“Curriculum, I think,” Lucas said.
“There, you see? So, yeah, I was thinkin’ that between the both of us and the junk we know, we can put our heads together and come up with some practical knowledge to teach the boy. I’ll pay ya somethin’ for your time, Lucas.”
“Shut up, ya goofball,” Lucas said. “Don’t offend me. You saved my worthless life.” He swatted at Hank’s armless sleeve. “I can’t ever repay you for that. ‘Course I’ll help. You and Murph are like family to me. I love the kid like my own grandson, if only one of my thankless yuppie kids could get around to giving me one.”
“All right, but just promise me that if you ever need somethin’ or ain’t happy with the situation, you tell me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Lucas raised his arms and said, “Suit me up, Hank.”
Hank walked over to a wicker basket in the corner of the room. He bent down and dug out a motorcycle helmet and an armful of catcher gear—a chest protector, toe, knee, and leg guards, and an athletic supporter with plastic cup. He dropped the bundle on the floor at Lucas’s feet, and then, piece by piece, Hank outfitted his friend. He slipped the jock strap and cup over Lucas’s jeans, and the motorcycle helmet went on last.
The two men found nothing strange about the procedure; it was something they had been doing since Murphy was a toddler. It was Hank’s idea, and it had saved Lucas many lumps, bruises, and possible broken bones over the years.
Hank finished by knocking on Lucas’s helmet, like one does on a door—knock, knock-it-y, knock, knock. Lucas gave an adjusting squirm to the plastic cup, and added the classic ending—knock, knock. “Ready,” he declared, and they both laughed.
Lucas followed Hank into the kitchen where Murphy was still absorbed in his reading. Hank noticed that the boy had started another book since he had left him, this one a how-to guide on gardening.
Murphy glanced up from his reading and waved to Lucas. With a big smile he greeted, “Hello, Uncle Lucas.”
Lucas flipped up the protective visor on the motorcycle helmet. “Hi ya, Murph. Whatcha doin’, buddy?”
Murphy showed Lucas the cover of the book he was reading. “I have big plans for our backyard,” he said.
“You do, do you?” Lucas walked to the kitchen window. He found a spot that wasn’t shattered and looked out into the dusty, weed-filled lot. Misjudging the size of his helmet, it smacked against the window and added another meandering crack to it.
The lot was rectangular and quite large, about the size of a football field. It extended back over a hundred yards to a creek and the edge of undeveloped woods. Barren and ugly, nothing had been done to it since the unfortunate accident that took the lives of Murphy’s parents, Lyle and Millie Drummer.
A rickety fence bordered the sides of the lot. Though there were a couple of oak trees at one end and some elms at the other, it was not only an eyesore, but also considered haunted by Hank Drummer’s neighbors. That suited Hank just fine, as the legend kept out kids or anyone else in town from snooping around. Lucas observed a tumbleweed go rolling past and then returned to the table.
“Yeah,” Murphy said with all the confidence of youth. “I have already started drawing up plans. Want to see? They are upstairs in my room.”
Lucas turned to Hank, a quizzical look in his eye. He had never seen Murphy so animated before.
As if reading his pal’s thoughts, Hank said, “He’s been like this ever since he learned that he didn’t have to go to school anymore. He’s like a man who was just released from prison and is experiencing the glory of freedom again.”
The two old-timers followed Murphy upstairs, Lucas waddling in his cumbersome catcher gear at the rear. Along the way Lucas reviewed and noted the number of repairs he and Hank had performed together over the years. He inspected a couple of floor boards, tapped at a wall with his knuckles, and sliding his hand along the staircase handrail, checked to see that it was still stable.
The Drummer house was a pink, 1960s two-story home with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room and fireplace, dining room, two-car garage, and a spacious basement. Hank’s only son, Lyle Drummer, and his wife, Millie, picked the home up cheap in a foreclosure sale. They left it to Hank and Murphy in their will.
Millie’s family, the LeClaires, didn’t receive anything. They were against the marriage from the get-go, and they had all but disowned their rebellious daughter. They believed that their little girl, raised among New England gentry, had “married down.” Scandalized, the LeClaires could not understand how their privileged daughter could fall for a hick mechanic from Kansas. After all, the vivacious and beautiful young woman had her pick of any number of Harvard or Yale scions.
Unlike every other room in the Drummer home, Murphy’s was scar-free, and thanks to Murphy’s conscientious nature, tidy and clean. Large and airy, the bedroom had been his parents’. After Murphy had grown enough to sleep in a bed, Hank moved most of what was in the master bedroom to his own room down the hall. Now the only furnishings were a single bed with nightstand and lamp, a small desk, and a five-drawer dresser that Lyle Drummer had picked up at a garage sale a month before Murphy was born. Hank could have kept the larger room for himself, but the idea made him uncomfortable and he thought it just didn’t seem right.
Although Lucas Cloverman found the near-empty room a little sad and lonely, he also knew it to be a kind of sanctuary from the otherwise stormy situation in the rest of the house; a storm that all too frequently stretched across the entire block that Murphy lived on, much to his neighbors bitter mystification. For whatever reason, Murphy’s bedroom was a safe haven, and Lucas always felt out of harm’s way there.
Lucas took off his motorcycle helmet and looked at the sketchbook that Murphy opened before him on his desk.
Both Lucas and Hank scratched their unshaven, grizzled faces in befuddled surprise.
“Murph,” Grandpa asked, “when did you do this?”
“Some of it has been in my head for a while, but I sketched many of the plans last night after you went to bed. But new ideas sprout up all the time, and the old ones keep growing and growing, so it’s not the final plan.”
Lucas picked up the sketchbook for closer examination as Hank looked on over his shoulder. Lucas flipped one page, and then another, and another, and another. Each page contained a different drawing. It appeared that Murphy had plans for more than just the backyard.
“Hank,” Lucas said, “I think we have our curriculum.”
Pastimes
Twenty-five years later.
Murphy sat at the same small desk in the same bedroom in the same home he grew up in. His fingers flew across the keyboard of his laptop computer, typing at a blazing one hundred and thirty words a minute. Now thirty-three years old, Murphy was normal in every outward way. He was fit, handsome, and dressed by a Lands End catalog.
Curled up at Murphy’s feet was his dog, Lot. Lot was a mutt—a furry patchwork of white, brown, red, and black, with one brown eye and one blue eye. The dog had long, silky ears, one black, and one white. Each paw was a different color. After much research, Murphy decided that the dog was a mix of Nepalese Noouf, Andorran Arfhound, Tibetan Tuolumne, and Redbone Coonhound. The dog had wandered into the Drummer backyard when he was just a puppy. Murphy discovered him one July morning behind a bag of quick-dry cement in the corner of the yard in the shade of one of the old oak trees. It was on the day of Murphy’s sixteenth birthday, so he liked to think of the little fella as a birthday gift from God.
The puppy was in bad shape. It had an eye infection, was malnourished, and limped. Hank took the dog to the local vet for shots, antibiotics, and a checkup. Afterwards, Murphy nursed the little dog back to health. Hank put up signs around town and posted an ad in the town newspaper, but no one stepped forward to claim the goofy-looking mongrel. After a month of searching for the dog’s owner, Murphy decided to keep him. He named him Lot after the back lot where he discovered him. The puppy grew into a handsome, sweet-natured
dog that never left Murphy’s side.
The room—in fact, the entire house—was in excellent condition. Nowhere inside or out was there any sign of the ramshackle damage that plagued the house of his early childhood days.
Owning no television, and never having watched one in his life, every wall of Murphy’s bedroom had a large bookcase. Each one was handmade by Murphy in the garage that now doubled as a studio for carpentry, welding, and lapidary.
The bookcases brimmed with books, all organized by subject matter, sub-subject, and alphabetized by author. The titles on the spines revealed books on history, philosophy, hard and soft sciences, literature, and every hobby imaginable. The books in his bedroom, however, were only those he consulted most often. The adjacent room held the lion’s share. With its rows of self-standing bookcases, made by Murphy’s own two hands, it looked more like a library than the spare bedroom that it once was.
Similarly, Murphy’s room resembled a hobby store more than a bedroom. Placed upon the handsome cabinets and shelves were aquariums and terrariums, a hamster cage, and an ant farm. On a folding table in the corner of the room was a half-completed jigsaw puzzle. When finished, it was going to be a starry, dynamic universe full of colorful, whirling planets, spinning moons, and swooshing, shooting stars.
Stacked neatly on another small table were various board games—Scrabble, chess, backgammon, Go, and a dozen others. He kept his knitting, needlepoint and macramé accessories in drawers, and he adorned the walls with his favorite pieces. His curtains and colorful bedspread were also his own work.
Systematically arranged on side-shelves in the refurbished and spacious walk-in closet were coin and stamp books, as well as other items that Murphy had been collecting for the past twenty-five years.
On the closet floor and upon more shelves on the back wall rested two dozen musical instruments. They were organized according to classification: string, woodwind, brass, and percussion. The instruments included a guitar, a fiddle, a banjo, a saxophone, three different flutes, a clarinet and a bugle, conga and Japanese taiko drums, castanets, a xylophone, and a didgeridoo.
Murphy’s entire wardrobe fit on ten hangers in the corner of the closet.
Three large navy chests sat on the bedroom floor. The lid to one of them was up, revealing dozens of juggling props—balls of varying sizes and colors, clubs, rings, bean bags, plates, sticks, torches, and even knives and swords.
A telescope aimed at the heavens pointed out each of the room’s three windows.
A framed award proclaiming The Hobby Guy as the People’s Choice Columnist of the Year graced the wall beside Murphy’s desk.
Murphy stopped typing, leaving off on the following sentence:
…And most of all I would like to thank you for all the cards, letters, and email that I have received over the past ten years.
He reached into a box filled with envelopes on the floor beside his desk. He picked up a stack bound together by a rubber band. His thumb rifled through the stack. At the top left corner of every envelope was the same name: Phaedra.
Murphy continued typing, his final words racing across the screen of his computer.
Dear friends, your words have meant more to me than you could possibly know. You have taught me that a hobby is a passport to many worlds, both within and without. You have taught me that a strong sense of purpose produces its own luck. And, most of all, you have taught me that a life well-lived might be the greatest hobby of all.
Fondest wishes and good luck to each of you.
Yours truly,
The Hobby Guy
Murphy heard a pounding noise. He stood and walked to the window that overlooked the front yard. Lot reared and put his front paws on the windowsill, joining Murphy in his observation. Together they saw Lucas Cloverman, now ninety years old, hammering a FOR SALE sign into Murphy’s front lawn. It wasn’t the sign that brought a grimace to Murphy’s face; rather, it was the gang of neighbors who had marched from their homes to applaud Lucas’s hammering. Lot let out a single, indignant bark.
Murphy and Lot walked downstairs, passed through the immaculate kitchen into the well-adorned living room, and to the front door. Murphy stepped onto the porch, Lot at his side.
Upon seeing Murphy, the neighbors ceased their applause and switched to jeering and strings of colorful expletives, punctuated by stabbing, middle-finger salutes. Murphy ignored their threats and caterwauling and told Lot to stay. He descended the steps to the lawn and over to his old friend. Lot obediently sat but remained vigilant.
“Hello, Lucas!” Murphy greeted. “Let me give you a hand with that.”
“No, no, Murphy,” Lucas said. “An old man needs his exercise.”
Concerned, Murphy said, “Please, I really think—”
Lucas smacked his finger with the hammer—“Ow!” He hopped in pain as he sucked and coddled his finger.
“Bummer!” whooped the neighbors in unison.
Murphy ran up and took the hammer from Mr. Cloverman.
“Are you okay, Lucas?”
“Yeah, yeah…” he answered, shaking the sting from his finger.
Murphy pounded the sign into the ground with a few quick strokes. He stood back and took a nostalgic look at his home.
Lucas said, “You’re gonna miss the old place, aren’t you?”
“It’s all I’ve ever known. I haven’t been beyond the front yard since I was a little boy.”
“Well, I’ll make sure I find a good owner for the ole girl.”
“Thank you, Lucas.”
One of the neighbors standing a safe distance away squawked, “Buh-bye Bummer, and the sooner the better!”
Lucas said, “Don’t pay no attention to them, Murph. Your grandpa told me before he passed on that where you’re going people are real nice and that they’ll look out for you.”
“I’m sure they will look out for me,” Murphy replied drolly.
Murphy’s face suddenly registered a look of concern and intense alertness. It was an expression and bearing that Lucas and his grandpa had long ago learned to trust. They called Murphy’s uncanny ability to sense impending danger his “murphometer.”
Murphy raised a finger to the sky. His neighbors followed his finger’s trajectory but saw nothing, not even a cloud. They shrugged to one another and resumed their taunting.
A second neighbor crowed, “Yo, Bummer. Whatcha waitin’ for, doomsday? Leave already, would ya? We’ve got work to do!”
In contrast to Murphy’s well-kept house, his neighbors’ homes looked as if they had known the wrath of a hurricane. Their houses had peeling paint, loose shingles, cracked windows, and broken shutters. Their flower beds were flattened and desiccated, and many trees had the telltale signs of having been struck by lightning or sheared by roaring storms.
Again, Murphy pointed at the sky. The neighbors looked up but didn’t see so much as a bird. They exchanged puzzled looks, shook their heads in irritation, and then jeered some more.
“Have you ever been to a Zen monastery, Lucas?” Murphy asked.
“No, but your grandpa said that the folk there are real peaceful. I guess they use a lot of medication.”
“I believe you mean meditation,” Murphy said.
“Oh…well that’s good,” the old man said. “I was a little worried, frankly. Meditation. Ever try it?”
“No, but I’ve been reading up on it. I’ll try most anything once.”
“Well, you are the hobby guy—”
“Shh,” Murphy said, putting a silencing finger to his lips. “That’s still a secret, okay?”
“Right,” Lucas said. “Gotcha. You, me, and the for sale sign. But, um, why’s that? Now that you’re leavin’ and all?”
“Bummer…Bummer…Bummer!” chanted the chorus of neighbors.
“Um, I just think the less attention the better, you know?”
Murphy turned to the neighbors congregated on his lawn and again pointed at the sky. The neighbors replied with another round of sneerin
g insults.
“Come inside, Lucas. We’ll go over the remaining details and instructions. I’m leaving tomorrow, so we have a lot of loose ends to tie up.”
Lucas nodded and followed Murphy to the porch. He greeted the tail-wagging pooch with a “How ya doin’, boy,” and scratched Lot behind the ear.
One of the neighbors cried, “Freak!”
His insult was immediately followed by more chants of, “Bummer…Bummer…Bummer!”
Murphy, his back to his neighbors, pointed at the sky once more, and then he, Lucas, and Lot disappeared into the house.
Click-click-click…
Murphy’s automatic lawn sprinklers went off. Yelling and cursing, the doused neighbors scattered.
Mr. Cloverman peeked back out the door and laughed.
Club Murphy
Lucas Cloverman retrieved his protective helmet and catcher gear from the wicker basket near the door and dropped the bundle at his feet.
“Suit me up, Murph.”
Having perfected the procedure long ago, after a minute, the major pieces of Lucas’s armor were in place. Murphy gave each strap to the chest protector and shin guards a good yank and then helped the old man step into the bands of the athletic supporter and cup. He tugged the jock up over Lucas’s jeans to his waist and completed the routine by placing the motorcycle helmet on Lucas’s head. Just like his grandpa used to do, he finished with a flourish by delivering to the helmet the ritualistic taps—knock, knock-it-y, knock, knock.
Lucas wiggled and adjusted his jock and returned Murphy’s signal with the signature two knuckle raps to the plastic cup—knock, knock. “Ready,” he proclaimed.
The two men chuckled. It was something they never stopped finding comical.
“I guess you won’t miss putting on all this gear anymore, huh Lucas?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a part of me, Murph. I’ll miss it more than you’ll ever know.”
Murphy’s Luck Page 2