My grandfather’s name was Phil Hatch. I called him Phil. He had worked in Roosevelt’s Administration and he and my grandmother helped raise me until he died, shortly before I turned nine.
In summer, Phil often invited me to sleep on his screened-in porch. He’d climb into the high bed adjacent to mine and we’d talk until I fell asleep, nestled under thick Canadian blankets. Knowing how much I loved it, he’d keep us sleeping outdoors into October.
To me, Phil embodied the spirit of Christmas because he always came up with the best presents. My favorites included a Davy Crockett get-up, including coon skin cap, a "Catalina racer" I could hand pump around our driveway, and a toy soda fountain with miniature root beer glasses.
I still remember Phil’s two trademark holiday sayings, repeated each Christmas night as we passed out presents. "Is there nothing under this tree for me?" he’d say. Then he’d revel in anticipation, imagining something huge. When he eventually unwrapped a lone pair of pajamas or slippers, he’d remark with feigned astonishment, "Lookie, lookie, I’d be ashamed how did you know?"
My grandfather sent big boxes of apples and figs to a hundred associates each holiday season. He jokingly called these friends, "The Loyal Brotherhood of Murdoch."
Phil’s Loyal Brotherhood started after he surprised his three daughters by bringing home Murdoch, a pet burro, on the commuter train from Washington. I’ve seen old sepia pictures of Murdoch, looking perplexed. But I guess he fit in well enough to inspire my grandfather’s fake organization.
Phil printed membership cards, promising non-existent rights – and he made up names. His banker was "Financial Murdoch." His 300-pound drinking buddy was "Man Mountain Murdoch" and my mother, his youngest daughter, was "Pipsqueak Murdoch." My grandmother had two names: "Fascinating Murdoch" and "Extra Fancy Murdoch."
During the 1950’s McCarthy witch hunts, government agents caught wind of my grandfather’s whimsical fraternity and they discovered that my grandmother had been given a Russian fur coat by Soviet diplomats who lived in their neighborhood.
Their curiosity piqued, FBI agents visited members of Phil’s Brotherhood, then tracked down my grandfather at his office. After a thorough interrogation about my grandfather’s wartime acquaintances, the agent departed – and nothing came of it. But after the G-Man walked out the door, my grandfather turned to his secretary. "Let’s send that man a letter and a card. Let’s call him "Investigating Murdoch." And they did.
My grandfather also had a name for himself – "The Greatest Living Murdoch." And just weeks before he died, Phil called me into his bedroom. It was July and he apologized that we hadn’t been able to sleep on the screened porch. I said it was OK and that I knew he wasn’t feeling well. Then he took out a membership card and filled in my name. "You’ll need this," he said. Then he signed the card with his name, "The Greatest Living Murdoch." My name? "The Greatest Living Murdoch in Existence."