Category: default || By jt3y

R.L.M., wherever you are, bless you.

I got a call last week from a lady who was selling a building that had formerly housed a G.C. Murphy store. She found my name on the Internet. In the basement of this building was a bunch of old files from Murphy's, she said, and she was getting ready to throw everything out. Before she did, would I come up and look at the stuff first?

I've been on a couple of wild goose chases already. One person called me repeatedly, saying they had great stories about working for Murphy's; when I got there for the interview, they had one so-so story. I plugged along as best I could, anyway: "What do you remember best about working for Murphy's?" I'd ask. "It was nice," they'd say. "What was nice about it?" I'd ask. "It was nice." Etc.

Still, I appreciate their interest, and it's nice to meet these folks; even if their contribution isn't all that large, it's encouraging that they're eager to help.

And you never know what you're going to find until you look, so I made an appointment to meet this lady, first thing Saturday morning. The store was about an hour from Pittsburgh. I got there in time to get a cup of coffee before she arrived to unlock the door.

The first floor was like a time warp back to 1985. She and her husband had bought the building shortly after it was closed by the McCrory Corp. and continued operating the street level as a variety store. Inside, all of the signage was G.C. Murphy Co. vintage early 1980s; even the shelves were in the same place. About the only concessions to modernity were two new electronic cash registers and a new pop cooler.

"My husband said I should have just thrown everything away," she said, as she led me down to the basement, "and to tell you the truth, I think I'm wasting your time, but I didn't know who else to call. This is probably all a bunch of junk."

She snapped on the lights. On top of one set of shelves were four mechanical cash registers. On another set of shelves were about a half-dozen typewriters of various vintages. Cloth shopping baskets stenciled "G.C. MURPHY CO." were piled in the aisles.

I got a little wobbly in the knees. I have dreams like this, you know.

She led me over to another set of shelves, where row after row of dirty three-ring binders were lined up. I pulled one of them out; it was a catalog for Murphy's corporate sign shop, with illustrations, describing the different banners and pennants that a store manager could order, circa 1968. Another binder contained "Plan-o-Grams" --- suggested layouts for counter displays. There was a folder with shoplifter reports from the 1960s, including confessions: "My name is S--- J