The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 5 . . . you've got to laugh

Most of you know that I'm devoting Wednesdays this year to telling stories about my Dad.  I came to the conclusion that this was a good idea when I started realizing how very much I had to say about him.  Hope you're enjoying The Wednesday Pop.  I guess I shouldn't claim to have the best Dad ever, but . . . well, I do.

I'm enjoying this regular place to recollect and give him some overdue thanks and think about ways that my parenting (and maybe yours) could be enriched by looking at how my Dad parents.  Needless to say, I've been thinking back a bunch lately, remembering old times and recalling facts from days gone by.  I keep being reminding that my Dad has always been quick to laugh, and I'm thankful for that.  He isn't a silly guy when it's time to be serious, but he has always taught us how to laugh.  Dad doesn't teach in lectures, but he shows his lessons over time by the way he lives.  As time goes by, I grow more and more thankful for every occasion to laugh - don't you?

Finding the joy in moments is such a gift, and I realize now that Dad has been showing us how to do that for years.  We did a lot of laughing as kids, and we do a lot of it now.  There were certainly plenty of serious times when laughing wasn't appropriate, but I'm thinking back about the many ways that Dad creates opportunities to laugh, both at life and at ourselves.  I'm thankful.

So, today I give you these tips on parenting from the 'how my Dad does it' playbook:

• Laugh at yourself whenever you can.  It's good for kids to see that parents goof up and it's awesome when they see us being okay with it.
• Make up a ridiculous language with nothing at all decipherable and speak it with your children often.  The crazier, the better, so go for it.  If you can also do strange things with your eyebrows, it's even better.  As you speak this malarky, your child learns about the magic of imagination and sees, too, that having fun with him or her is always more fun than just about everything else!
• Make up silly stories and crazy words and far-fetched tall tales.  It's fun,  makes everyone giggle and creates learning and trust out of fun moments.
• Take winning and losing with lightness and ease.  Laughing about doing absolutely horrible in a card game is an invaluable lesson for your child.
• Be willing to hear, revel in and laugh at your children's stories again and again and again.  It tells them over and over how very important they are and teaches them about speaking their mind and getting their point across.  
• Call your children by the silliest names, even if it's only the two of you that get it.  Having a pet name says I love you and I love laughing with you.

I'm thankful for laughing in this crazy, mixed-up world, and I'm thankful for a Dad who is still laughing with me!

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 3 . . . these things I KNOW.

I'm not sure of much.  The events of last Friday, bunched up with all of the other confusing events in this complicated world, have left me sad and confused and wondering about what I KNOW.  I've wanted to be able to give my children some sense of calm, as we discuss the good things we know about God, this world and the people inhabiting it.  I've been grasping at the people and thoughts and things that I know are good.  I've found myself whispering prayers that I know, have known for a long time, and wanting to laugh and visit with the ones who create a sense of comfort in me.  

As sad as things feel right now, I'm noticing that working to remember what's good, decent, interesting, meaningful and loving brings us some much needed comfort.  Dad has always been one who does that for me, so today's essay jumped in front of me.  As I began to put these words in place, it seemed almost obvious that what I need (what I'd like to write about) is what I know.  And I may not know much about many things, but I know A LOT about this guy named Pop.

So here, my friends, are some things I KNOW.  Just thinking about them is making me smile, and smiling is bringing me some comfort.


I KNOW that as long as I live on this earth, I will not have a warm sweater or jacket in a cold restaurant if my father is with me.  I've come to terms with this.  I know it to be true.  He spent the first half of my life, urging me to 'bring along a jacket in case it gets cold' and for reasons I can't explain, I know that he will continue to catch me without said warmth.

I KNOW that there is such a thing as a happy medium (and I KNOW that I don't find it often).  I know because of Pop.   My Dad has a hold on moderation unlike anyone I've ever known.  He get's it!  I'm amazed by his understanding of the happy medium, keeping things in perspective and moderation!  I want his ability to find this perch between too much and not enough.  For my 48 years, though, I've just watched in amazement.  

He can take a nap that is just the right length.  It makes him feel better!  He doesn't stay asleep for four hours, waking up in misery, or rest nervously, only to get agitated.  He can eat a sinful dessert, just enjoying enough to get the taste and not so much he feels like he needs to be rolled away with the rest of us.  He can read a great book, but put it down when it's time to get some sleep.  What's that like?  I can't imagine, but I KNOW it's possible, as I've watched it in action all of my life.  

I KNOW that at any point, in any place, during any event, with any circumstances, my father would find me and meet me where I am.  I've always known it.  Pretty wonderful, huh?  I write this as a serious point, and I'm a different person for knowing this down in my soul, but we have laughed many times about the ways that Dad can find us in any situation.

There are 92,746 seats in Sanford Stadium in Athens, Georgia.  It's a big place.  Please believe me when I tell you that once, at a UGA game, my father sat on one side of that giant arena and found me on the other side, in the middle of 92 other thousands of people!  He had no idea where I was, but was sure I was at the game, and he found me!  He's like that.  He is like a mother bear in that way.  He know's where his kids are, physically and emotionally, and he gets there when we need him.



I KNOW that truly listening and hearing people is a gift.  I've been heard, and I know this is true.  My Dad hears the people around him.  He listens and he hears us.  I can think of no greater gift, and I will forever try to be the listener he is.  Most of us are busy.  Life is complicated.  We hear too much chatter; too much distraction.  It's hard to really listen and difficult to really hear the ones we love.  It's hard to know people.

My Dad knows people, and all of my life, I have watched the gift that his listening has brought to the people in his life.  He is who I watch to learn how to listen . . . how to hear . . . and how to really know folks.  I'm working on it, and probably will be for a long time to come, but I've got the best teacher ever.  Listening is a gift and I know that my Dad gives it freely wherever he goes.  This I know.

The world is crazy.  Things are hard to understand.  I don't know a lot.

These are some things I know, though, to be sure.  It makes me feel better to think about them.

What do you know?

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 2 We'll start at the Fox . . .

Don't think I haven't driven my brain crazy trying to decide where to start with The Wednesday Pop.  I have.  There is much to tell, as I told you last week in The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 1 .  Where to begin, I pondered a million times since last week.  A couple of nights ago, though, I found my answer on the tv, of all places.  

We found a show on PBS devoted to the the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.  It was wonderful; part history, part legends, part documentary.  I enjoyed it, and it served as a trip down memory lane through so many awesome adventures in my childhood.  About twenty minutes into the show, I realized I would start my Pop stories at the Fox.  It makes good sense.  

I'll explain.  My Dad (often known as Pop, his grandfather name) is grand with grand celebrations.  (I realize I just used the same word twice - it was intentional.)  He can magically turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the mundane into something special, the occasion into an event.  And so many times, he did that while he introduced my sister and I to a great, big, interesting world - often at a performance.  Many times, as you might imagine, the Fox came into play.  If you don't live in the Atlanta area, please click on the link above and investigate this fine theatre.  If you live near here, and you've never been there - you must remedy that immediately.  That is your homework.  Period.

As a child, I had no idea that every kid I knew didn't make frequent trips to the Fox.  I assumed that everyone went to see Rudolph Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov, whether or not they were into ballet.  I thought all kids saw The Royal Ballet of Everyplace, and for a while, I took it for granted.  When the Fox was in danger of being demolished, I figured all children were kept abreast of all that was happening and that most other kids had their own "Save the Fox" t-shirt, like I did.  

Didn't most families go to see Chinese Acrobats and the Atlanta Symphony?  Surely other kids knew the story about the Russian ballet couple who had been held captive in one room when they tried to defect, but practiced their ballet in the small space they had.  Surely others, like me, got to see them at the Fox, on their first tour in America.  Surely other parents told their children about this couple's story, shared the tales of their determination and cried alongside their daughters when the couple took to the stage.  Surely, they did.

I assumed most folks saw the first running of A Chorus Line and Phantom of the Opera.  I figured that most folks took their kids to see Gospel singers bring down the house on a regular basis.  (As a side note . . . if you are a singer who is female, a bit past middle-age, African American and a tad on the puffy side, my father will find you and hear you sing.)  I just knew that other kids heard boys' choirs from everywhere, rarely missed the Alvin Ailey Dancers and sometimes sat through plays and performances whose names they could barely pronounce.  I thought that was the way everybody did it.  

Eventually, I got a clearer picture.  I noticed that other kids my age didn't talk about their experiences at the Fox, or any one of Atlanta's other performance venues.  I began to see that my parents were different, that we did things that lots of other folks weren't doing.  And though I'll never know all that went into planning these events and pulling them off without the finances to provide for such, I did start to see that my Dad was different.  My eyes opened up a bit more, and I realized that he was consistently affording Jodi and me chances to see tiny glimpses of all that awaited us on this interesting place called Earth.  

When we were learning about Martin Luther King, Jr. at school, our family went to his church for a service and saw his home and roamed around his neighborhood.  When we reveled in the successes of the U.S. figure skaters, we were there at the Omni to see them in person.  When Jodi started taking gymnastics, we started seeing the famous gymnasts live.  I took note . . . my parents weren't steering us in the direction of their own lives, exactly, they were providing for us a summary of the many things the world has to offer.  We heard authors, listened to choirs, saw circuses, went to concerts, ballets, folk performances, plays and comedies.  We went to football games and swim meets and saw the visiting tours of anyone and anything that came through Athens, Ga.

I don't list these things to brag.  I list them now, as a thankful daughter and a learning parent.  I marvel at the experiences that my folks gave me on a limited budget and on the many ways that they put aside their particular interests to introduce us to the gifts of the world.  It's amazing to me, still.

In March, I wrote about the many ways that my mother touched this world, but I write this to begin to tell you the myriad ways that my Dad is changing this place.

Luckily, I wasn't grown when I began to notice all that he did to stretch our minds, our experiences or views of the world.   Thankfully, I realized at least some of what he did while I was still young and under his full time tutelage.  I remember when I first wondered about 'where Dad came from.'  How did a man who grew up poor in Griffin and Forest Park, Georgia learn about all of this?  How did he know that all of these things went on in the world, when the adventures weren't part of his daily life?  

He grew up with two amazing and loving parents, who adored their three sons.  They were poor; and though they brought themselves out of poverty and achieved so much, the majority of my Dad's childhood was filled with hardships.  It was filled with love, too.  And humor, and appreciation and church and singing and laughing and family.  I guess it was filled with enough of all of that good stuff, that he was instilled with a deep appreciation for the individual.  He learned about the many parts that make up a whole person.  I guess he came to know, maybe earlier than most, how important it was to know folks' stories.  I am thankful that he continues to pass that down.

I remember once trying to come up with a way to ask Dad how he came to know about the great, big, wide, interesting world.  I was frustrated, thinking I might not have the words to explain exactly what I was asking.  He got it, though, and he told me straight out.  I hope I remember his words correctly.  . .

He said everything opened up for him on a school field trip.  He said he remembers being brought on a bus from Forest Park to Atlanta to Symphony Hall with his classmates.  He remembers looking around.  He remembers noticing the building's architecture, the careful ways the space was created to carry sound and he remembers seeing the people of all sorts who were there to hear the musicians.  He recalls marveling at the talent of all of the orchestra members and the conductor and the people in the audience who seemed to understand it all.  He explained that he made a choice, right there - he decided that he would know that world, those things.  He decided that he would learn what they knew and visit that building again.  He would check out this big, wide world.

And he is doing just that, and taking the rest of us along on the journey.  Thanks be to God, that he is my Dad, that he dreamt up all that he did and that he introduced me to all that I saw.  I KNOW NOW that what I had wasn't the norm.  I know now that I was part of something extraordinary.  Today, I marvel at how he pulled it off.  I wonder how he made it happen, where he got the energy, came up with the money, had the tenacity to keep it going.  How could one person introduce that many different things to two little kids from Georgia?

I just hope I remember to take advantage of the 'Save the Fox' t-shirt moments with my own kids.  I hope I remember to stay awake enough to see all that happens in this bright, beautiful world and share it with them.

I am learning from the master, maestro, conductor, tour guide, choreographer, artistic director, coach, and mentor that is my Dad.   I am learning from the best.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. I

Seventy four years ago today the world changed.  It really did.  You may not know the significance, so I'll explain.  When I first explain, you may think I'm exaggerating, but I plan to spend the next year explaining how the world changed for the better for all of us.

On this day in December in 1938, a little baby was born at home to the beautiful young Lorena Butler Murphy.  He was named Donald Clarence Murphy.  He would do great things, but they didn't know that then.  They just knew he was a blessing and he was precious and he was healthy.

Last spring when I wrote about my amazing mother, I made a promise (mostly to myself) that I would write about my father and I would do it while he was here to read it.  I intend to make good on that promise.

I've been thinking for a while about how I'd like to tell you about little Donnie who grew up to be Donald C. Murphy, Ph.D.  I've been wondering about the best format, the clearest way to tell you about him.  I think I've got my plan.

I have a lot to say, to write and to remember about this man.  It's hard to sum him up without some time.  I intend to give it just that.  I've decided that I'll spread out my memories and stories about him over this next year, on the blog, in a segment called The Wednesday Pop - Wednesdays because that's the day and Pop because it's his grandfather name and because it sounds really cool.

Prepare to be moved.  Prepare to learn and to listen and to join me as I recount just some of why I am so fortunate.  I cannot imagine how the stars aligned and Jodi and I got picked to be Dad's daughters, but I thank God every single day.  It has been a journey that continues now.  The rest of you seem to be making it, but I'm not sure how you're doing without a Dad like mine.

I have many things to tell you, so it will  take some time.  I'll tell you things he taught me about people, God, the world and feelings.  I'll tell you about my memories of growing up with a Dad like Dad.  I'll tell you about quiet times and times full of laughter.  I'll tell you touching things that you won't believe. As a parent, sometimes I look back on my father during my childhood and use it as a guidebook and other times I look back and just feel amazed.  My childhood wasn't perfect.  I won't say that.  No one's is, and that would be a dishonest waste of time.  My childhood was real and wonderful and hard and exciting and frustrating and scary and loving, just like most.  But I went through it with someone I want you to know better and I can't wait to tell the stories.

I hope you'll enjoy them with me.  I hope you'll think back on your own memories, remember the dear ones who make your journey worthwhile.  I'll love this romp through the past and this closer look at the present.  I hope you will, too.

I love you, Dad.

Why the blog? - you ask. Because we can't rewind.

Good question.  I've been thinking about my blog lately.  Last week was my first planned week off from the blog and it had me wondering.  Had me looking back over the last year, little snippets and pictures from the year's stories and reports.  Some days, as I stared out over the vast ocean expanse or heard my kids giggling and splashing in the surf or quietly paddled the back waters of the low country, I let myself wonder about the blog, the stories, the tales and the work.  I silently asked myself what I thought about this new form of communication - the blog.  I listened as my mind went to work, recalling the thanksgivings and the muses about writing and using pictures to mark my time.

I like it, I heard myself say.

I think it's important to tell my stories.  It's not that my stories are any more important than anyone else's - that's just it.   We all have to do it.  If we don't, they get lost.  And that makes me sad.  Over this year, I've begun to hear a running discourse in my head.  Usually it feels productive and mildly entertaining.  I seem to be writing the blog as I maneuver through my days.  I try out different phrases or wonder about a myriad photographs and I consider the ways to transfer an idea to my friends.  It's like my own little storybook, happening all in secret.  Maybe that makes me sound crazy.  I'm fine with that.  It gets on my nerves sometimes, too, though, and I wish my brain wouldn't keep thinking about how to show it with pictures or how to tell it with words.

But I'm beginning to believe that it is what it is.  It's my stuff, awaiting its chance to get out, to tell the world, to be heard.  We all have it - it just gets told in various ways.  For now, it seems to me the blog is working.  One of the most rewarding dividends of Press Pause  has been what you all give me back.  I've received the most awesome letters, heard your amazing tales and been swept away by your comments.  If what I write, what anyone writes, stirs something in you to tell your stories - we all win.  And little pieces of what makes up our lives get sprinkled a little farther and a little longer.  It's important.

I remembered a lot of folks this past week - thought about old friends, past co-workers, loved ones who have left this world - and it filled me with a greater sense that our telling and our listening are vital.  If the stories die when the worn out bodies do, then too many amazing things are lost.  I can recall bits of stories that my grandfathers told and I can remember that I laughed and laughed and laughed.  I don't remember the details, though, and I didn't ask enough to keep the stories alive.  I wish I had.

Hopefully, in years to come, my children will read back over some crazy lines from some plain ole' day in 2012 and get a little clearer picture of who I was when I was the forty eight year old mother of three.  Hopefully.

I think it might work.

A few years ago, my Dad was witness to a line from my son Harry that completely explains our need to know.  Dad was whistling, as they rode along in the car on a day of errands.  'Pop' is a whistler extraordinaire, and it's difficult to describe him without adding the whistle.  My son is a thinker, a wonderer, and I treasure that about him.  Harry, in the back seat, asked Pop how he first learned to whistle and Pop explained that his father, Pappy, had been a whistler and Pappy had taught him how.  Harry pondered on that for a few minutes and then came out with the wish - words I'll never forget.  "You know what, Pop?"  he said.  "Don't you sometimes wish that we could just rewind?"

You got it, kid.  I wish we could.  I wish I could rewind, with a magic button with a two left pointed triangles, just like on the dvr.  I wish I could sit Harry down with Pappy and I wish they could laugh together and tell each other stories and that Pappy could teach Harry about whistling.  I wish Pappy could tell about how he learned to whistle and about how it was when he was growing up and about his multitude of adventures, growing up poor poor and parentless from his young teens.  He could tell the awesome stories about hiding in the train cars and hiding under the hay - the ones whose details I cannot remember.

I bet Harry's big brown eyes would be wide open.  I bet he wouldn't move a muscle.  I bet he'd never be the same.  And . . . I bet after the sad stories and the tales of adventures and mischief, Harry would take Pappy out to the driveway and teach him a thing or two about how to do tricks on a pogo stick.  They'd switch stories and it would be grand.

Yeah, my sweet Bear, I do wish we could rewind.

The stories . . . the funny ones and the sad ones, the serious and the silly - we have to tell them, share them and keep wondering and listening.  We don't have a rewind button, but we can sure press pause
on little bits of times.  I figure it's when we are telling and listening, sharing and remembering, crying and laughing that we are really awake to all that's around us.  I don't want to forget those moments and I want to hear about yours, too.

We can't rewind, so let's wake up and share the good stuff while we are here.
I'm listening.

Watch out - Bipedalism is rampant . . . a vocabulary lesson.

George Willis Dean was my grandfather, my Papa, my mother's father.   I could probably publish an entire blog around only him.  There are many, many stories.  He was a huge presence to me, a big man who took up the whole room.  Funny how our feelings and perspectives shape what we actually see, I thought until I was about thirty that he was physically large.  It wasn't until a friend referred to Papa as a "cute little man" that I saw that he was actually rather small.  I remember that as one of the first times I realized how much what we 'feel' shapes what we 'see.'

Papa was incredibly intelligent, intensely loyal and wisely witty, though sometimes I'm not sure he meant to be.  I can remember whole conversations with him, conversations from when I was nine or ten and conversations from when I was a teenager and young adult.  I can remember his advice, I can actually hear him going on and on about his fear that all he believed in was free falling straight to the dogs - just about everything.

He fervently worked to preserve history, his past and others, he recited poetry that he had first memorized in his boyhood, he lamented that schools no longer taught penmanship, and I live in thanksgiving that he didn't live to see the world's relationships with social networks.  There would not have been enough thirty minute talks after Wheel of Fortune in his den in Douglas, Georgia to even begin to try to explain all of that!  He wouldn't understand.  He'd be sad.  I would agree with much of his anger and be a little unsettled about some of it.  That's how I was with so many things about Papa.

I think about him often, hear his voice, imagine what he'd say about my kids.  Lots of times when he comes to mind, I remember laughing.  He told great stories and we laughed a lot.  He could make us all feel like we were actually growing up in 1920 in Uvalda, Georgia!  He told stories about school, about his siblings and crazy tales of adventures from a time when things were a little different.  I loved those stories.

As I'm sure you understand at this point, Papa wasn't one who would be described as open-minded.  He knew what he knew, he thought what he thought, and he was solid in that.  He saw no need to change any of that and felt like the world and all of us in it were doing what we could to destroy what he loved best.  He shuttered about things that didn't bother me, he argued about politics with my mother, and he grunted through most of the CBS Nightly News.  


I laughed this morning, thinking about a time that my uncle really got him - a time Papa's wisdom didn't win out over his feelings about the world going to 'you know where' in a handbasket!  This is a good one, and I wish I had thought of it!  

My uncle, Papa's son, got up from the dining room table where we used to eat every meal, and walked over to look out the window.  He worked up his most disgusted voice, glanced off to the side of the yard, sighed and said, "Goodness, look at those bipedals walking down the road."

"Pathetic" Papa replied, "What is this world coming to?  Ayyyy me, me."  (Ayyyyy me, me was one of Papa's favorite phrases and he explained years ago that it meant that things just weren't good.)

Ha!  The laughs were grand and loud when my uncle explained that "bipedals" were beings who walked upright on two hind legs.  I can see his face now!

View a few precious bipedals and have a great day.