Dad’s glass was always two-thirds full. Even at the end, he woke up singing. When breathing became difficult, he hummed. He had boundless optimism, which was extraordinary considering the challenges his family faced when he was a child.
Dad was three when his father died. Nana and several older sisters raised him in a “cold-water flat” that had two bedrooms for seven people. There wasn’t a lot to eat, and Dad’s shoes were stuffed with cardboard when the soles wore out, but his strongest memories – the ones he shared most often – all centered around the love and laughter that filled his home. Like the time Nana gave him a quarter to buy a meatball sub at DePasquale’s, a special treat because a quarter was a lot of money back then. He placed the sub on the kitchen table to grab a glass of milk, and when he turned around, his dog Blackie was licking his lips. Nana scraped the pockets of her housecoats to find another .25 cents.
Dad also learned love and laughter at the firehouse across the street. The guys took him under their wings and encouraged him to become a firefighter. The deal was sealed the day they let him slide down the pole.
Dad was the first in his family to graduate from high school. His older siblings left school to help pay the bills, but Nana was doing OK by the time Dad turned 16, so he graduated, and enlisted in the Navy.
During boot camp, Dad learned that he might be sent to San Diego, which meant getting on an airplane, but he was afraid to fly. So when his Commander said the guy with the highest score on the final exam could choose his assignment, Dad stopped going out with his buddies and spent every night studying. He aced the test and chose South Boston, where he served until joining the Newton Fire Department in 1961.
Dad rose quickly in the ranks and by 1967 was married with five children and a house in Newton. He was appointed Chief in 1994 and was a beloved leader who stood up for the rank and file. Even when one of his best friends became Mayor, and pressured Dad to cut an engine, he fought back. He would have sacrificed his friendship to protect the department.
Dad mentored countless young firefighters and believed in second chances, but if you weren’t pulling your weight, he would hold you accountable. Nobody was treated unfairly, so morale was excellent with Dad in charge.
Firefighting was Dad’s passion, but fatherhood was his favorite role, and we all felt it. When my youngest brother became a firefighter, he worked at Massport, but when a position became available in Newton, he took a big pay cut to work with Dad. When I got a job babysitting at age 12, I ran home to tell Dad. He said, “I’m so proud of you honey, but you’re a child. You should be having fun. You have your whole life to work.” I kept the job but never forgot to have fun. And when my oldest brother joined the fire department and was at the front of the hose line staring at a massive ball of orange flames, he was terrified and figured he wasn’t cut out for the job, until a voice behind him said, “it’s Chief Murphy, you’re OK, move forward, I’m right here with you.”
On warm summer nights, Dad packed all the neighborhood kids in the back of his gray pickup truck for a trip to Dean Dairy in Waltham. And after day trips to the beach, we’d ride home with our feet hanging out the rear window of the old blue station wagon, singing Puff the Magic Dragon.
When Disney World opened, Dad bravely stuffed six of us into his Oldsmobile Delta 98 sedan and off we went. We sat squished in the back seat, poking each other and whining about who was sitting too close, while Dad sang along to the oldies.
When we needed new clothes, Dad took us to Sears. He still has clothes from Sears in his closet because they haven’t worn out yet. Dad didn’t care about being stylish or impressing people with fancy labels, yet he was an impeccable dresser and always looked dapper.
He also loved bargains. If the food at a restaurant was good but not great, that was OK, so long as it was relatively inexpensive and plentiful. He had no time for fancy restaurants that gave small portions for a big price.
Dad retired in 2003 and quipped for the rest of his life that he would still be a firefighter if retirement wasn’t mandatory. But the truth is, he loved retirement because it meant more time with friends and family, more golf, more fishing, and more time in Florida.
Dad stayed connected to firefighting after retiring because his best friends were retired fire chiefs and all three of his sons became firefighters, as did four nephews. He was tight with his high school classmates, too, a group he called the “brain surgeons from the class of 57.” One actually was a doctor, the others included a state auditor, city worker, mayor, and CEO. They remained dear friends regardless of where life took them. Dad wouldn’t have it any other way. You could be the King of England or an unemployed laborer, he would befriend you just the same. When he met Donald Trump at Mar-A-Lago, before he became a politician, he liked him because in a room full of billionaires, Trump chose to spend tone-on-one time with Dad. They talked mostly about how much they loved their children. Dad also liked Jimmy Carter because he built houses for the homeless.
Dad loved this country, and took many road trips, to Florida, the Grand Canyon and beyond. He left the United States only twice, once on a cruise to Bermuda, and then when he drove to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. Dad liked Canada, but when he paid for lunch with American dollars, and received change back in Canadian dollars that he said looked like Monopoly money, he was not happy.
Dad’s first love was family, but his love for Jerry Vale music was not far behind. As kids, we knew the words to songs like Al Di LA, and the grandchildren today have Jerry Vale music on their playlists. During the holidays, Dad would play Jerry Vale’s Christmas albums and gather the grandchildren for an annual visit from “Grampy Claus.” He’d put on a red hat and hand out gifts after making up funny poems so we could guess whose name was next. They went something like this: “I was walking down the street, doing a good deed, and then I found a present for a girl named” — and the kids would all yell “Reed.” The poems got funnier as the wine flowed.
Numerous grandchildren and five great-grandchildren adored “Grampy” because he connected with them at their level, singing to the newborns, being silly with the toddlers, playing games with the older kids, and wisely mentoring the teenagers and young adults. He remained a steadfast source of life advice – and home repair advice – until the end, explaining in whispered tones only days before he died how to protect a cedar arbor from weather damage.
Dad faced many health challenges, but never complained, and never asked for anything. We were devastated to learn that he was sick, but the slow path of the disease gave us time to care for and give back to a man who gave so much during his life. We told him every day how much we loved him, and we thanked him for being a wonderful father.
It’s said that firefighters are special because they run into burning buildings when everyone else is running out. This was Dad’s essence, and it extended far beyond the job. He lived every day mindfully aware that life is short and kindness matters. He believed in forgiveness, woke up every morning grateful for a new day, and cared deeply for others, without expectation. He will be missed terribly by his family and friends.
Seems the universe will miss him, too. The day of Dad’s funeral the Lottery Number in Massachusetts was 2222. An exceedingly rare number to be sure, but a fitting one because it’s the numeric code that firefighters use to signal that the flames are “all out.”
