FROM KEVIN’S WRITING
A Five-Note Call
On friendship, welcome, and the roots we grow together.
I met the astonishing Pam when we were three. She lived four houses down.
Her mother and father welcomed me, laughed with us, and her mom plated some great Italian pasta for lunch. By four, I quietly knew I was going to marry her daughter.
That part did not work out. We broke up when we were five. Neither of us was ready for a long-distance relationship. Her school was several blocks away from mine. We tried to make it work, but our recess schedules were incompatible. We decided to see other people. People our own age. Five.
I am the second son of an immigrant from Northern Ireland and the grandson of Polish refugees. Both sides of my family had to leave familiar places under the pressures of political and economic persecution. We were relatively new to this country. Finding and defining community mattered.
Somehow, we landed in an exclusively Italian neighborhood in Melrose Park. My inculturation began with the people around me and, especially early on, with the family four houses down.
In our neighborhood, you went to the back door, knocked three or four times, and “called someone out.” My call was a five-note “Yo-oh-Pam-am-eeee.”
Pam and her mom would open the door and invite me in. Pam and I would plan our summer day or just go with the flow.
We would be hanging out on the front stoop when her father came home from work before dinner. He would set down his black briefcase, smile, and call out, “Okay, Kevin McGraw, time to draw!”
That was our signal. We were gunslingers, ready to draw, both in pantomime. He would make a quick feint but never draw. I would draw first, and he would act out his part as the mortally wounded stranger.
“Attaboy. Good to see you, Kevin. How are you today?”
He would put his hand gently on my head and give his daughter a smooch.
Always consistent, always fun. It never got old. I looked forward to it.
Mrs. C. had her own way of making room for me.
When my youngest sister was born, my father came home from the hospital and, after our Irish bedtime prayer, told me she looked just like him, “…with my big head and high forehead.” He traced the contours of his head with his hands for emphasis.
This was unfortunate information to give a five-year-old who had forgotten what babies looked like.
I imagined a miniature version of my father coming home: a giant Irish head, five o’clock shadow, and a receding hairline, all attached to a body half its size. Asking for a cigarette and some boiled lamb for dinner.
I ran to the safe harbor of Pam’s backyard, climbed the cherry tree, and hid.
Mrs. C. saw me from the kitchen window and asked what I was doing. I told her the story.
She listened carefully. She took her time. She did not interrupt me or laugh at me.
“Oh, Kevin, you have to go see her. She will be beautiful. It’s okay. It’s okay. She won’t look like that. It’s okay.”
I went home and met Kathleen.
Then I remembered what a baby looks like.
I wanted Mrs. C. to come over and see that it was okay.
And so was I.
Writing about these memories made me want to find Pam.
After some searching, I did. I sent her a text and asked whether she would like to have a conversation.
She told me she knew about four Kevin Murphys and wasn’t sure which one was reaching out. Her memories of me were vague, which was understandable. We were still relatively fresh and new human beings then, still learning how to tie our shoes. We had only three short summers running through those sprinklers and catching "lightning bugs."
But when she called, her voice was immediately recognizable. Familiar and warm.
There are people you haven’t spoken with for decades, yet somehow, you pick up where you left off. In our case, we had essentially left off as kindergartners.
I shared my memories of her and her parents: the back door, the summer days, Kevin McGraw, the cherry tree. Some of my earliest memories remain remarkably vivid. These were among them.
As she listened, she said, “Kevin, this is fascinating,” and told me she carried a memory from those days as well. Then she shared her story, one that had been foundational for her. That is her story to tell.
She was still fun, still bright, still empathetic. Still energetic, still clear and free.
In a simple thirty-minute conversation, the hospitality, kindness, clarity, and compassion I remembered came flooding back. I remembered why this family had mattered so much.
It was home.
I believe there is a “four doors down” in all of us: people, places, and moments that have helped form our way of moving through the world. Some we remember readily. Others return when we give ourselves time to look.
A person’s delight in seeing us. Someone who listened carefully when we were frightened. An invitation to come inside. Ordinary experiences that became deeply convincing evidence of what people can offer one another.
We carry them into our friendships, our families, our work. They help shape what we trust, what we value, and what we hope to make possible for others. Over time, they become a firm persuasion about not just what to do, but how to live.
Part of what we make room for in The Second Formation™ is this kind of remembering: returning to the experiences that shaped us, recognizing what remains alive in them, and considering how we want to carry it forward. There can be gratitude in that discovery, and laughter, and the pleasure of finding something we had almost forgotten.
For me, some of it began with a knock at the back door and a five-note call.
Pam. Her mother. Her father.
Natural, hospitable, loving.
They opened the door. I carry their welcome.