ROANOKE TIMES 
                      Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times

DATE: Thursday, November 7, 1996             TAG: 9611070010
SECTION: EXTRA                    PAGE: 1    EDITION: METRO 
COLUMN: BETH MACY
SOURCE: BETH MACY

HE FOUND HIS THERAPY ON THE RIVERBANK

After his heart attack nearly five years ago, doctors gave Ernest J. Murphy three to six months to live. Already a widower for many years, Ernest - or ``Murph,'' as he is called - couldn't bear the thought of spending his remaining days at home, alone.

He told his doctors he was taking up fishing instead, bringing his arsenal of medications with him and an emergency radio, just in case.

His doctors' advice: Find a level spot. And no wading or jumping from rock to rock.

Murph has been a fixture on the Roanoke River ever since.

And his doctors? ``They're dead now, both of 'em,'' the 74-year-old says. ``Cirrhosis of the liver.''

To call Murph a fixture on Wiley Drive is like saying the star is part of Mill Mountain. It's like saying Roanoke is big on trains. Or that the mayor likes to talk.

When it rains, Murph is there.

When it floods, Murph is there. He parks his white Jeep Cherokee in the Ramada Inn parking lot nearby and walks as close to the river as nature will allow - just to watch.

When it pours snow, Murph is there, too. He has the pictures to prove he weathered the last blizzard. ``It was 5 above zero, minus 14 wind chill and 18 inches of snow. And there I was, fishing through a hole in the ice.''

Joggers passing by, moms driving to the park, other fishermen - anyone who makes the area a part of his routine knows Murph, if not by name, then at least from his ready wave.

Murph, a retired furniture factory worker, credits his Roanoke policemen buddies with teaching him to fish. Some of the nurses from nearby Roanoke Memorial Hospital walk by after they finish the graveyard shift - they offer muffins; he offers jokes.

``Anything to help break the tensions of people's jobs,'' he says. ``I'd rather somebody stop and jaw than I catch the biggest fish in the river.''

The one time he did think he was catching the biggest fish in the river, he drew some 30 onlookers who watched and cheered for 20 minutes as he wrestled the line.

``The river was pushin', and I was a-pullin'. And guess what it was?'' Murph recalls.

``A pair of panty hose filled with water.''

He claims he doesn't indulge in gossip or politics, but he does fancy himself a connoisseur of jokes. At home, he keeps a typewritten list, 19 pages long, of his favorites, such as:

*What he tells his fishing buddies: ``Tell your wife not to call me till after 8 tonight.''

*And what he says when the husband-and-wife jogging team passes by: ``Hey, a different woman every day?''

Sitting on the tailgate of his Jeep (window sign: ``Happy Hooker''), Murph wears a cowboy hat to keep the sun off his ears, which were frostbitten during his service in the Korean War. There's a thermos full of coffee, a cooler, an empty doughnut box, a Hardee's bag and a folding chair, usually occupied by someone else.

Sometimes the chair is home to the red-bearded homeless man, who regularly sits under the Franklin Road underpass nearby. Every morning, sometimes as early as 4 a.m., the man walks over to Murph, who brings him cigarettes, doughnuts and coffee. Murph even bought the man's fishing license this year, giving him a $100 bill so he could walk the few blocks to Kmart to buy it.

``When he came back from Kmart with the change, he said it really made him feel like a man - not because he had his fishing license, but because I trusted him with a $100 bill,'' Murph says.

When daylight breaks and others begin wandering by to chat, the man always leaves for his post under the bridge. When others ask Murph about him, he refuses to reveal the man's name. ``I say he's in the witness protection program: He witnesses my big fish, and he protects me from fallin' in the river.''

Murph has taught the man what to do if he has another heart attack. ``He knows where I keep my medicines. He knows how to use my emergency radio for help.''

But he doesn't plan on needing the radio any time soon. Murph tells people he's going to live to be 109. It's his way of psyching himself into good health.

When he does go, he says, it'll be right here - the same spot on the same river next to the same people who saved him.

LENGTH: Medium:   86 lines
ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO:  ERIC BRADY/Staff. Fair weather or no, Ernest J. Murphy 
          is on the Roanoke river, with rods and reels - and a joke - at the 
          ready. color.