I was fortunate in that I had a job waiting. My father, Wm. B. Murray, was a mining lawyer. Perhaps the minerals and lands attorney of the West, Wm. B. had a reputation as a character, and for thinking up the dandiest loopholes in his constant struggle against the U.S. Forest Service, and the Bureau of Land Management on behalf of the small mine operator.

Self taught as a geologist/mining engineer, Dad also had a good understanding of the economics of mining. He should have made his fortune many times over from mining. But, he never seemed to understand how to bill for his services, or follow through on collections. When he died his accounts receivable file—the active ones—totaled over $200,000. My inheritance was $100.

Another problem was that Wm. B., in his own words "weighed in at an eighth of a ton." He also was a chain smoker, dribbling cigarette ashes down the front of an off-white shirt that habitually had the button, which should have been covering his belly, undone.

My younger sister used to joke that this was so he could photograph with a hidden camera (he loved gadgets) implanted in his navel. Consequentially, although Dad loved to get out into a mining district and break a few rocks, he wasn't physically able to do so.