Murphy: A letter to my nephew on graduation day - the journey begins

This is a commentary by Mark Murphy, a local author and physician. He is a longtime contributor to the Savannah Morning News.

Author's note: This is a letter to my nephew, Jackson Murphy, upon the occasion of his high school graduation

Jackson, you never met your grandmother, Peggy Wommack Murphy — and that’s a shame.

Peggy was my mother, and your dad’s, too. She was an amazing woman , filled to the brim with love. Peggy Murphy died far too young, at age 50. And while I’m sure 50 seems old to you right now, it will be here sooner than you can imagine.

Here’s the thing: You are my mother’s youngest grandchild — and you’re grown. High school is over. Your life awaits, pregnant with limitless promise. It is an exciting time, the first of many mileposts on the road to adulthood. When you step onto the campus of Georgia Tech as a freshman next fall, it will be the beginning of an incredible phase of your life. College is a unique time, a time when you have “all of the rights of adulthood but none of the responsibilities,” as an old aphorism goes.

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I matriculated at the University of Georgia 43 years ago, back in the days before electricity and running water, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth. I’m exaggerating a bit, but you get the point.

I’ve been where you are today, although it has been a while. Nevertheless, I can still recall the excitement I felt when I watched Grandpa Jack and your grandmother Peggy as they drove away from the Myers Dorm parking lot on that glorious fall day in 1980. My dad later told me that mama was crying as they drove away, saying, “He looks so small.”

I watched them turn the corner and walked to the dining hall with my roommate to get lunch.

Years later, I went back to Athens for a football game. I’m a season ticket holder, as you know, so I’ve done that a lot over the years. That week, however, we had lost the game. The next morning, I found myself running across campus asking myself, “Why do I do this?”

I found my answer during that run.

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As I passed a tree on South Campus that I had carved my initials and Aunt Daphne’s during that dim Cretaceous time when we were both undergraduates, I stopped and ran my fingers over the craggy letters, now worn with time. A young coed in skinny jeans, her long hair pulled back into a ponytail, was struggling up Science Hill with an over-stuffed backpack.

It was a journey I’d made myself a thousand times, many years before, and I wanted to stop her. I wanted to tell her that life was too short, that her time in college was precious. She needed to understand that she's going to spend the rest of her life trying to get back to this point. And she would fail, because once college is over, it's over. Everything afterward is an imitation, a mirage.

I didn't speak to her. She probably would have sprayed me with mace, or at bare minimum called campus security about the creepy old dude in running shorts who accosted her on a Sunday morning.

But she made me realize why I come to Athens.

It wasn’t the football. It never was.

Instead, it was the memories of a time when the whole world lay before me, when the possibilities were endless, when I pushed the envelope of what I thought I was capable of and ruptured it. It was a reminder of the carefree nature of youth, of the ability to lose oneself in the collective delirium of a brilliant football play in Sanford Stadium or an intense academic project shared with friends. It was the hedonistic pleasures of a simple glass of wine with a good meal and good friends while we were all still young and beautiful, unconcerned about tomorrow because of the limitless possibilities of today.

Any pilgrimage I make to Athens unearths recollections of the intellectual and personal discoveries that made me the man I am today.

You see, I still go to Athens because it reminds me of why I am alive.

This is the phase of life you find yourself on the cusp of today.  You have every right to be elated. It’s going to be amazing. Trust me.

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So you’re probably wondering why I brought up your grandmother.

You may not realize this about your old Uncle Mark, but I’m a rampant sentimentalist. That’s always been part of who I am. And as you gave your absolutely stellar salutatorian address last Saturday, I suddenly realized that it was my mother’s birthday.

I’ll admit it right here, in front of God and everybody: My eyes filled with tears. Because you are the last of Peggy Murphy’s grandchildren, and you’re grown, and she would be so damned proud of you.

The universe is right there in front of you, Jackson. And we are all damned proud of you.

Have a wonderful, exhilarating, fantastic life.

This article originally appeared on Savannah Morning News: Mark Murphy letter to nephew on high school graduation day