[Congressional Record (Bound Edition), Volume 151 (2005), Part 1]
[Senate]
[Pages 647-648]
[From the U.S. Government Publishing Office, www.gpo.gov]




                        THE LIFE OF MURRAY BARR

  Mr. REID. Mr. President, Reno, NV, is a wonderful city and a great 
place to live.
  The sparkling Truckee River flows through the heart of town. The 
campus of the University of Nevada sits on a hillside overlooking the 
city. The Nevada Museum of Art is nearby.
  And standing on the streets of downtown Reno, one can see majestic 
mountains in every direction, including the peaks of the Sierra Nevada 
around Lake Tahoe. A beautiful city and a fine place to raise a family.
  But like any other city, Reno has its rough side. In ``Folsom Prison 
Blues,'' Johnny Cash sang, ``I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him 
die.'' Reno has its share of rundown bars and alleys, where men and 
women chase the remnants of broken dreams. This is a world most people 
rarely notice, but where some spend their lives.
  One who lived in that world was a man named Murray Barr.
  Murray drank a lot. He was, in fact, an alcoholic, and he was 
homeless. He slept in the streets and alleys. When he did sleep 
indoors, it was usually in jail or the hospital.
  But Murray was also a proud Native American, an ex-Marine, and a 
friend to many who came in contact with him.
  Murray Barr was a big bear of a man. He barely had a tooth in his 
head, but when he smiled, he brought joy to the people who cared about 
him.
  And many people did care about Murray.
  Reno Police Officer Patrick O'Bryan crossed paths with Murray many 
times--sometimes when he was arresting him or taking him to the 
hospital.
  O'Bryan--who is known as ``Paddy O'' on the streets of Reno--tried 
everything he could think of to help Murray quit drinking.
  He told Murray to ``get a life'', ``get a grip'', he threatened him, 
he pleaded,

[[Page 648]]

and he warned Murray that he was killing himself.
  Sometimes Murray would stop drinking. Once he was on house arrest for 
6 months. He got a job as a cook and showed up on time every day. He 
saved money. And he stayed sober for 6 months.
  As long as the system was monitoring him, Murray was okay. He was a 
proud man, and he was not going to let down the people who were 
responsible for him.
  But when he had finished serving his sentence, Murray let himself 
down, and picked up the bottle again.
  Marla Johns works as a social worker at St. Johns Medical Center in 
Reno. Her husband Steve is a Reno cop. They both had a soft spot for 
Murray. They gave him gifts at Christmas--and the gift of their 
friendship year round.
  Murray called Marla ``my angel.'' He was protective toward her. Once 
when an intoxicated patient started to threaten Marla, Murray stepped 
in front of the man.
  Marla tried to protect Murray, too. But she felt him slipping away. 
``I always knew Murray's life would be cut short by the choices he was 
making,'' she said.
  Early one morning last spring, Steve called Marla at home. There had 
been an announcement at the morning police briefing. Murray had died 
the night before.
  Marla and Steve cried. She said, ``There will never be another 
Murray.''
  But there are many others like him. I have known some of them. We 
have all known them.
  Despite the pleas of loved ones and friends, despite their own best 
intentions, they are pulled down, time and again, by their addiction to 
alcohol.
  We try to help them, just as Murray's friends tried to help him. We 
try to get them into rehab programs, and we encourage them to try AA. 
We give them warm clothes and buy them a hot meal. We help them find a 
job or a place to stay.
  Some manage to escape their addiction. I have to believe that escape 
is a form of grace, a gift from above.
  Others never find that grace, no matter how badly they might want it. 
And no matter how much we try to help, we cannot give them that gift.
  Maybe the greatest gift we can give them is to see them as 
individuals--``there will never be another Murray.'' Not just another 
homeless face on the street, not just another cot in the drunk tank, 
but a man who was proud of his heritage, who served his country, who 
refused to let down his friends, some mother's son, maybe somebody's 
brother or husband.
  Back in December there was a memorial gathering at First Methodist 
Church in Reno to mourn the homeless citizens who had died during the 
year and highlight the need for programs to help them.
  Officers Johns and O'Bryan told a few stories about their friend 
Murray Barr.
  I never knew Murray, but I think he would have liked that. He would 
have been proud to have such good friends.
  I tell this story as a reminder that we should never assume we know a 
person's story just because of what is on one fleeting page. And we 
should never forget that every person is unique.
  ``There will never be another Murray.''

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