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."
