On Saturday afternoons, my maternal grandmother, Nanny Kelly, used to take me, her first grandchild, to Mulligan’s Tavern in North Arlington, New Jersey, and prop me up on a barstool. I was barely past two years old and my mother thought she was taking me to the park. When we entered the dimly lit chamber, cheers of "Mrs. Kelly" rang out through the smoke of pipes and cigarettes and the odor of beer and pretzels. The bartender brought me a glass of ginger ale, plopped in a cherry and a red cellophane straw and asked me what I was going to sing for them. In her thick Irish brogue, Nanny would say, "go ahead, child, sing for the lad." God Bless America was the only piece in my limited repertoire and I sang my little heart out, offering up some stiff competition for Kate Smith, to be sure. Everyone clapped and threw coins on the bar and I was happy knowing I had done something absolutely wonderful. Nanny never drank alcohol and detested its use in any form. Legend had it, however, that she had quite a reputation during Prohibition in the 20’s for making bathtub gin and reaping a tidy profit for the effort. She emigrated from Ireland when she was in her early 30’s, lived and worked as a domestic in New York City and never got past her pub days in rural Ireland as the pubs there were the only vehicle for socializing. They still are the only meeting place for neighbors in agricultural regions of the country. Mulligan’s was a pub to her way of thinking and neither age nor gender prevented one from going there. I don’t know how many gigs I had at Nanny’s favorite haunt, but when my father found out where the fists full of change came from, my career as a saloon singer came to a screeching halt.

She never owned, nor drove, a car, relying solely on public transportation or her own two feet. A telephone was not a necessity and neither was a bank account. Her wardrobe consisted of three main colors, black, white and gray and I never saw her in shoes that didn’t lace, weren’t black and didn’t have big, chunky heels. My mother bought her a pair of white summer shoes and she refused to wear them stating they made her feet look like they belonged to Minnie Mouse. Print dresses in black, white and gray were occasionally worn with a hand made lace collar around her neck. She had perfect attendance at daily mass and never went anywhere without a hat and gloves. She thought nothing of boarding a train, or a bus, and skillfully navigated her way through the New York subway system when a destination was sought. She was famous for just showing up at the house of relatives in nearby towns or in Brooklyn where one of her nieces lived with her husband and a growing brood of children. She always arrived unannounced and it was understood that she was staying for a few days. Sleeping accommodations were simply arranged without question. With each visit she never arrived empty handed, either bringing the requisite chicken, a home made pie, or a dozen eggs, sometimes all three.

After the birth of my brother, my parents bought their first house in Arlington about a mile or so away from where we lived, and the now off-limits, Mulligan’s Tavern. Nanny showed up regularly to take me off with her promising to skip the bar scene, and we rode the big bus to her destination of the day. On one occasion, we went to a local chicken farm where she selected the catch of the day by pointing to the fattest birds on the lot. The owner grabbed the unsuspecting chickens by the neck, wrung them like yo-yos, and in one motion flung them onto a chopping block where he cut off their heads and feet. The poor things were stripped of their feathers as one would remove an article of clothing. Seeing the look of horror on my face, the man gave me one of the feet and showed me where the tendon was that activated the motion of the foot. I cried all the way home, inconsolable over the fate of those poor chickens now wrapped in brown paper resting comfortably in Nanny’s shopping bag. Once again she and my father had a little talk about her choice of entertainment for a child. They seemed to eye each other suspiciously after that putting my mother in the middle of it all. Chickens seemed to be the mainstay of her diet as her house always smelled of boiling chickens either for a hearty soup with noodles or a stew with potatoes and vegetables. To this day, the aroma of boiling chickens evokes the sweetest memories. Conversely, on many occasions the smell emanating from a kettle of kidney stew left no doubt in the minds of her neighbors as to the contents of an evening’s meal.

I never knew my maternal grandfather, Thomas Michael Kelly, as he died before I was born. He was from County Claire in Ireland and Nanny was from County Wicklow. I don’t remember her talking about him at all. Her parents deceased, Nanny was the only member of her immediate family to come to the states, leaving her sisters and one brother back in Ireland. She and Thomas evidently met in New York, but the details of their meeting remain a mystery. The were both in their forties when they married and eventually moved to New Jersey. Nanny was 44 when my mother, their only child, was born. She was fiercely independent throughout most of her life, held strong opinions on just about everything, and seemed to never tire of telling my mother how to run her life. During most of her spontaneous road trips to relatives, she was relentless in offering tips on how to run their households as well. They called her Aunt Mary and she was revered and feared at the same time. She was a formidable presence under any circumstance. My mother confessed to me in later years that she was always intimidated by her, but held the hope that one day she could be one tenth the woman her mother was. I thought this was very sad for both of them. They never really knew each other. One source of contention between them was my name. I was born on December 8, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a high holy day in the Catholic Church. According to Nanny, I should have been called Mary, after the Blessed Mother and her, not necessarily in that order, however. She contended that Carol was not a saint’s name and never missed an opportunity to remind my mother of this. I came to realize that this was probably one of only a few times that my mother actually held her ground with her. I took Mary as a Confirmation name and there was peace in the land, at least momentarily. She had a thing about the manner in which people addressed each other. She was horrified that my mother and her friends were on a first name basis. Nanny and her good friend of many years, Julia Walsh, addressed each other as Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Walsh during their entire lifetimes.

Nanny’s house was a one level bungalow a few miles from our house. The living room was furnished with overstuffed chairs and a day bed that served as my guestroom when I came to spend the night. There were a few tables bedecked with lamps of various vintages and articles she called "sovyeners", also known as souvenirs. Her sewing machine was forever draped in fabric for one project or another and her knitting basket was never out of reach. During the war her prodigious knitting skills produced sweaters, gloves, and socks for the boys overseas prompting my father to affectionately nickname her Madam De Farge. Her bedroom held the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. It had a wrought iron bed frame with some of the white paint chipped off. The bed was so high off the floor she used a step stool to climb up. On occasion she let me sleep there with her, but relegated me back to the day bed in short order after she was almost knocked out of bed one night with my alleged kicking. The dresser and the walls of this room were literally covered with pictures of the priests, some from her days in Ireland, others she met during life in New York before she was married. The rest were currently in her own parish, Fathers Byrne and Quinn and the sure-to-be a saint, Monsignor Murphy. It could have been the bedroom walls of a modern teen with pictures of rock stars and sports figures instead of the revered priests. Little altars were erected everywhere decorated with various sizes and shapes of votive holders containing the customary beeswax candles. One of the priests from our parish was Father Washington who was one of the celebrated Four Chaplains who lost their lives in World War II. His shrine totally eclipsed the others who had certainly not attained this level of reverence in her estimation. Her kitchen was a typical country kitchen with a farmer’s table in the middle of the room. We always had a "nice cup of tea" together at that table. Her scent, a mixture of camphor and lavender, remains in the archives of my memory to this day. In one corner of the kitchen there was a wooden icebox with three doors. The ice man came once a week to deliver the block of ice that kept the contents of the box from spoiling. I watched in awe as the man effortlessly lifted the block of ice with huge tongs and deftly inserted it behind one of the three doors. In those days her house seemed infinitely more exciting than mine and I just loved being with her.

When I was in 1^st grade, Nanny landed the job of a lifetime…at least for her it was. The parish priests needed a full time cook and Nanny was hired for the job.

Shortly before my family moved to the Jersey Shore, Nanny sold her little house in Arlington and moved in with her long time friend and recently widowed, Mrs. Walsh. They continued their daily pilgrimage to morning mass and were front row players at the church’s weekly Bingo games. She was more than a frequent visitor to our house and soon attained the status of a built-in baby sitter.

My younger brother Johnny was on the scene by then and from the moment he was born, Nanny was in awe of this little guy. He was a child graced with an easy-going temperament, seemed to be perpetually happy and became the shining light in Nanny’s eyes. He also replaced me as the singer of the family. She called him her Little Primrose and took him everywhere with her. She taught him to sing little Irish ditties from the time he was two and he’d belt them out like a little trooper. He was a very engaging little boy with a head full of blond curls and a smile armed with enough charm to warm the coldest heart. She loved taking him to the playground where he sang for anyone who would listen. She swore the neighborhood dogs lined up for a concert he was that good. One of his favorite songs was Cruisin’ Down the River and he’d ride his tricycle up and down the driveway singing away with Nanny watching him from the front porch. Mother seemed to think he was the little boy she never had. Today, John is an accomplished musician and singer living in San Francisco. Nanny would have been very proud.

After my father died, Nanny lived with us on and off. She clearly missed the roots she had set down in north Jersey and settled in on a lifestyle that evolved into living 2 or 3 months with us and 2 or 3 months back in Arlington with Mrs. Walsh. Mother’s disposition took on a significant uplift during Nanny’s hiatuses. There was a steady stream of friction between her and my mother as Nanny continued her efforts to "control every aspect of my life" as mother so eloquently put it.

When my mother remarried, I was 16. Nanny was anything but a happy camper about this union as Bob was 30 years older than my mother and a non-Catholic, the more grievous of the two unforgivable sins. Nanny’s attitude toward him redefined the term hostility. She never missed an opportunity to find what she perceived as a major flaw in his character thus escalating the World War III atmosphere between her and my mother. She consistently referred to him as the "That Old Man" and seemed to have no qualms about being openly hateful to him. Fortunately he got a kick out of her and treated her with utmost respect, despite her incessant grumblings. When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer Bob set up a room for her in our house with a hospital bed and he became her chief caregiver. The nurse that came in regularly to bathe her and check her condition marveled at the quality of care he provided. It didn’t take long for him to become elevated to the status of a saint and she couldn’t sing his praises loud enough. Mother did more than her share to ensure her comfort, but Bob always got top billing. Bob was a gourmet cook and provided her with interesting as well as comforting, familiar dishes. Mother arranged for one of the parish priests to come once a week to give Nanny communion as she was pretty much bedridden at this point in her illness. On one occasion, Father Leadem, a very solemn, stone-faced priest came with the sacrament. As sick as she was, Nanny managed to straighten herself up and announce, "Glory be to God, they’ve sent me the Wooden Statue. Did God not give you a smile, lad?" He was not amused.

I was up late studying in my dorm room the night Nanny died. Lights were supposed to be out at midnight and when I looked at the clock it was five minutes past. I decided to live dangerously hoping the nun known as the night stalker was sound asleep and continued with what I was doing. All of a sudden, the door flew open and slammed into the wall. A rush of cold wind filled up the room and just as quickly diminished. My dorm mates and I were into playing practical jokes on each other and I thought this might be one in the making. I went out into the hallway to check it out and saw that no light was coming from any of the transoms over the doors. Since it was a bitterly cold November night, no windows were open either. The next morning there was a note on my door telling me to call my mother. I knew something was wrong and mother told me that Nanny had died at 12:05 am. Mother and Bob were with her when she made the transition. To this day, I still think, Nanny came by that night to say good bye to me. It was November 2, the feast of All Souls.