The musings of Sean Paul Murphy: Editor, Producer, Screenwriter, Author. Or, Hollywood -- and beyond -- as seen from an odd little corner of northeast Baltimore, Maryland.
Deborah, Sean, Ralph, Jenna, Britt, Harbinger of Doom Al
On this very special episode of the Yippee-Ki-Yay Mother Podcast, a multi-generational look at the movies, the crew invited their significant others to talk about the films they love. My lovely bride Deborah picked the first "adult" film she saw: The 1965 smash Julie Andrews musical The Sound of Music. Britt, Harbinger of Doom Al's significant other, picked the "greatest movie of all time": 1986's Jim Henson fantasy Labyrinth, starring a youthful Jennifer Connelly and the late David Bowie. Jenna, podcast master Ralph's significant other, went way back with the provocative 1930 German Marlene Dietrich classic The Blue Angel. (Hassan was away visiting his significant other that weekend.)
Needless to say, the podcast went off the rails almost immediately. We learned once and for all that an open bar and an open mic were not a good combination. Wine would be spilled on the sacred pool table. The YKY sign would fall. Intimate details would be revealed and roundly ridiculed. Yes, dear listener, this was the podcast that nearly destroyed Ralph. He couldn't figure out how to edit it, so he just let the thing run. Sadly, there is no YouTube video of this episode. (Although we will continue filming the podcasts, time constraints will prevent us from editing them for the time being.)
More episodes and a big announcement will soon follow!
My novel Chapel Street is now available! You can currently buy the Kindle and paperback at Amazon and the Nook, paperback and hardcover at Barnes & Noble.
I love TCM. Although there seems to be a foolish prejudice against old, black & white, "unwoke" films, I find them illuminating. As a screenwriter, I admire the economy and efficiency of the scripts of the thirties, forties and fifties. In particular, I am envious of the manner in which they established their characters. They only give us exactly what we need to know, and they do it as succinctly as possible.
Nowadays, filmmakers seem compelled to deliver voluminous backstory for their characters. We recently addressed this trend in an episode of the Yippee-Ki-Yay Mother Podcast while discussing the classic 1974 film The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, directed by Joseph Sargent and written by Peter Stone (who, during the course of his career, won an Oscar, a Tony and an Emmy.) We couldn't help but notice how succinctly the characters were established in the first film as opposed to the 2009 remake The Taking of Pelham 123 directed by Tony Scott and written by the normally reliable Brian Helgeland. None of the added backstory increased the suspense or made the film more compelling. The original film remains a classic. The remake is barely remembered.
Let's look back at how succinctly backstory was employed in classic cinema. Rhett Butler, as portrayed by Clark Gable in Gone With The Wind, is one of the most iconic characters in the history of cinema. How much backstory do we get on him? Let me show you. It is all summed up in two brief conversations.
Scarlett: That man looking at us and smiling. The nasty, dark one.
He's from Charleston. He has the most terrible reputation.
Scarlett: He looks as if... as if he knows what I look like without my shimmy.
Cathleen further relates that Rhett "ruined" a girl by taking her on an unescorted carriage ride. Here's the second conversation:
Charles Hamilton: Apologies aren't enough sir. I hear you were turned out of
West Point, Mr. Rhett Butler. And that you aren't received in a decent family
in Charleston. Not even your own.
Rhett Butler: I apologize again for all my shortcomings. Mr. Wilkes, Perhaps
you won't mind if I walk about and look over your place. I seem to be
spoiling everybody's brandy and cigars and... dreams of victory.
When Rhett leaves, it is further revealed that he is a renowned duelist.
That's all we get to know about Rhett Butler's life prior to the start of the film. We assume his family is wealthy, but did they own slaves? Dunno. Did a vixen break his heart at sixteen which left him afraid of commitment? Dunno. Did his mother long to reconcile with her wayward son? Dunno. Don't care.
Let's look at another one cinema's most iconic characters, Rick Blaine, as portrayed by Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Once again, two brief conversations tell us all we need to know about his life prior to him meeting Ilsa in Paris.
Major Strasser: We have a complete dossier on you: Richard Blaine, American,
age 37. Cannot return to his country. The reason is a little vague. We also know
what you did in Paris, Mr. Blaine, and also we know why you left Paris.
[hands the dossier to Rick]
Major Strasser: Don't worry, we are not going to broadcast it.
happen to be fighting on the side of the underdog?
Rick: Yes. I found that a very expensive hobby, too.
But then I never was much of a businessman.
Bam. That's it. That's all we need to know about him. Rick's actions tell us everything else. And it works for female characters, too. Here's Ilsa, as portrayed by Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. Her backstory is summed up in one paragraph.
Rick: Well, go on. Tell it - maybe one will come to you as you go along.
Ilsa: It's about a girl who had just come to Paris from her home in Oslo.
At the house of some friends, she met a man about whom she'd heard
her whole life. A very great and courageous man. He opened up for her
a whole beautiful world full of knowledge and thoughts and ideals.
Everything she knew or ever became was because of him. And she
looked up to him and worshiped him... with a feeling she supposed was love.
Rick: [bitterly] Yes, it's very pretty. I heard a story once - as a matter of fact,
I've heard a lot of stories in my time. They went along with the sound of a
tinny piano playing in the parlor downstairs. "Mister, I met a man once
when I was a kid," it always began.
In some ways, I think the screenwriters of that day had it easier. They had movie stars who branded themselves with a distinct persona. Audiences already had an idea of what kind of character Clark Gable or Humphrey Bogart would play when they bought their ticket. When I think about some of the late John Wayne westerns, I don't remember the writers giving him any backstory at all. He was just John Wayne. You already knew who he was when he walked into the frame. Today's actors tend to want to display their range. You don't know who Christian Bale or Brad Pitt will be when they show up on the screen.
But it isn't just about the new approach to acting. I think the flood of backstory is a result of too many people reading too many screenwriting textbooks. Some books recommend that you build your characters from the ground up: where they were born, their family history, where they want to school, the name of their pets.... You get it. The problem is that if you compile all of that information about a character, you become tempted to use it even if it is unnecessary. And backstory is often unnecessary.
Hannibal Lecter, as portrayed by Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, is one of cinema's most fascinating and enigmatic characters. He exudes so much erudition and intelligence that it is hard to imagine how he became a cannibalistic serial killer. Unfortunately, all of the mystery in the character is eliminated when they delve into his backstory in the sequel Hannibal Rising. Ugh. I feel the same way about the Michael Myers character in the Rob Zombie Halloween reboot. They told me all I needed to know about Michael in the original film.
Another reason why I think we have too much backstory in films today is that producers don't have enough respect for the intelligence of the audience. They feel they have to spell everything out. The worst example I have seen of this trend was in my own film The Encounter. In that Twilight Zone-ish religious fantasy, a group of stranded travelers find themselves in a diner run by Jesus. And, of course, whenever Jesus shows up, so does the Devil -- in this case in the person of a State Trooper. Over the millennia, the devil has been given many cool, imaginative names. I can't remember what name co-writer Tim Ratajczak and myself gave him originally in the script, but it definitely wasn't Officer Deville. The director came up with that. And, just to make sure the audience "got it," he had one of the other characters spell it out: D-E-V-I-L.... (Gasp!) Oy vey. Talk about insulting your audience's intelligence! Give them some credit!
Finding the right amount of backstory can be incredibly difficult. I have been working on a stage musical based on the novel Magic Under Glass by Jaclyn Delamore. It is a romantic tale set in a world of sorcerers and fairies. I have been working on rewrites for months with the playwright/songwriter Michael Kline. Considering the fantasy nature of the story, we have to do considerable world building at the start. Our work has concentrated predominately on determining how to convey the necessary expository information without bogging down the audience with needless details. It's not easy. The temptation always exists to over explain. Fortunately, I believe we found the balance but we won't know for sure until we stage the piece again later this summer.
In the end, I have three pieces of advice. First, do not include any backstory that is not necessary for the fulfillment of the plot. Secondly, trust your audience. Let them figure some things out for themselves. Finally, trust your actors too. You, as the writer, do not have to do it all yourself. The right actor can offer such amazing depth through their performance that it makes all those little facts you thought up about your character unnecessary or irrelevant.
And watch some TCM. They do backstory really well in those classic movies.
Here's another sample chapter of my paranormal thriller Chapel Street. Keep checking back for more!
Chapter 9
War Is Declared
Gasping for air and still shaking
with fear, I became a man with a mission upon leaving the mausoleum. I refused
to be manipulated like that again.
Elisabetta Kostek, whoever or
whatever the hell she was, had already taken up too much of my time. I was
going home to delete the photos of her from my camera and hard drive, and then I
would delete her memorial from Resting Place. I didn’t want to be responsible
for anyone else looking into those dark eyes. Especially Teri. She had already
expressed too much interest in Elisabetta after I mentioned her. I was tempted
to call her and reiterate my warning, but I knew I couldn’t. She would think I
was crazy, and that would be the end of our budding friendship.
When I got to my car, I found a
slip of paper under the windshield. I picked it up and read it.
Never come back.
The mourner obviously wrote it. There
was no one else around. But what did he mean?Was it a threat or a warning?He left
no signature or phone number. I wish I had written down his license plate number.
Anything. He obviously knew something, but he was long gone.
I got into my car and headed out,
passing our family plot along the way. As I did, I caught sight of a guy
standing near the graves. From the familiar hunch of his back, I knew it was
Lenny visiting mom’s grave. I looked ahead again, thinking nothing of it, but
then it struck me:Lenny was dead. He
had never visited mom’s grave because he died before she did. I hit the brakes
and turned back to the grave. Just as I suspected, no one was standing there,
but it was too real to just be my imagination. My eyes went to the nearby
willow tree, which swayed in the light breeze.
“Probably just a shadow,” I said,
reason restored again.
I was tempted to back up to see if
I could repeat the optical illusion again, but I decided against it. I feared
the implications if I was unable to repeat it. It was one thing to have a bad
dream. It was another thing entirely to see your dead brother in broad daylight.
I was now willing to admit that something supernatural was taking place, but I
didn’t want to press the point. I just wanted to get my world back to normal.
While driving home, a great hunger
overcame me, despite just having eaten a full meal with Teri. I ordered a
super-sized Big Mac meal and a cheeseburger at the McDonald’s drive-thru near
my house. The previous afternoon, the pictures of their food made me nauseous. Not
today. I took it as a sign that my new resolve had broken whatever spell the
dark woman had placed on me. I was free.
I ate the cheeseburger on the way
home, but my fries and Big Mac were untouched as I entered my apartment. I
carried the food over to my desk and sat down. I turned the monitor on, fully
expecting to find Elisabetta’s image on the screensaver looking at me. In fact,
I was hoping to see it, but instead, I found a random tombstone photo for one
of the memorials I had created. I used the mouse to dispel the screensaver then
turned my attention to my Big Mac. I took a bite. It tasted great. Putting the
sandwich down, I went to my cemetery folder, where I kept my Resting Place
photos. I knew the Kostek memorial was on the two most recent files:DSC_0591 and DSC_0592. I clicked on the
second one to bring up the close-up of her face. She was still smiling in the
face of digital death.
“Say, bye, bye, bitch,” I said.
While I reached for the mouse again
to do the deed, I took a big gulp from my Coke. As I did, I caught something
out of the corner of my eye. I had just taken a bite out of the Big Mac,
exposing those little onions they used—except they weren’t onions. No. They
were alive and wiggling. I turned to get a better look and realized that they
were maggots. Tiny little maggots, and I had eaten them!
I immediately vomited everything
out over my keyboard, mouse, and monitor. In the process, I spilled the rest of
the Coke, too. I immediately jumped out of my chair and headed for the bathroom.
This wasn’t a paper towel spill. This was a bath towels spill—plural. By the
time I raced back to the desk, there was already a large puddle of Coke and
half-eaten food on the floor. I dealt with the desk first. The electronics in
the keyboard were toast. No question about that. I unplugged it and tossed it
directly into the trash. As I sopped up the sticky liquid and half-eaten food,
I turned to the now drenched Big Mac. Just as I expected, there were no maggots.
It was just another mind game, and I knew who was responsible.
Now I finally put aside my rational
preconceptions and admitted to myself that I was involved in some sort of
supernatural warfare. The hows and the whys and the parameters of the
battlefield were still a mystery to me, but at least I knew the name of the
enemy:Elisabetta Kostek. Everything
started when I took that picture of her. No, I corrected myself. I think it
started when I looked at her. That’s what seemed to trigger it.
Whatever.
It didn’t matter how it started anymore.
I was going to end it.
I dropped the towel and turned my
attention to the mouse. I didn’t need the keyboard to delete those files. When
I touched the mouse, the cursor moved. Good. I moved the cursor to the close-up
file and clicked on it—or should I say I tried
to click on it. Although the mouse still moved the cursor, the right and left
buttons no longer worked.
“Damn it!” I shouted as I unplugged
the mouse and tossed it in the trash.
The monitor turned black, and the
screensaver started. Not surprisingly, I was greeted by the smiling image of
Elisabetta Kostek. Actually, it was
surprising. I set my screensaver to start five minutes after I last used the
computer. This time the screensaver started only a few seconds after I unhooked
the mouse. I took her appearance as a little show of force to prove that she
had the power to manipulate more than just my mind. She could manipulate my
electronics, too. Unless, I thought, I was only imagining seeing her on the
monitor now.
Yikes. What was truly real?There was a lot to consider, but I didn’t
have time to wade into those weeds now. It was time to take offensive action.
“How you doing, Liz?” I asked with
a smile as I turned back to the monitor.
I grabbed my camera and turned it
on. I found her picture on it and turned the view screen around to the monitor.
“Recognize her?” I asked.
I pressed the little trash button
on the camera. A dialogue box came up over Elisabetta’s close-up. Are you sure you want to delete this photo?
“Yes, I do,” I said aloud. Then I
pressed the trash button again. The photograph was gone, and the wider one of
the grave itself appeared in its place. Two quick presses on the trash button
made that photograph disappear as well.
-->
I half-expected to hear a faint
ghostly wail of pain in response, but my actions were greeted by cold silence. Elisabetta
herself even left the monitor. The screensaver replaced her with a photo of my
mother, my father, Lenny, and me taken before my sister Janet was born. A
superstitious person might have taken the photo as a warning that I would soon
be joining them, but I wasn’t spooked. Now that I knew what I was battling, I
expected a quick victory.
To commemorate Father's Day, I want to honor my father, my grandfathers, great-grandfathers and so on -- at least the ones of whom I have pictures. I think this blog will illustrate the disparate familial currents that lead to my own personality -- which is why I love genealogy and my ancestors!
What can someone say about their father? Well, let me tell you something I didn't know until recently. My father was a computer genius. He spent his career at the Social Security Administration in Woodlawn, Maryland. He was incredibly well respected. Even today, people from Social Security practically genuflect when I say I am Doug Murphy's son.
Surprisingly, my father trained to be a lawyer. He graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Baltimore in 1966. What I didn't know until recently was that he didn't graduate from high school. He attended City College in Baltimore. When he arrived for his senior year, he acted like nothing was wrong. Like he belonged. But he didn't. He failed a number of classes the previous year and had not attended summer school. Some of the teachers from the previous year were curious about his status. They went to the office and checked the records. Somehow my father had pulled a Ferris Bueller and changed his grades over the summer. The teachers corrected the grades and he was expelled. His father Paul drove him home in silence until he finally turned to him and said, "You are an arch criminal." My father was later forced to get his GED the day before his graduation from the University of Baltimore.
I miss you, dad. You were gone too soon (like your father.)
Obituary from the Sunpapers, originally published March 17, 2003:
Douglas E. Murphy Sr., 61, Social Security analyst
Douglas E. Murphy Sr., a retired systems analyst for the Social Security Administration, died Wednesday of complications from pancreatic cancer at Joseph Richey Hospice in Baltimore. The Hamilton resident was 61.
Born in Scranton, Pa., Mr. Murphy moved with his family to Baltimore when he was 10.
He graduated from City College in 1959 and started to work for the Social Security Administration.
He also attended night school at the University of Baltimore School of Law, where he graduated magna cum laude in 1966, his family said. Mr. Murphy's arrival at the federal agency coincided with its early push to computerize. After passing an aptitude test, Mr. Murphy joined the automation effort, beginning a long career as a programmer and systems analyst.
Although he enjoyed hobbies such as gardening, golf and skiing, Mr. Murphy's relatives say he spent most of his time at, or thinking about, his job at the SSA.
"He should have been part of the cornerstone," said brother Brian Murphy of Baltimore. Mr. Murphy retired from the agency in 1999.
Services were held Saturday.
In addition to his brother, Mr. Murphy is survived by his wife of 43 years, the former Clara Protani; three sons, Douglas Murphy Jr., Sean Murphy and John Murphy, all of Baltimore; a daughter, Jeanne Coe of Baltimore; his mother, Margaret Murphy of Baltimore; three brothers, Paul Murphy Jr. of Hampton Roads, Va., Richard Murphy of Middle River and Kevin Murphy of Baltimore; two sisters, Sharon Sartor of Willingboro, N.J., and Carolyn Dabirsiaghi of Glen Arm; and three grandchildren.
Here's a little tribute film I had for him:
I would be remiss to mention my late father-in-law Donald Leroy Crum, Sr. He was a great guy who raised a great daughter. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to interview him before his death.
My father's father was Paul James Murphy, Sr. He was a great guy with a great laugh. He was a natural born salesman and always a pleasure to be around. Some of my favorite childhood memories involve swimming in the pool in his backyard during family cookouts! I feel sorry for my cousins who were born too late to really get to know him.
Story from "What's Happening," a Baltimore Life Insurance newsletter:
MURPHY RETIRES; SERVES BLI 37 YEARS
Paul J. Murphy has contributed much to the growth and success of The Baltimore Life Insurance Company over the past 37 years, and we wish him well on his retirement.
Paul joined the Scranton District in 1941, became Field Manager in 1945, and was appointed Home Office Supervisor in 1950. He became the Manager of the Baltimore District in 1952.
"Back in 1941," Paul reminisced, "the Home Office was located at Charles and Saratoga Streets. Now the new building at Mt. Royal Plaza has an addition. The original plans called for construction of a tower in the grassy area near the addition."
Paul has held many NALU and GAMA leadership positions on the local, state and national levels. His special interest lies in insurance law: He still receives requests to work with the Insurance Department.
With a production record that includes winning the President's Award and being runner-up three times, Paul has qualified for many conventions and received the George Robertson and the Harry L. Meyer Awards.
His civic activities include the Optimists (he was governor of Maryland), the Hamilton Outdoors Club, and the Har-Bel Community Organization.
"It's been a life of fun," he reflected.
Paul and Margaret have seven children, the youngest was graduated from college this year. They live near, and their many grandchildren visit.
"There are more children here now than when my kids were young," Paul laughed. "They'll keep the pool in the back yard full this summer."
Obituary from The Baltimore Sunpaper (photo included):
PAUL J. MURPHY, SR., 61; INSURANCE AGENT, OPTIMIST
Paul James Murphy, Sr., who worked for the Baltimore Life Insurance Company for 38 years and was active in the Optimist Club, died Saturday, in his Hamilton residence after an illness of a year. He was 61.
A mass for Christian burial will be offered for Mr. Murphy at 9am Wednesday morning at St. Dominic's Church, Harford Road and Gibbons Avenue.
Mr. Murphy worked as an insurance agent and field manager and in field training. From 1951 until his retirement a year ago, he was the Baltimore district manager of the firm. He joined the company in 1941 at its Scranton (PA) office and was appointed staff superintendent three years later. After serving in the Army in 1945 and 1946, he returned to his job and was appointed home office supervisor. He was transferred to the Baltimore office in 1951 and appointed district manager.
Mr. Murphy was active in the National, Maryland and Baltimore Associations of Life Underwriters. He held numerous posts in the associations, serving as vice president and president of the Baltimore Association and national committeemen and president of the Maryland Association. He was also vice chairman of the membership committee, and served on the committee of Affairs of Veterans and Servicemen of the national association.
In addition, he was a member of the board and president of the Baltimore Chapter and national director of the General Agents and Managers Conference of the national association. Well versed in the relationship between life insurance and the law, he was appointed vice chairman of the national association's Committee on State Law and Legislation as well as chairman of the Rules and Regulations Committee of the General Agents and Managers Conference.
As an active member of the Optimist Club, a service club whose motto is "friend of youth," Mr. Murphy served on numerous committees, using his skills as an organizer to develop sports programs for young people. He served three times as chairman of the Maryland district convention of the club and was the Maryland boy's work director in 1960. He held numerous offices in the organization, serving at one time as President of the Hamilton Optimist Club and lieutenant governor and governor of the Maryland District of Optimist International. In addition to his work with youth in the Optimist Club, he helped to get a YMCA built in Northeast Baltimore by serving as vice chairman of fundraising.
Mr. Murphy is survived by his wife, the former Margaret Robertson; 2 daughters, Carol Dabirisiaghi, of Baltimore, and Sgt. Sharon Sartor, of Plattsburgh, NY; 5 sons, Paul J. Murphy, Jr., Douglas E. Murphy, Richard T. Murphy, Kevin Murphy, all of Baltimore, and Brian Murphy, of Germany; a sister, Eileen J. LeStrange; and a brother, Francis J. Murphy, of Indian Head, and 15 grandchildren.
Kenny is my mother's father. I never met him. After he divorced my grandmother Rita, he essentially dropped off the face of the earth. He cut off all contact with my mother and her brother, as well as his parents and his siblings. He had two daughters and a son with his second wife. I made contact with them after I started compiling the family tree. He was apparently a thoughtful father and grandfather to his second family. I wish I had the chance to meet him.
Bob was my grandmother Rita's second husband. Since I never met Kenny, I grew up assuming Bob was my natural grandfather (despite the fact that my mother always called him Bob. Interestingly, she always called Paul Murphy "Father.") He was a great guy. He always took my brother Doug and me to get haircuts when we were kids. Always wiffles, even in the age of hippies. He always advised me never to buy a used car. He said, "you'll be buying someone else's headache."
Death notice from The Sunpapers:
POLLOCK
On December 7, 1989 ROBERT B., beloved husband of Rita C. (nee Rosenberger), devoted father of Mary Jones, Robert Pollock, Rita Bernstein, Anthony Protani, Clara Murphy. Beloved brother of Arthur and Charles Pollock. Also survived by 17 grand-children and 13 great-grandchildren.
A Christian Wake Service will be held at the Leonard J. Ruck Funeral Home, Inc., 5305 Harford Road (at Echodale) on Sunday 3:30 P.M. Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated at St. Dominic's Church on Monday at 9:30 A.M. Interment in Gardens of Faith Cemetery. Friends may call on Friday 7 to 9 P.M. and Saturday and Sunday 2 to 4 and 7 to 9 P.M.
Frank John Murphy, Sr., my great-grandfather, was the father of Paul James Murphy, Sr. He was the fire chief of Dunmore, Pennsylvania, a community right outside Scranton, Pennsylvania. I recently completed a blog about his mysterious origins called My Ancestors: The Mystery of Frank John Murphy. I covered many of the details of his life in that blog. However, I can add something new here. Frank, who grew up in a Italian neighborhood, ended the existing prejudice against hiring Italians for municipal jobs. How about that!
Article from The Scranton Republican, January 23, 1939 (photo included):
FIRE CHIEF F.J. MURPHY DIES AT DUNMORE HOME
Native Of Borough Headed Department For Quarter Of
Century -- Funeral Wednesday Morning.
Frank J. Murphy, fifty-five, chief of the Dunmore fire department since 1914, died at 8 o'clock yesterday morning in his home, 1119 Irving avenue, Dunmore, after a six weeks' illness of heart disease. Notice of his death was quickly circulated throughout the borough and came as a distinct shock to his legion of friends. Although in poor health for some time, Fire Chief Murphy was able to supervise the workings of the department until six weeks ago when he was confined to his home.
Chief Murphy was a native of Dunmore and was elected first as chief of the department in February, 1914. He held the post continuously until his death and during his years as head of the department, he made many changes, including the establishment of the platoon system.
Before becoming fire chief, he was head electrician for the Johnson Coal Company, of Dunmore, and had the distinction of operating the first electric motor used in a mine in this region. When he was named fire chief, the department consisted of one truck, three teams and two hand-drawn pieces of equipment. Under his supervision, the department today consists of four modern motor trucks equipped with the latest fire fighting devices. He was also credited with keeping the borough's electric fire alarm system working with perfection through his electrical knowledge.
In 1915, he was the organizer of a camp at Moosic Lake for the underprivileged youngsters of the Dundell section of the borough. He was affiliated with nearly all firemen's organizations in the region and held the office of president of the Firemen's Relief Association of Dunmore. He was also an officer of the Lackawanna County Federation of Volunteer Firemen, a member of the law committee of the Six-County Firemen's Association, the Keystone Fire Chiefs' Association of Pennsylvania and the State Firemen's Association of Pennsylvania. In 1921 and 1928 he was instrumental in bringing the Six-County Firemen's Convention of Dunmore.
He was organizer of the O.F. Johnson Hose Company, later the T.F. Quinn Hose Company. He also organized the Father McManus T.A.B. Society and was the manager of the baseball team representing the Dundell section of Dunmore.
Fire Chief Murphy was a member of the St. Mary's Church and its Holy Name Society. In 1915, he married the former Loretta McLane who died Jan. 29, 1935. He is survived by two sons, Francis and Paul, and a daughter, Eileen, of Dunmore.
The funeral will be Wednesday morning with a requiem mass in St. Mary's Church at 9:30 o'clock. Burial will be made in St. Catherine's Cemetery, Moscow.
Arch Robertson, my great-grandfather, was the father of my grandmother Margaret Angie Robertson Murphy. He had little formal education, but he could read and write. By the time he was six-years-old, he was already working as a slate picker at a mine. He didn't like working in the mines so he became a machinist instead. He was a mild-mannered man, who loathed arguments. He was also a skilled violinist. He died of black lung, but his death certificate says cardiac failure.
Obituary from The Scranton Republican:
ARCH ROBERTSON, 65, EAST MOUNTAIN, DIES
Arch Robertson, 65, 18 Arnold Ave., East Mountain, formerly of Dunmore, died yesterday in West Side Hospital after a brief illness.
He was employed as a breaker foreman for the Ace Coal Company and was previously employed by the Pennsylvania Coal Company.
Surviving are his wife, the former Caroline Stark, a son, Ernest Robertson, Port Carbon, Pa; a daughter, Mrs. Paul Murphy; four sisters, Mrs. Flora Snell and Mrs. Anna Delaney, Scranton; Mrs. Margaret Rigby, Jessup, and Mrs. Jane King, Iowa; a brother, William Robertson, Plains, and three grandchildren.
The funeral will be held Friday at 2 p.m. Interment, Dunmore Cemetery. Arrangements, Mrs. G. A. Miller.
Vincenzo Protani, my great-grandfather, was the father of Kenneth Joseph Protani. He was born in the Italian town of Arnara in the province of Frosinone. He came to America in 1903, but the family in the Italy still tell tales about his toughness. One of my cousins told me how Vincenzo entered the village square one Saturday morning and saw a man he had quarreled with. Vincenzo walked up to him and spat in the man's face and told him not to wipe it away until he left. The man stood there with the spittle on his face until Vincenzo finished his shopping and left the square. Then he wiped it away.
Trust me, that man in the old country got off easy if the other stories I heard about Vincenzo in America are true! But that will be the subject of a later blog!
Death notice from The News Post:
PROTANI-- On March 1, 1961, VINCINZO, of 29 North Montford avenue, beloved husband of Sadie Protani (nee Mastracci) and devoted father of Mrs. Rose Taresco, Mrs. Carmella Rinaldi, Mrs. Mary McCubbin, Mrs. Josephine Navarria, Miss Angela Protani, Frank, Dominic, Leroy, Vincent Jr., and Kenneth Protani, and also survived by twenty-eight grandchildren and thirty-two great-grandchildren.
Funeral services at the JOHN A. MORAN FUNERAL HOME, 3000 East Baltimore street (corner of Potomac street), on Monday, March 6 at 8:30 A.M. Requiem High Mass at St. Elizabeth's Church at 9 A.M. Interment in Holy Redeemer Cemetery. Friends may call daily from 2 P.M. until 10 P.M.
John George Rosenberger, my great-grandfather, was the father of my grandmother Rita Rosenberger Protani Pollock. George was one of my two great-grandparents that I remember meeting. I remember him being a nice, down-to-earth guy. He definitely did not seem like the kind of guy who would go to New York City in his youth and make a living as a dancer on Broadway but he was! He hung with the likes of Al Jolson and Eddie Cantor. (He liked Jolson, didn't care for Cantor.)
I remember when he died. About a week later, I was spending the night at my grandparents house and my grandmother wanted me to sleep in the room where he died. I told her I was afraid. She asked why. I said "What if his ghost comes to me?" She replied, "Why would that matter? He loved you. He would never hurt you." That was a very good point, and I could sleep easy.
Obituary from The Morning Sun, April 9, 1966:
G.J. ROSENBERGER FUNERAL MONDAY
A requiem mass for George J. Rosenberger, a cabinet-maker in Baltimore for more than 53 years, will be offered at 10 A.M. Monday at St. Dominic's Catholic Church, Harford road and Gibbons avenue.
Mr. Rosenberger, 75, died yesterday at his home, 3204 Evergreen avenue. Death was due to coronary thrombosis.
He was a native of Baltimore and attended St. James parish school in his youth. A cabinet-maker for more than half a century, he had been in the employ of the Fairmount Mill and Lumber Company for the last fifteen years, and the League Lumber Company for the ten years prior to that.
Survivors include two daughters, Mrs. Rita Pollock and Mrs. Helen Ernst; two sons, Norbert J. and Anthony Rosenberger; five grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.
Now my family tree gets sketchy, photo-wise. I do not have photographs of my grandfather Paul Murphy's grandfathers or great-grandfathers. Nor have I identified photographs of my grandmother Margaret's grandfathers (though I probably have them.) I have a little more luck on my maternal line.
John Rosenberger, my 2nd great-grandfather, was the father of George Rosenberger. He was born in Krombach, Bavaria. He was redheaded and very strong but also very short (a common Rosenberger trait.) He and his wife, Maria Anna Fleckenstein, and their four children, Adam, Barbara, Michel, Ottilia Rosa, and his mother, Ottilia Seitz Rosenberger arrived in Baltimore, MD, on October 21, 1880. John worked as a farmer in Germany but worked mainly as a carpenter in the United States. He also owned an oxen cart and used to transport tobacco from place to place.
John spoke little English. Whenever he grew ill, he drank a bottle of ketchup. He considered it a miracle cure all. He treated his grandchildren very kindly, but marital disputes within his home were sometimes settled in a harsh, old-fashioned manner. While in his late-70s, John was arrested for beating his wife. He was taken to the police station, but the magistrate said, "What are we supposed to do with a seventy-year-old man," and promptly sent him home again.
Don't worry. His wife had the ultimate revenge. She outlived him.
Death notice from The Sunpapers (November 17. 1932):
ROSENBERGER -- On November 16, 1932, JOHN, beloved husband of Mary Anna Rosenberger (nee Fleckenstein).
Funeral from his late residence, 1920 East Preston street, on Saturday at 8:30 A.M. Requiem High Mass at St. James' Church at 9 o'clock. Interment in Holy Redeemer Cemetery.
Jan was born in Bernadice, Bohemia. He arrived in Baltimore with his wife Kristina on August 19, 1891 aboard the SS Stuttgart. Upon arrival in the United States, he listed his occupation as a glazier. Jan later worked as a master brewer, which didn't prove to be a lucrative occupation for a honest man during Prohibition. He worked as a laborer during that period. Between June and September, he and his family would take the train from Baltimore to then-rural Westminster, Maryland, to pick beans and other crops. He was a kind man, but his family treated him with respect bordering on fear. He died of malaria after working in a swamp.
Death notice from The Baltimore American, July 23, 1924:
KOSTOHRYZ--On July 22, 1924, JOHN, beloved husband of Christina Kostohryz.
Funeral will take place from his late residence, 905 North Duncan street, Saturday morning at 8:30 o'clock. Solemn high mass at St. Wenceslaus' Church at 9 o'clock. Interment Holy Redeemer Cemetery.
Michele was the father of my great-grandmother Assunta Mastracci Protani. He lived and died in the little Italian village of Arnara. Apparently, his father died when he was young and his siblings were dispersed to live with other families. Three of his children immigrated to the United States and settled in Baltimore. My great-grandmother Assunta did so without his permission. Her husband Vincenzo apparently kidnapped her and spirited her away on horseback. I went to his house when I visited Arnara. The current residents were very nice. (I wasn't sure if they were related.)
My 3rd great-grandfather Joseph Farber, the great-grandfather of my grandmother Margaret Robertson Murphy. He was born in Allenbach, Prussia and emigrated to the United States on March 13, 1846. The family lived briefly in New York before settling in the Scranton, Pennsylvania, area. He was a tough guy. Despite still having a number of minor children living at home, he enlisted into Company c, 197th Pennsylvania Volunteers on January 24, 1862. Unfortunately, he fell sick and spent May and June in a Washington hospital. He was discharged from the service for disability by order of General Wadsworth on July 7, 1862. Still, it was a gutsy move to volunteer to fight at his age. Bravo, grandpa!
Obituary from the Scranton Republican, Feb 24, 1886:
DEATH OF JOSEPH FARBER
Joseph Farber, an old resident of the Tenth Ward of this city, father of Hon. George Farber, died yesterday. Mr. Farber has been a resident of this city for over forty years and has contributed considerable to its growth. He was also a soldier of the late war, a member of Co. C 107th Pa. Volunteers and was a member of the Soldiers' Veterans' organization of this city at the time of his death. His funeral will take place on Thursday, from the residence of his son-in-law, Jacob Stark, Petersburg, at 2 o'clock p.m. Interment in the Petersburg cemetery.
Here's a little song I wrote, and sang with my wife Deborah, to honor our family that went before us
That will have to be the end of line for now, but I want to thank all of these men for making me the man I am today! If you're interested in how the influences of these men, both visible and invisible, played out in my life, be sure to read my memoir published by TouchPoint Press:
Be sure to check out my novel Chapel Street. It tells the story of a young man straddling the line between sanity and madness while battling a demonic entity that has driven his family members to suicide for generations. It was inspired by an actual haunting my family experienced.
You can buy the Kindle and paperback at Amazon and the Nook, paperback and hardcover at Barnes & Noble.
