Old Man Murphy
Old man Murphy could be seen in his yard bent over with sweat staining the back of his pastel polyester dress shirt. The cuffs of his pleated trousers covered in rich black soil were evidence of his labors. He would look up as we passed by, smile out of the corner of his mouth, and wave. “Mom, could I go over and help a while,” I begged. Hearing the usual, “Be home before dark,” which of course I never was. Then, of course, no one cared to notice.
As soon as the car rolled to a stop, I would swing open its doors running toward my bike. It took a few tries to kick clear my banana bike off its bent stand but soon enough I would be off and pedaling. Down one hill and up another I would race until I caught that familiar plot of land in my view. Cutting across a lawn of abundant crab grass, Japanese daffodils and a rainbow burst of bearded tulips, my bike slammed to a stop only to be discarded near a pile of moldy manure. I could not loose time to park for fear of loosing daylight.
Ol’ Murphy, as we called him, was very popular with the neighborhood kids, a regular Pied Piper some parents said. Woo the children he did – with tootsie-roll-pops and cherry sodas… and just about everything else, our mothers refuse us. Candy was not the only lure, at Halloween he would rally us all together to put on a haunted house. It would be a theatrical affair for everyone to come and see. The haunting was competitive too. Each year the newer group of kids would try to outdo the last haunted performance. I did not dare join in for I did not fit into that gang of teens besides they really did scare me. Christmas would not to be forgotten either. Ol’ Murphy’s house was filled with frosted sugar cookies, molasses and cocoa treats and kids who came to help with the lights and tree and small gifts for all. Always something going on at Ol’ Murphy’s and most of us kept it passionately close-in, as if it was our very own Never-never-land. Protecting our fort and keeping it somewhat secret from the grownups, we pinky vowed with our fingers hooked together not to tell. Maybe we feared the magic spell would spoil. Maybe we just feared the world, in general, outside. In any case, it was our Never-never-land and I personally savored it.
Setting aside his best gifts of chocolate and cookies for later, he explained, he offered us popsicles to exchange for yard chores and housework. We were enticed to weed gardens, or clean out trashcans, and do whatever else he invented for us to do. He would offer these treats and even a story or two when we were finished and this in particular attracted me. It was in his side-yard bordered by Silver Queen corn and marigolds where a vegetable garden strived for sun smack in the middle that I learned about green peppers or “bell” peppers, as he liked to say. He taught me to eat them plucked off the plant like an apple, making sure I would wipe the mud on my dungaree cutoffs first. I do this even now. Oh, how I cherished the most the allure of Ol' Murphy's homemade kool-aid freezer pops in Dixie cups. When the humidity and temperatures in Annapolis rose, so did the number of kids at Ol’ Murphy’s place, sucking on the icy cold syrupy sweets.
I noticed that some of the older kids did not have to earn the ice cream bars but he did not seem to mind. They said Ol’ Murphy was just being nice, after all, he had known them a long time. I agreed that he was generous, besides it was fun to hang out and eat all that candy. Furthermore, at ten going on eleven years old, I needed him too. My own parents were always gone, preoccupied with busy lives, which left me on my own most days until dark. The company and conversation of that old man helped subdue an ache of loneliness and neglect I felt. He talked and listened and was the best ol’ story teller ever, even if he was kinda’ different. Ol’ Murhpy could talk about anything as though it was his personal invention and tell us about anything we wanted to know such as life, parents, boyfriends…even gardening.
He sure was the best gardener in the neighborhood. Why, every year he won the Gardeners Guild award for something. Even won an award for his green and yellow hybrid peppers, which I suppose were the envy of his peers, my own mother being one of them. Yes, he had a green thumb, of course with our help. On several occasions, he even paid me money to work and I discovered later that I was one of the few. This boosted my self-esteem and I endeavored to receive that honor again.
Many seasons passed and my assiduous determination to be a gardener like Ol’ Murphy had honed my skills and I was now gardening at home for a small allowance. This gave me an idea. I mustered together my courage and approached Ol’ Murphy with my proposition. “How ‘bout I come work every weekend and you can pay me what you want? I mean if that’s o.k. and all…” I stammered. He bent his head toward me cupping his huge hand around a sun-spotted ear. I offered my proposal again, this time a little louder. He only laughed a slow billowing draw, “Weeelll, Kath, No, I don’t ‘spose I need Ya’ all that much but maybe one of ‘eese days. Why’n, you’re just still a kid. What, you’r’n not much older than 12 or so, I’d say?”
I frowned down at the ground. Admittedly, I was still smaller than most of the ones that hung around his house. Grabbing the hose covered in clay, I continued to move it from one corn hill to the next, still hearing his low grunting chuckle. Most certainly, I still did not understand, but determination brought me back repeatedly. Pulling, raking, hauling until my body hurt trying for another quarter and dime from him. I would first start up one row and then down the other, yanking greenish brown thorny weeds from their cradles, making my hands smell of dandelion and thistle. Most of my efforts were acknowledged with a wink, or sometimes a thank you, and, on occasion, there was an invitation to watch movies on his colored console T.V. with the older kids. The latter being a real treat because Ol’ Murphy was the only one I knew who owned a color T.V. set.
Summertime ended into autumn, and soon winter passed making room for spring break. I would pass the time by breaking rules my mother said would cause the “homeowners association" to call. My favorite defiance was riding renegade-like on a borrowed pony through the paved streets with my holsters on trotting across manicured lawns. There was also breaking the ice at the Sand-spit by the boats, hoping I did not fall in. If it suited there was always breaking the windows at Willow Hall. Usually though, I ended up breaking ground for onion sets at Ol’ Murphy’s. These were lonely times because my only friend, Tracy, was not afforded my freedoms. Tracy was especially not allowed down at Ol’ Murphy’s. Her mother did not like him, but I disregarded her, as she did not like me either, for that matter. She and the other women rumored about Ol’ Murphy being a loner with strange habits, but then, so was I. There was gossip about his wife being gone for some time, leaving him without a woman. However, I discounted their judgment. After all, they did not know him as we did. To me they were just a bunch of shallow housewives, who did not have to work and who certainly did not understand people as I did. What did they ever do for the likes of me? Except curl up their noses at children whose parents both had to work.
Another year passed though, and the curse of their remarks began easing into my thoughts and nagging. Why did those older kids hang around doing nothing? Ol’ Murphy was not that interesting. An answer became clear in my thirteenth year. Ol’ Murphy had said that it was o.k. if I came over that Saturday to put in the Big Boy tomato sets. I showed up mid-day to find a group of teens at his house. These were the usual crowd from the lower side of the neighborhood, and not the kind I liked. They were already experimenting in “stuff” including alcohol and weed, which they bragged about all over high school. I had entered inside, something I seldom dared, to ask a relatively important question about the tomato’s depth, but now felt self-conscious and anxious to get out of there. A teenage sipping on a drink in front of the T.V. told me that Ol’ Murphy was in the kitchen and I followed the faded Oriental rug in the hall to the back of the house. The smell of mold, seed pots, and aftershave greeted me as I found Ol’ Murphy sitting at the table. The shade was drawn and my eyes adjusted slowly to the figure of a girl on his lap. I was immediately embarrassed when I noticed his hand on her chest. She was wearing only white short-shorts and a bikini top and she was straddled between his legs. It puzzled me even more that she was smiling. Glancing around I could make out two other older girls and they seemed to be enjoying themselves too. Ol’ Murphy caught the air of my shame and slid his hand down to his own side. Coolly inviting me to stay and chat awhile, he explained that they were just in the middle of a story. Casting my eyes from his, I apologized for interrupting.
“Ohhh, its alllright. You ain’t bothren us.” My eyes peeked up catching the way his bronzed skin sagged making his neck three layers. Then, I noticed that he had on only an undershirt and his belt was hanging off to one side. I rambled something about coming to plant tomatoes and Ol’ Murphy told me to look for them on the table by the green house. Snatching his answer as an exit, I escaped out the back door. The supplies were found and I furiously started digging the holes, making hills out of mud and not caring a moment of their depth. Dropping the tomatoes into their new home, I worked like that for over an hour. By the time Ol’ Murphy came out, I had already planted two full rows. He never said a word but loomed over me with his hands shoved into his trousers. The straw hat shaded his dipped face from the sun as he stared interminably at the ground. I tried to steal an explanation from his expression but my own eyes were beginning to blink with wet shame. After sinking a few more starter plants, I mustered up a husky excuse and pushed past him. I was practically running by the time I reached my bike and realized with awkwardness that I had left without returning my tools to the shed.
Still, I never went back. Months later, my girlfriend Tracy and her other friends noticed that I had stopped going up to Ol’ Man Murphy’s and asked me why. I never expounded but just said that I had other stuff to do. Although, to my dismay, I learned they now did. By the time we were fifteen Tracy’s mother did not seem to mind anymore about Tracy’s whereabouts and even that she spent time down at Ol’ Man Murphy’s. On occasion, Tracy called me up to brag about all the fun she now had - now that she was older. I understood what I am sure her mother did not. I also understood that age and loneliness alone did not cause depravity and “desperate” extended to my peers. It was a lesson I had learned along with the revelation that my world was no longer childhood play or adventure and neither was Ol’ Man Murphy… anymore.