I’m not sure any one piece of paper ever made me as sad as this.

It’s the receipt from my Uncle Robert’s grave:

The receipt’s date is June 3, 1929. The amount of $2.00 would cover the care of the infant’s grave. Another $10 was paid the next day to Edward McCarthy, who dug the tiny grave.

If that’s not sad enough, there was a note from one of Dad’s sisters in his wooden keepsake box. It explained that Grandpa kept the folded receipt tucked away in his wallet for the rest of his life. It was only discovered after his passing in 1993.

Baby Robert was Grandma and Grandpa’s first child. He was born on May 30 and lived just five days. I don’t know if he was premature or if disease took away his life.

But I do know for whom he was named. His namesake was Grandpa’s best friend from college days, Father Robert Martin Murphy.

Grandpa attended seminary at St. Charles’ College minor seminary in Baltimore for the 1922-1923 school year. He and Bob Murphy became fast friends.

This 1996 article from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette gives us a feel for Father Murphy (don’t you just know he loved the television series?):

Here are a few quotes from the above article, in case you’ve misplaced your spectacles:

After stating that St. James Catholic School would be closed in memory of its former pastor: “It’s an appropriate way to mark Father Murphy’s death. In life, he was fond of giving the students a day off for almost any excuse,” said the current pastor.

A man proud of his Irish heritage, he loved Irish stories and would slip over to the church in late afternoon or early evening to play Irish tunes on the organ.

From an early age, he wanted to be a priest. As a youth, he would pray in Latin in his bedroom and use a blackboard to write down Latin words from the liturgy.

Here’s an undated photo of Grandpa and Bob Murphy in seminary school (or perhaps several years later):

Although they may not have seen each other often over the years (Father Bob remained in Pennsylvania while Grandpa lived mostly in Massachusetts, with a few years each in Connecticut, New York, and Kentucky), I can imagine they exchanged letters.

Here’s another photo of the good reverend:

It does my heart good to know Father Bob surely kept his namesake in his prayers over the years. There’s no doubt his parents and siblings kept him in their hearts, too, as does my generation.

In both of their memories, here’s a beautiful classical piece Dad used to play on the stereo. We can listen to this and know both Roberts are now safe and in peace.

---

Please start your free subscription below, and we’ll send you an email notice with each new story: