Monday, April 16, 2012

Father's Day with Joe and the Boys




At 82 years of age, a defibrillator in his chest, emphysema in his lungs and cancer in his prostate, he smoked a pack a day. Kools. Every now and then I would have one with him. The experience kept me from being a serious smoker.

Joseph Charles Murphy, 3rd generation Irish American, the youngest of five children in a staunchly Catholic family, rampant with alcoholism and all the dysfunction it spawned. He and his 3 brothers went to war in the 1940's. Joe was barely 19. He worked in supply and maintenance as a U.S. Army Air Corp specialist and spent 18 months in England in the 362nd P51 Fighter Squadron ("Chuck Yaeger's group. Greatest guy I ever met"… must have told me a thousand times in the 30 years I have been married to his oldest daughter, Connie). And after VE Day in '45', he spent 6 months in Munich near the Dachau Concentration Camp. Joe rarely spoke of this.

In May of 2004, when the all-powerful and self-important men in Washington eventually got around to it, when 75% of the men and women who saved the world from tyranny in WWII were gone, when the honor could no longer be ignored, a memorial was finally dedicated. On the television we watched the white haired, bent and weathered gathering of those to whom we owed so much.

The crowning glories of Joe's life were his 6 children. Three sons, now men, quickly grasped the opportunity and within days, the plans were made. Each brother had his own strengths and I marveled to watch them as they worked together on the trip.

Sunday, Fathers Day, standing on the edge of the World War II Memorial, the refection pool before us and beyond that the Lincoln Memorial. The Washington Monument was casting it's shadow from behind. We stalked the circumference cautiously, observing the crowds; mostly young families, kids, teens on skate boards and bicycles, milling around the interior, bathing their feet at the fountains edge, taking pictures of rock and sculpture, words carved in granite. We had expected crowds of elderly veterans. There were scarce few.

As walked down the ramp toward the interior, Joe stopped and read the memorial pictures, cards, notes tacked on the wall by each state's column. On the far side of the memorial we found the Maine column, took pictures and felt a sense of pride.

Joe clasped his hands behind his back and walked silently through the crowds. There seemed to be a parting of the crowd for him and the few other gray hairs. When the WWII Vets did walk past each other, there was little conversation. A nod, a passing greeting, seldom more. It was as though they did not care to speak of it, but honored each other in their special way.

Several younger people approached Joe, shook his hand and thanked him for what he had done in the war. Joe's reply…"I didn't do much…". He didn't speak of the death of his brother-in law at St. Lo or of the terrible wounding of his brother Dickie, or of the suffering of any of his brothers, his friends or his generation. A truly humble man.

The sun was dropping when he said, "Let's go back". He meant back to the hotel. Back to the U.S. Open and to a cold O'Doul's and a Dove Bar. Back to our conversations, invariably about another person who was always "the greatest guy I ever met".

Considering his "family of origin" it would be extraordinary if Joe hadn't battled booze in his life. They say it wasn't pretty, .One of the boys told me " Glen, you don't know the way it was. You weren't there."  He was right and I shut my mouth. But what I wanted to say was, "You're right. I didn't know the way it was. I only know Joe now and "he's the greatest guy I ever met."

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