Posted on 10/07/2007 2:44:39 PM PDT by Marc Tumin
Last week, I took my favorite train to one of my favorite parts of the city, Main Street, Flushing, and a world unto itself.
After soaking up some of the exuberant street life, I hopped a bus to Whitestone, Queens, and a cozy house on a tree-lined thoroughfare of clipped hedges and tidy lawns.
This is a tranquil neighborhood. There’s a seminary up the road. It’s the perfect outpost for someone who’s helped restore your faith in humanity.
He was already a legend when I met him at the Irish Echo, 24 years ago. They said his generosity was incomparable, his hospitality unforgettable, and the people he’d helped innumerable. They spoke the truth.
Waiting inside to greet me was the warmest, most genuine couple you could encounter: Joe Murphy and his wife, Judy. Their home was filled with books and music, crystal and china, and neat as a pin, with a spacious backyard and a sentry of tall trees.
As the afternoon trailed off into sunset, we downed cups of tea and wiled away the hours in pleasant conversation. A delicious home-cooked Irish supper followed, then a baseball game and a big dessert.
I departed that little corner of the Emerald Isle with keen regret, and, as Joe drove me to the elevated station, I couldn’t help but reflect on this local hero and the wonderful life he’d led.
He was one of 13 children, born in Cullen, Co. Cork, the Texas of Ireland. His father was a farmer.
He was educated by the Christian Brothers and at University College Cork. He delighted in athletics as a young man, and aspired to the ranks of the working press.
He immigrated to America in the Eisenhower era and was employed in banking, before joining the Irish Echo in the 1960s. He became a popular columnist, the advertising manager, and editor Jack Thornton’s right-hand man.
He served as secretary of the New York Gaelic Athletic Association and as president of the Co. Cork Benevolent, Patriotic and Protective Association, the only county organization with its own building.
He was a genial optimist who relished walking, traveling, running a dozen miles at a clip “for training,” and donating his time and money to charitable causes.
He was a gregarious person with integrity and an independent cast of mind. “You must learn to paddle your own canoe,” he’d say.
He was an avid student of history who retained his beautiful brogue and conversed fluently in the Irish language. His word was his bond.
He was patient, had a memory like an elephant’s, and possessed an old school newsman’s understanding of human events. He had an iron handshake. Above all, he had the common touch.
He was a friend (or an acquaintance) of a seemingly endless number of people from every strata and walk of life. You didn’t spy his name in the highfalutin mainstream press, but everyone in the community knew Joe and what he was about, from doormen to diplomats.
He counted the famous among his friends, including Maureen O’Hara, and he was distraught when she narrowly missed becoming the first female grand marshal of the New York City St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
He had a natural feel for politics and was partisan but objective. He was a rugged individualist and unafraid of calling himself a traditional Catholic. He was a solid conservative, as was “The Chief,” Jack Thornton.
When he sensed a friend might be hanging his head, he’d hail him to church, saying: “’Tis important to get in touch with J.C.”
In 1966, Thornton and he almost single-handedly thwarted a plan to move the St. Patrick’s Parade to Central Park on Sundays.
At a meeting of the Cork Association in 1987, he assisted in the birth of the Irish Immigration Reform Movement, one of his proudest achievements.
He was a gentleman of the ancien régime: courtly, with perfect manners, in jacket and tie by habit; firm and principled but never argumentative.
He was modest, self-effacing, and a graceful ballroom dancer. At Irish functions, he’d invariably coax an aged grandmother from the wings and whisk her about the room.
He wouldn’t raise his voice. If he didn’t approve of something, he’d just give a look. I suspected he could more than handle himself but didn’t gravitate to fisticuffs.
He fancied the outdoors and fulfilled the Boy Scout law and oath: He was trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. He was physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.
He was a bottomless well of knowledge and information about the neighborhood. He was a good listener and a superb raconteur. He was a full man.
We hit it off immediately and I learned what made him tick. He showed me the ropes. However, by 1987, I’d decided to move on, when he hinted that a new publication was on the horizon.
The Irish Voice was in the works. The printing magnate, Michael Smurfit, was backing it, and Joe was the ticket to instant recognition and credibility, not to mention paid adverts.
On lunch hours, he and I would zigzag across the city, sizing up offices. Later, bedazzled staffers dubbed him “Joe Smurphy” and “The Quiet Man.”
Because of Joe’s connections with Miss O’Hara and City Hall, the legendary actress and Hizzoner, Mayor Koch, attended the launch of the paper, assuring its success. No one could believe our luck.
A few years later, mission accomplished, he retired to a life of writing, traveling, and corresponding with kindred spirits far from home.
Thank God I met him and that he’s hale and hearty. Now I know what people mean when they speak of great men.
Marc-Yves Tumin is associate publisher of the Irish Examiner.
God Bless you Joe Murphy
Dear Lord, THAT is what we should all aspire to be.
Thanks.
Aye.
Cheers!
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.