Wednesday, October 29, 2008 9:24 PM CDT
COLUMN: No one plays a minor role on the great stage of life
By PENNY WEAVER, Night News Editor
pweaver@jg-tc.com
I’m not sure why we’ve always called Carol Murphy by both her first and last name all the time, but it seems right to me.
If my mom mentions “Carol,” I have to stop and think to whom she’s referring. Calling her “Mrs. Murphy” doesn’t seem right, either — too formal.
Nope. Carol Murphy has always been Carol Murphy to me, even in the stretches of years when I didn’t see her or talk to her.
My sister, Kim, and I went to Carol Murphy’s when we were little — starting from when we were babies. She was our baby-sitter — although it seems to slight her role in our lives to call her “only” a “baby-sitter” — and she also took care of probably hundreds of kids through the years in Shelbyville.
I don’t have kids, but I know through my sisters that finding day care for children can be a really difficult process. First, parents have to find someone trustworthy and reliable. Then, they just hope the little ones like the baby-sitters and get along with any other kids in their care.
Of course there’s the cost, availability, location ... and so many other details to consider. It seems the highest hurdle, to me, would be trusting someone with a person’s most highly valued little treasures.
I don’t know how Mom and Dad were referred to or discovered Carol Murphy, but they, and hundreds of other parents, hit the jackpot.
I have vague memories of being at her house. I remember her husband and her children — in particular, her daughter, who was older than me — being there with us kids too. I remember some of the other tykes with whom I went to Carol Murphy’s.
Naturally, this was about 38 years ago. Now, the children of Shelbyville area residents about my age have also come under Carol Murphy’s care.
I have a fuzzy memory of baking cookies or breaking out some rolls from a round cardboard container or something like that at her house. I remember tall shelves squeezed full of toys — and they’re still there, too.
Mostly, I remember Carol Murphy from my childhood like a real-life guardian angel: always there in the background, or catching up a kid in her arms when needed, always looking over us when we were at her house.
Lately, Carol Murphy has been fighting cancer, and my mom and other ladies have a weekly get-together at the Murphy household to visit, boosting all their spirits.
My sister Kim brought her own three children and her husband to meet Carol Murphy this summer, and it seemed to me that even though this was the first time she’d ever seen them, they were “her” kids, too. Apparently the youngsters felt the same way; Olivia, who is 4, was no sooner through the door and into the living room before she was kneeling on the floor and playing with the ever-present toys at Carol Murphy’s.
I don’t remember exactly how long Kim and I went to this day care heaven, but as we grew up, for many years, we didn’t see Carol Murphy or visit with her much. Her family and mine always pretty well knew what was up with each other — Shelbyville’s a small enough town for that. But we didn’t see each other for a long time.
What is it that makes some people such a permanent part of the foundation of other people’s lives? I could name a dozen other people who I’ve talked to more, who have shared more of my life with me. I had a great home life, and my sisters and I had lots of “second homes,” like our neighbor’s places, our cousins’ houses, our grandmas’, etc.
And yet Carol Murphy still feels like home.
Many things in our lives take us back to times past, moments gone by. Maybe it’s a song that transports us back to high school. Sometimes it’s a smell that gets us — and no matter what age we are at the moment, suddenly we’re 7 again and Grandma is taking a cherry pie out of the oven.
I still think of our neighbors, Ruthie and Earl, who were like grandparents to us, when I see the National Enquirer — which Earl always read — or peppermint stick candy, which Ruthie often had on hand.
Little Debbie oatmeal pies remind me of going to Grandma Weaver’s and eating those sweets for dessert after a lunch of hot dogs and chips — just plain, ordinary potato chips — no barbeque or sour cream and onion or cheesy chips or whatever.
A yardstick still reminds me of my Grandma Bauer, who kept the grandkids in line by holding a yardstick, but never used it that I know of.
I couldn’t possibly choose a rank for Carol Murphy on my list of people who are part of the foundation of my life. Could you pick one concrete block that supports your house and argue that it has done more than the others in its role? They are all first, and all last, and all somewhere in the middle.
They are each vital. All these influential people in our lives — whether prominent or subtle, current or past, family or friends — are what support us in all the kinds of weather that life throws at us.
It seems fitting to me that I have no nickname, nor any inclination to call her by her first name, or formalize her in my life by adding the “Mrs.” as her title. Carol Murphy has earned the two-name title in my life story’s credits.
So here’s three cheers to all the Carol Murphys each of us has been lucky enough to know. We know who they are.
They’ll always be part of the foundation of our lives, even if we won’t always be able to reach out and touch them.
But oh, we can be glad that they have touched us.
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