because he knows for a fact that teenagers thrive on Purina Beneful.

When the postal person delivers our mail, Zeke charges the front door and slams into it like Bobby Orr. If his arch enemy Luigi, the Jack Russel, runs up the street, Zeke catapults from window to window.

Zeke also has a problem with his food. I used to watch Animal Precinct where ASPCA workers rescue and adopt out dogs. I’m pretty sure, they would euthanize Zeke. Adoptable dogs play nice with their food; Zeke stiffens, and growls. He doesn’t snap, but that’s a fine point. The stiffening and growling are plenty effective.

You’re probably wondering what my problem is. After all, other people have scary dogs. There are dobies and Shephards and pit bulls. The thing is, they look scary. Zeke, on the other hand, looks like a dog who.. well… who would like a massage. He’s a beardie mix, a little sheep dog clone, and he’s irresistible. I feel more than a little dishonest.

Last summer, as my husband and I sat at an outdoor café, with Zeke at our feet, a lady gasped, “Oh my goodness! That’s a storybook dog!”

I choked on my bagel.

People stop all the time and ask to pet him.

“Oh, what a cute dog!”

“He’s beautiful!”

“What kind is he??”
“Well, put your hand on him, and you’ll find out.”

Though I think that, I don’t actually say it. After all, if someone croons, “What a Storybook Dog!” who am I to destroy the illusion? More importantly, I don’t want to held accountable for Zeke’s curmudgeonhood.

When children run down to the street to try and pet Zeke during our walks, I just rush him on and act like I don’t see them. When cars slow down, and passengers point and smile at Zeke, I smile back. They’re all thinking “Storybook Dog.”

If my friends spot Zeke in the car and he barks hysterically, I say, “He’s really nice; he’s just protecting the car.” They think it must be true, because, look at him – he’s a storybook dog.

I try not to judge Zeke too harshly for being a curmudgeon. I try to understand where he’s coming from. I wouldn’t much like strangers running their hand over my hair or children tugging at my ears. I wouldn’t want someone sticking their fingers into my dinner plate, and I wouldn’t care to be told when to go to bed, either.

As to the postal person coming to my house, I’m okay with that.

At any rate, I feel that I am completely living a lie with Ezekiel. After all, if he’s a Storybook Dog, the story must be Little Red Riding Hood.

Pilot flying over the Black Hills. by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 05:30:49 -0500

Pilot flying over the Black Hills.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Along the Greenway Trail, Ohio. by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 13 Feb 2012 05:26:00 -0500

Along the Greenway Trail, Ohio.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Moriaria, Spain by Diane Makar Murphy

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 06:36:04 -0500

Moriaria, Spain

by Diane Makar Murphy

Dusk, late autumn in Ohio by Diane Makar Murphy

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 22:58:00 -0500

Dusk, late autumn in Ohio

by Diane Makar Murphy

Spain en route to Madrid. by Diane Makar Murphy

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 22:55:04 -0500

Spain en route to Madrid.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Greenway Trail, Ohio by Diane Makar Murphy

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 15:04:35 -0500

Greenway Trail, Ohio

by Diane Makar Murphy

Long day — return from Ellis Island by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 18:18:23 -0500

Long day — return from Ellis Island

by Diane Makar Murphy

An Ordinary Day

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 20:43:42 -0500

There are days that are just different by their nature – like a day last summer that inspired me to sit down and write a poem… something I rarely do.

It was a strange day. The weather was autumn-like in the middle of July. The sky was so dark and overcast that the sun didn’t shine at all. On top of that, I recall a light drizzle from dawn on.

But what made this day spectacular wasn’t the quirky weather, it was what happened when I took my dog for a walk.

A butterfly started following us. Zeke, a 45-pound Bearded Collie, noticed it right away. He started to watch it, and so did I. The butterfly didn’t care. The beautiful, yellow and black creature flew along with us for at least a minute, weaving in and out, carried by its wings and the currents of air.

And it followed my dog and me so closely that once,

when it alighted on the pavement, the dog actually touched it with his nose.

And when the big black muzzle gently nudged the small wing, the butterfly didn’t even move.

Wow! I’m 48, but I’d never seen anything like that before.

Things like that grab your attention. Days like that grab your attention. They make you start to notice things, thing you ought not be ignoring.

For example, that day I saw, as if for the first time, a home just a block from mine – a home I’d never paid attention to before.

It was beautiful. Its drive glistened from the day-long rain. And trees drooped over a deep green lawn that rose briefly to a cozy, little bungalow, lit from within by yellow lamp light.

I began to wonder who lived there. It was 5:30 in the early evening, and I imagined dinner cooking. I started to daydream. I supposed children were washing their hands and pouring the milk. I imagined the family had a fireplace and a yellow lab named Trooper.

Up the street, I noticed red and yellow flowers newly planted and pink perennials whose bulbs had been in the ground for years.

At another house, Hosta tumbled from planters. Lawns were edged and planting beds were mulched.

I saw it all, everything I hadn’t paid attention to just the day before.

It’s at times like those – not every day, because it’s not every day that one can see so clearly — that I think I could live out my whole life in a little neighborhood where people love their homes.

This would surprise some of my friends who’ve heard me groan about Ohio’s weather, who’ve listened in on my perennial discontent about jobs, and clothes, and my looks, and any number of “uncomfortable” things.

But, I think there’s a certain contentment that is almost within reach, a realization that much of what we seek is really inside of us. And that it’s in the stopping that we finally notice it.

Of course, this is nothing new. I’ve heard it before, and so have you And, frankly, I believed it all along. But, I rarely felt it. Not like I did on that different day, that day that made me stop.

Months have past since that walk, and the holidays are here and I’m rushing to and fro again. I’m earning and spending and focusing on all the wrong things.

But, at least for one day, an unusual, ordinary day, I noticed a butterfly and had it all figured out.

by Diane Makar Murphy

New York City by Diane Makar Murphy

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 20:33:00 -0500

New York City

by Diane Makar Murphy

Moraira, Spain by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 12:49:00 -0500

Moraira, Spain

by Diane Makar Murphy

Boardman Park by Diane Makar Murphy

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 12:47:47 -0500

Boardman Park

by Diane Makar Murphy

Lakota construction worker on reservation, South Dakota. by...

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 18:44:42 -0500

Lakota construction worker on reservation, South Dakota.

by Diane Makar Murphy

Gates Pass, Tucson, Arizona by Diane Makar Murphy

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 18:39:52 -0500

Gates Pass, Tucson, Arizona

by Diane Makar Murphy

The Endless Shower

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 08:56:51 -0500

…I cannot tell you exactly how she ended up in the shower, or how it was we had to call hotel maintenance to take the door from its hinges to get her out, or if she had planned it all along (although I think she did). What I can say unequivocally is that she would have stayed in there until she shriveled up into a little wrinkled prune capable of washing down the drain… or died…

Boardman Park, Boardman, Ohio. by Diane Makar Murphy

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 08:39:00 -0500

Boardman Park, Boardman, Ohio.

by Diane Makar Murphy