Although I write this one day earlier than usual, I have been procrastinating all week.
Procrastination is a common character trait among writers. We will sometimes do anything and everything to avoid sitting in a chair and facing that dang blank page in front of us.
Even if it means doing something ridiculous like cleaning the house.
Mostly the reason I’ve been procrastinating is I feel like no matter what I write for this week’s subject matter, it cannot possibly be enough or do justice for the one about whom I’m writing.
And therein lies a profound awareness of my limited human existence.
This past week, I have spent much time on social media, sharing memories of my friend and former coworker, Mike “Murph” Murphy.
Many of you know of “Murph,” the name he was affectionately known by all of his friends and acquaintances.
Murph had many of both.
He spent 25 years of his journalism career working right here, in the heart of La Salle County. He wore many hats in his years at The Times Newspaper, and he wore all of them well.
Murph was born for journalism. He excelled at it. He gave it his all. And he expected the same out of those of us who were lucky enough to work alongside of him.
As his friends and colleagues remember him — many of us writers — I have been struck by the fact that no matter how we try, none of us can quite capture the vast spirit that was, and continues to be, “Murph.”
We all have plenty of memories, and we all have plenty of stories to share.
Murph is the type of character with such a wide array of endearing qualities, that he managed to create multitudes of unique and quirky memories for every single one of us.
While I love and miss all my friends in the newsroom, and have many memories about each of them, it seems as though Murph just keeps popping up in so many obscure ways.
Like, how he insisted the proper first reference any time I wrote about it was not simply “Engle Lane,” (which is in Streator) but “The William C. Schiffbauer Center for Performing Arts at Engle Lane.”
I’ll admit, that particular instance could be annoying, especially if I had quickly turned an article in late in a long day, and just wanted to call it quits. Before I could leave, my phone would ring, and Murph would remind me, perhaps for the 100th time, what was the proper usage.
As the features editor, Murph was on top of everything way in advance. He knew what was on tap weeks, and sometimes months ahead of time, and kept careful track when things needed to be done, and by whom.
For some of our individual features that weren’t due for weeks, Murph would often notify each of us, to remind us and ask us where we were with scheduling our interviews, or contacting the photo staff to arrange photos.
When I would see that message from him pop up, or receive his call asking where I was with any particular assignment, I would sometimes patiently, but incredulously say I didn’t have all my ducks in a row yet, so to speak, but not to worry. I would get on it. And I did.
Maybe he was contacting us because he was worried it wouldn’t get done, or maybe he was contacting us just as a friendly reminder of what was coming up, I don’t know.
But that is how Murph rolled in his job: conscientious, devoted, loyal, detailed.
Murph was a great employee.
But he was also a great co-worker and friend.
A regular descriptor that keeps coming up this week, is that Murph was the “social glue of the newsroom.”
He was the one who remembered obscure facts about every one he met, and he was sure to ask about these little trivialities somewhere in a random conversation. This was just one of the subtle ways he worked his magic.
He also was the one who was behind arranging employee events, whether formal or informal.
He had a heart for everyone he called friend, and he wanted to spend as much time with them as he could. He didn’t want the solid bonds that can develop in a newsroom to fade. He would do whatever he could to maintain them, whether that meant organizing a Times employee reunion, or just sending a random Facebook message weeks or months after we had seen or talked with one another.
I am writing this on St. Patrick’s Day, which is only appropriate. Murph was proud of his Irish heritage, and I am both heartened and saddened I happen to be writing it today, which was probably his favorite day of the year. Or maybe it was opening day for the Cubs, or any day that included Northern Illinois University football, or “The Lost Weekend” (an annual gathering with his journalism friends he had collected through the years), or any day playing trivia with friends, or well, hundreds of other things.
Murph was Murph.
In all of his friendliness, and his work ethic, and his love for music, movies, trivia, sports, and so much more, Murph lived his “Murphness,” as only he could.
He lived it brilliantly.
And everyone loved him — correction, loves him — for it.
- SPIRIT MATTERS is a weekly column that examines spirituality. Contact Jerrilyn Zavada at jzblue33@yahoo.com to share how you engage your spirit in your life and community.