A few days before Don Murray's memorial service at the University of New Hampshire three weekends ago, a school official worried that the setting -- a large theater on campus -- would be too big for an event he assumed would draw only a small crowd.
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Chip Scanlan / Poynter
Cover of the program for the Don Murray memorial at the University of New Hampshire. |
How little he knew about Don -- Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, legendary teacher and writing coach and, at 82, when he died on Dec. 30, a writer who was filing a weekly column for
The Boston Globe, working on a third memoir and was just days from launching a Web site to teach the craft online. At 2 p.m. on Saturday, Jan. 27, when the service began, nearly every one of the 688 seats of the Johnson Theater was filled -- with family, friends, colleagues, disciples and readers.
Among the varied highlights of a celebration of one man's life and contributions:
Music"Chandos Anthem #3: Have Mercy on Me, O Lord," by George Frederic Handel -- Don's choice, drawn from the scores of classical CDs in his collection.
"Nulla Dies Sine Linea" an original composition by Don's son-in-law
Michael Starobin, orchestrator, arranger and Tony Award winner. The piece, an homage to the motto that governed Don's writing life -- "Never a day without a line" -- was performed by Michael and his sons, Josh and Sam, on alto and tenor sax, acoustic guitar, tuba and piano. It was a beautiful musical euology that seemed to convey the richness of Don's life and his writing, in all of their glories and sorrow. Don's friends are lobbying Michael to record it.
TributesTouching eulogies, sprinkled with the laughter that eases grief, from Don's friends and colleagues, captured by Bryan Marquard of the
Globe and Matthew Tetrault of the
Portsmouth Herald.Tom Newkirk, a professor of English at the University
of New Hampshire and for many years
Don's neighbor contributed a biographical tribute that appeared in the program.
After the service, family and friends returned to Don's home for a stick-to-your-ribs meal that could have been selected by Don himself -- meat loaf, macaroni-and-cheese and pickled beets.
Eventually, a group of us crowded in Don's office, which looked as if he had only just stepped out. The shelves were lined with books, manuscripts, notes in Don's inimitable and undechiperable handwriting, the many he wrote and the ones about writing that he looked to for inspiration and guidance. In true fashion, everything was labeled, including cookie jars, as if he would have had trouble distinguishing Scottish treats from American ones. We laughed when we saw one drawer labeled "Pens" and just across the room, another one labeled "More Pens."
At day's end, three emotions seemed to dominate conversations: happiness that Don's end was quick, sorrow that he is gone, but comfort in knowing that he and the lessons he taught us will never be forgotten.
Don's daughters, Anne and Hannah, honored me with the opportunity to stand before the crowd to talk about my mentor and best friend:
I've been a disciple since 1981 when Don Murray walked into the newsroom of the
Providence Journal to be our writing coach and a colleague whispered to me, "He's got mentor stamped on hisforehead." I also represent my colleagues at
The Poynter Institute, from where Don's lessons about the writing process and coaching spread throughout the world.
"Only connect."
That maxim from the English novelist
E.M. Forster was just one of thousands of quotations that Don collected over the years.
As I look out on all of us, I'm struck by the way that quote defined our relationships with Don, as family, friends, students, disciples and the many other relationships Don made over the years.
"Only connect."
His most important connections bound him to his family, Minnie Mae and Lee, Anne, Karl and Michaela, Hannah, Michael, Josh and Sam.
But our presence here shows how Don accomplished that feat in so many other ways. He spun a web that binds us together, irrevocably, now in grief, but ultimately, and I hope happily, lightened by our admiration, respect and love for this remarkable man. Don connected readers, young and old in
his Boston Globe column with penetrating essays that demonstrated lessons he taught me and so many others -- it takes the greatest strength to admit you are weak and the greatest courage to admit you are afraid. He did so with the gift he bestowed on friends and strangers alike, one that can show us how to keep his spirit alive. He paid attention. He made you feel important.
"Only connect."
He connected writers and teachers through a body of work that stripped away the mystique of [the] writer as magician, [some]one who preferably lived in a garret and consumed large amounts of alcohol waiting for the muse to visit.
Don taught us when the muse would visit -- every time you pick up a pen, open one of his trademark daybooks, peck a keyboard and ... the cardinal rule of the writer's discipline, when you apply your behind to a chair.
Don's heart, the organ, was weak and failed him at the end. But figuratively it continues to beat in us all. To his students, admirers and total strangers who approached this Pultizer-winning writer for advice, Don was ever-ready to listen patiently, to gently offer advice often imprinted on laminated cards, singular messages, compressed in often paradoxical fashion, but of such value to anyone trying to make meaning with words.
The last one came in the mail shortly before his death. It provides me with a guide to attempt the impossible -- honor a mentor and a beloved friend who gave me the gift of his attention for 25 years.
"S .O. F. T." it read. "SOFT." Below it, the complete message reminds me of Don, the paratrooper, copy boy, police reporter, freelance writer, the consummate professional. For the sake of young ears, I've sanitized the "f-word."
"SAY ONE 'EFFING THING."
Above all, Don was a populist, a writer who welcomed anyone with a desire to write and supplied them with books [and] articles to help them achieve their dreams.
"SAY ONE 'EFFING THING."
As difficult as it is to follow that final, profane and so Don Murray-ish advice, I will try to honor it.
How I wish I could hear Don's wooly voice say those words. How I will miss our phone calls, his care and consideration, his advice, his attention, our connection.
"Say one 'effing thing, Chip."
"Okay, Don, I will."
Thank you for the gift of your friendship, and [for] all that you have written and said that transformed me and so many others here.
"ONE 'EFFING THING."
I loved you Don, and for the rest of my life, dear friend, I will miss you.
