The king of the Georgia House — and the lessons Tom Murphy left behind

Murphy wasn’t a pack rat. He collected memories.

And on Wednesday, his relatives, colleagues and one-time adversaries gathered near that office to share them. U.S. Rep. Brian Jack and Georgia House Speaker Jon Burns held a roundtable honoring the late leader who was among the longest-serving state House speakers in U.S. history.

Credit: AP

Credit: AP

Murphy wielded power so completely that his authority was sometimes called “Murphy’s Law.” With a nod, the Democrat could advance a bill. With a glare, he could doom one.

Murphy’s fingerprints were on projects that helped modernize Georgia. He helped secure funding for massive infrastructure developments and economic centers. He was a forceful advocate for public education and university construction across the state. He fought ruthlessly to preserve Democratic control.

Those achievements were part of what Steve Anthony, his longtime top aide, called a “golden age of Georgia.”

“A great leader is someone who can get people to do what they would not otherwise do,” he said.

Yet the stories told Wednesday weren’t just about how Murphy accumulated power during his 28 years as the House’s fear-inducing leader. They were about how he wielded it — and the lessons his approach might hold for a far different political era.

‘We ain’t got time’

One was knowing when to draw a red line.

Public Service Commissioner Bubba McDonald, a former House member, recalled Murphy being pressed by local media on why he had tapped a rural lawmaker to lead the powerful budget-writing House Appropriations Committee.

The speaker’s answer was curt: “He knows how to say no.”

Leadership also meant keeping divisive proposals from reaching the House floor. His son, former Superior Court Judge Mike Murphy, said the speaker had little patience for that sort of politics.

“He’d say, ‘We ain’t got time to do the controversial stuff.’”

Another lesson was that relationships mattered, including those with political opponents.

Former Republican U.S. Rep. Lynn Westmoreland spent years in the state House voting against Murphy. He remembered the speaker’s legendary temper and his feud with GOP state Rep. Mitchell Kaye, a relentless fiscal hawk who delighted in challenging the Democratic leadership.

But after one particularly heated flare-up, Westmoreland quietly urged Murphy to cool things down. Not long later, Murphy apologized to Kaye.

“They were not best pals, but that showed me something,” Westmoreland said. “I never thanked him. He never said anything to me about it. But it made a lot of people in the House settle their emotions.”

Reading people — and the room

Murphy could also spot political talent early — and test whether ambitious legislators understood how the House worked.

Calvin Smyre recalled approaching Murphy as a freshman with a request to serve on four committees. Smyre listed three of the House’s most coveted panels before naming Health and Ecology, the committee he actually wanted most.

Two weeks later, Murphy summoned him.

“You stay close to me,” the speaker told him. “You’re going places in this House.”

Smyre was puzzled. He had barely begun his legislative career, much less made his mark in a chamber where he would ultimately serve for nearly half a century.

“A little birdie told me that Health and Ecology was your first choice,” Murphy replied. “You gave it to me fourth.”

Republican former state Rep. Vance Smith remembered another side of Murphy from the years of his fierce rivalry with Democratic Gov. Zell Miller.

Smith was waiting outside Miller’s office one day when Murphy emerged from a meeting, walking fast, smiling and chewing on his ever-present cigar.

“Son, how you doing?” Murphy asked.

“I’m doing fine, Mr. Speaker,” Smith replied.

Smith figured that if Murphy was in such a good mood, Miller might not be.

“My meeting didn’t last long.”

Murphy’s rivalries, of course, weren’t confined to the governor’s office.

Wayne Garner, a former state Senate president pro tem, sometimes served as an emissary between Murphy and then-Lt. Gov. Pierre Howard.

During one late-night legislative battle, Howard was pushing to boost funding for PeachCare, the state’s health insurance program for children. At about 2:30 a.m., Murphy dispatched Garner with a proposal for the lieutenant governor.

Howard’s response was blunt: “You can tell him to take that and stick it up the hog’s you-know-what.”

Garner was so tired that he returned to Murphy’s office and repeated the message verbatim. Murphy shot up from behind his desk, chomping on his cigar.

Then, Garner recalled, Murphy delivered the worst insult a fiercely partisan Democrat could summon.

“I will vote for a Republican before I’ll vote for him.”

It was about as close to political profanity as Murphy could get.

‘When it’s over, it’s over’

Murphy’s family offered a more personal portrait of a man whose fearsome public image didn’t always match the person they knew.

His daughter, Martha Murphy Long, remembered the strain that accompanied his political career — the critics, the jealousy and the people who simply didn’t like him. She said surviving public life required “a strong constitution, faith in God and love for your family.”

Mike Murphy also reflected on his father’s 2002 defeat, which ended a 42-year House career and nearly three decades as speaker. He would die two years later.

“I’m not for sure he even wanted to run that last time,” he said. “But if they call you out to the middle of the street, you’ve got to go after it. He wasn’t going to go out without a fight.”

Murphy’s political world is long gone. The rural-urban coalition that kept Democrats in power for generations has vanished, and Republicans now control the Legislature and the Governor’s Mansion. The once-reliably red suburbs are now the state’s biggest political battlegrounds.

But the memories preserved in that crowded office carry lessons. Know when to say no. Keep bad ideas from becoming bad laws. Build relationships with your adversaries. Be willing to apologize. And remember that political power is temporary.

Or, as Murphy told his son:

“Just remember, when it’s over, it’s over. So do the best you can, all the time.”