The Old Neighborhood: Remembering Mike Murphy

(can you find me?)

When I was born, we lived on Foundry St in South Easton. The “old neighborhood,” as I now call it, involved a series of 7 or so raised ranch houses, each residing on a couple of acres of wetland, and the houses were all connected by one common “lawn,” as it sprawled for a quarter of a mile or more, connecting all the houses. It was a “green” highway, long before the environmentalists coined the phrase, and we’d ride our bikes over and through and around our neighbor’s lawns, back and forth between the two “boundries” of the Shaw’s on the western side, and the Willins’ on the east. Back and forth we’d go—Willins, then Marchants, Murphy’s, Browns, Penny’s, my house, Gryniuks, Goods, and Shaw’s. Springs, summers, and falls were endless bike rides, pick-up football games, and waffle ball tournaments.

Mike Murphy was first “best friend;” we lived three houses away from one another, we attended the same nursery school class, and we were inseparable until middle school, when he went his way (hockey, Xaverian “private school,” and a different social circle) and I went mine (books, Oliver Ames “public school.”). I think it’s a rite of passage affecting all of us—we had friends with whom we thought we were inseparable….those “endless summer” friends with whom we tossed the baseball until it was bath time and the last light of the purplish 8:30 sky began to slide beneath the earth. We have these friends and they weave the fabric of our lives; they affect us in rich and profound ways, and then they are gone—geographically, socially, and academically. Life was so innocent and innocuous when we were young—the world only existed for the quarter of mile of Foundry Street we knew. The “outside” was invisible.

When the news came this past weekend that Michael Murphy died in his sleep, I felt a wave of surrealistic awe. Life had moved on for both of us, and I hadn’t spoken, in person, to Mike for probably 15 years. Facebook brought us together in a sort of way, as we became “friends” a couple of years ago. In fact, Facebook was a way for all of us to re-connect, as former “Eastoners” got together this week to mourn, write, and pay respects to Mike. Why do we do this? Why is there this need to reconnect with our past? For me, I find solace in knowing that others remember what I remember….that others have lived a common life, that there is this anchor and this “place” to where we can return. I am comforted knowing that even though I may live in Fairfield Maine, teaching English, and even though Mike Murphy may be the vice president of a stock broking firm, we still share a commonality—the commonality of scuffed up baseballs thrown back and forth, wrestling matches in each others basements, and muddy shoes and socks from exploring the wetlands of our oaky woods backyards. Sometimes the world gets really big and it’s just nice to know you have a past.

When I logged on to Facebook this morning, folks living hundreds of miles away from me (and from Mike) have all re-centered themselves to pay homage to a life cut way too short. People have returned “home,” even if in the broad spectrum as the World Wide Web. His passing has brought old friends together once again, and I find this riveting. As an English teacher, I’m reminded by a book by Tom Wolfe called “You Can’t Go Home Again.” The slogan is an adage to which many adhere. But this I believe: A piece of us never truly “leaves” home, so we need to fear an inability to return. As humans, with souls and hearts (and Bluetooth wireless, iPods, and 80 hour per week jobs) I think we sometimes become unaware of the way our bodies exist as fragments—some residing in the past, and some in the present.

Michael Murphy’s passing, for me, is a commentary of our own mortality; its not so much a “wake up call” for living life to its fullest and seizing the day—although for many it could be. But, for me, his death strikes a powerful chord regarding the need to stay grounded in a past. Someplace. We all have a rich, full past if we choose to acknowledge those parts, separating those memories from the more perilous and disdainful ones. Now, 31 and a husband and father, it is awe inspiring to see how far we’ve all come away from our once sacred childhood grounds. And its not that I have any regrets—on the contrary I now live a very fulfilling life. I guess its just that the death of a childhood friend makes you think about things a bit. It’s a comforting lesson in this big scary world to know that you don’t in fact ever leave home. And that is a good thing. Its good to have a place.

Rest in peace, my friend.