He was born in 1781 and according to naturalization records he arrived in New York on April 3, 1807 from County Cork, Ireland.
He was 26 years old. And he was 40 years ahead of the masses escaping the potato famine, which, I like to think, makes him a visionary.
It's because of John that I'm writing this blog today surrounded by palm trees and gulf breezes with an American flag flying off my front porch. Thanks John.
I like to imagine his face. I'm sure he was handsome.
I ask myself.....what would make a 26 year old young man leave everything he knows, everything he had touched since childhood, everything that is certain in his life...step on a wooden sea-vessel, where odds are not in your favor to arrive in good health or even alive - and go to a strange country with absolutely no guarantees.
What kind of courage did he have? Or was he just plain ignorant and had nothing else better to do? Was he running from something or was he in search of something? What was he thinking and what were his dreams? What did he expect to find? Did he have a skill? What did he pack to take with him? Did he leave a sweetheart behind or was he hoping to find one? Did he shed tears as he saw the coast of his homeland fade away? So many unknowns....
Cousin Mike writes, "During that time many of the Irish emigrating to America from County Cork left from port of Queenstown. The community was renamed Cobh in 1913. (pronounced Cove) It is interesting to note that this was the last port in which the ill-fated Titanic stopped to pick up passengers on April 11, 1912. It hit the iceberg and sank on Sunday night, April 14"
See? No guarantees.
We have been able to track young John from his landing in New York to his eventual land in Morgan County, Ohio. (this is the same place we always went for the family reunion mentioned in the first post) If he was a visionary, I'm sure even young John never envisioned a park filled with three generations of Murphy's almost 200 years later. We were his legacy. We ARE his legacy.
Oh how I wish I could have sat on the edge of that dock with him, talking about life as our feet dangled over the water. How I wish I had his courage and spirit of adventure. And how I hope that his legacy thrives through me.
(RE: The song below.) If you know me well, you know I've been playing guitar and singing since I was a young girl. If you don't know me well.....now you know.
In my earlier years I often wrote songs.Little did I know it was my way of telling stories - a gift of my heritage and from God. In the past dozen or so years I've felt little or no desire to pick up my dusty guitar. Not sure why - my son Sam plays beautifully so everytime he visits my guitar gets a good tuning.
For young John Murphey, I wrote the song below.
He was 26 years old. And he was 40 years ahead of the masses escaping the potato famine, which, I like to think, makes him a visionary.
It's because of John that I'm writing this blog today surrounded by palm trees and gulf breezes with an American flag flying off my front porch. Thanks John.
I like to imagine his face. I'm sure he was handsome.
I ask myself.....what would make a 26 year old young man leave everything he knows, everything he had touched since childhood, everything that is certain in his life...step on a wooden sea-vessel, where odds are not in your favor to arrive in good health or even alive - and go to a strange country with absolutely no guarantees.
What kind of courage did he have? Or was he just plain ignorant and had nothing else better to do? Was he running from something or was he in search of something? What was he thinking and what were his dreams? What did he expect to find? Did he have a skill? What did he pack to take with him? Did he leave a sweetheart behind or was he hoping to find one? Did he shed tears as he saw the coast of his homeland fade away? So many unknowns....
Cousin Mike writes, "During that time many of the Irish emigrating to America from County Cork left from port of Queenstown. The community was renamed Cobh in 1913. (pronounced Cove) It is interesting to note that this was the last port in which the ill-fated Titanic stopped to pick up passengers on April 11, 1912. It hit the iceberg and sank on Sunday night, April 14"
See? No guarantees.
We have been able to track young John from his landing in New York to his eventual land in Morgan County, Ohio. (this is the same place we always went for the family reunion mentioned in the first post) If he was a visionary, I'm sure even young John never envisioned a park filled with three generations of Murphy's almost 200 years later. We were his legacy. We ARE his legacy.
Oh how I wish I could have sat on the edge of that dock with him, talking about life as our feet dangled over the water. How I wish I had his courage and spirit of adventure. And how I hope that his legacy thrives through me.
(RE: The song below.) If you know me well, you know I've been playing guitar and singing since I was a young girl. If you don't know me well.....now you know.
In my earlier years I often wrote songs.Little did I know it was my way of telling stories - a gift of my heritage and from God. In the past dozen or so years I've felt little or no desire to pick up my dusty guitar. Not sure why - my son Sam plays beautifully so everytime he visits my guitar gets a good tuning.
For young John Murphey, I wrote the song below.
Distant Shores
A song by Joyce Pemberton
There's no explaining what he feels or why he's feeling
He's in his homeland but he's drawn to distant shores
His heart is not divided - he's committed to his home
Can't help but wonder why he's drawn to distant shores
He walks and works the land where kindrid blood was spilt
His father's footsteps echo gently in his mind
His children keep him grounded and his music gives him life
Still wonders why he's just so drawn to distant shores
Hearts can be divided, it's an ageless melody
Contenment always just beyond our grasp
Packing bags in search of something we really can't define
Is what our fathers did in generations past
As they left their homes in search of distant shores
His friends have been his friends most his whole life
They know him better than sometimes he knows himself
But they don't know all that moves him Or the struggles in his mind
That while his heart is in his homeland
He's drawn to distant shores
Gentle breezes ore the heather make him smile
Brings in the morning like a blanket on his soul
And tonight he'll lay his head down
As he did the night before
And in his dreams he'll see the faces Of those on distant shores
I started the search for my roots in the 80's, but my cousin Mike, who is my age and the only other relative as obsessed with heritage as I am - completed the search just this past year.
Mike has become an expert on our family genealogy, going as far as to dig up a fourth cousin twice removed and reuniting said cousin with his mom, who he was separated from at childhood.
It's scary what Mike knows...he can rattle off names of relatives 3 or four generation deep as if he has known them all his life. In fact, his rattling of generations of names has been known to put many a folk into a glazed trance. (Sorry Mike but it's true)
Mike's the one who uncovered the name that counts the most.
His name was John Murphey.
Mike has become an expert on our family genealogy, going as far as to dig up a fourth cousin twice removed and reuniting said cousin with his mom, who he was separated from at childhood.
It's scary what Mike knows...he can rattle off names of relatives 3 or four generation deep as if he has known them all his life. In fact, his rattling of generations of names has been known to put many a folk into a glazed trance. (Sorry Mike but it's true)
Mike's the one who uncovered the name that counts the most.
His name was John Murphey.
Like you, I've often wondered what it must have been like to first make the decision to leave Ireland and head across the ocean to a new land. Once here, some of the treatment the Irish received at the New York port was less than friendly, but they perservered nonetheless. Getting from New York to Virginia must have been a major effort and then, a few years later, with the promise of cheap abundant land (something they didn't have in Virginia), they packed up and headed to Ohio, arriving during the early days of statehood. Farming is what they knew and they were good at it. Our Murphy clan was responsible for building at least two of the early churches in Morgan County and as the evidence that they left behind supports, were hard-working, God-fearing, family-oriented citizens of Morgan County! Not a bad legacy!
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