Polly Ann Murray, beloved mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and great-great grandmother, died on Friday, August 7, 2026. She was a month shy of her 93rd birthday, but given that she never enjoyed having a big fuss made over her anyway, it’s probably just as well that she made her exit before her family could throw her yet another party.

If you knew Polly even a little, you know that she was a fiercely independent, very proper lady who loved flowers, animals, singing along to classic musicals, and always having the Bible Broadcasting Network on in the background. How the story of her life, which began in western Pennsylvania at the height of the Great Depression, came to its eventual conclusion with Polly as a genteel Southern (save for her pronunciation of “warsh”) Grand Dame with a smartphone is both remarkable and still somehow perfectly ordinary; but then, that was Polly.

And what a timeless, unexpected, reinventive, consistent life she lived between that first chapter and her last.

Born on September 7th, 1933 to Betty Rose (nee Smallenberger) and Norman McKinney Etheridge, Polly was the quintessential oldest child, efficient and clear eyed on the life she wanted for herself. She got married two weeks after high school graduation to her first husband, Dick Shilling, and within three years, she’d had two daughters, Cindy and Susan. While devotedly raising her girls, she was also helping to establish the family’s kitchen remodeling business and racking up stamps in her passport while traveling the world. Then, because what their family apparently needed was a bit more excitement, they added daughter, Sally, and son, Jim to their ranks, and later, even an honorary daughter in Avril, their South African exchange student.

In midlife, Polly’s life trajectory took an unexpected turn south (both personally and geographically) following a divorce that could have marred her, but she didn’t waste time on despair. Instead, she embraced the opportunity for reinvention by packing up and moving to Charleston, South Carolina for a fresh start near her daughters and their families. She joined Second Presbyterian in downtown Charleston, planted a garden in her tiny mobile home, and devoted herself to a new job and being a hands-on grandmother. She even took out an ad in the local paper when she was ready to try dating again, though to be clear, she did not need a man - she could build or fix whatever she needed to (with an impeccably organized collection of tools) just fine on her own, thank you very much.

The seeds of this new life that Polly had faithfully planted bloomed anew when she met and fell in love with Newton Murray. Their quiet, steadfast devotion was built on Frosty’s, French fries, and faith, and when they married, Polly transplanted her flowers and her joie de vivre to Daniel Island, where both her heart and her green thumb thrived for almost a decade.

After the loss of her beloved Newt, Polly once again embraced transformation: this time by building a carefully curated log cabin in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, still with an impressive garden, but now with an eye towards capturing the beauty of the natural world more permanently. She discovered a passion for painting, and by her 75th birthday party (a surprise, because she NEVER would have agreed to such a big to-do), her family, friends AND her artwork filled the local art gallery to the brim.

As a mother and grandmother, Polly was firm but loving, brutally honest but also a fervent supporter. You always knew when she was worried about or disappointed in you, either because you saw your name on one of the sticky note prayer lists she kept in every room, or because she told you directly, in no uncertain terms. But you also knew she’d have your back when you needed her - and you always ended up needing her for one thing or another.

Even as she slowed down in her later years, Polly was still entirely herself. She kept in close touch with friends, created beauty indoors and out, and outlived everyone for whom she held a well-deserved grudge. She hated the loss of independence that being over 90 brought, but she delighted in her pups, her nightly chocolate truffle, and in always being the boss. Our dear Polly was the very essence of a Matriarch, and there won’t ever be a pansy or a cardinal that doesn’t bring her incomparable memory to the minds of every person lucky enough to love her.

If you'd like to do something to honor Polly’s memory, donations can be made to Meals on Wheels of Pickens County. But she'd also probably want you to plant something pretty in your garden or alphabetize your canned goods. Lastly—and she'd be mad if we left this out—she would want you to be invited to know Jesus as your savior, if you don’t already. By mentioning this last bit, the authors of this obituary are hoping to secure an eternity of their names NOT being written on the prayer post-it note she undoubtedly still has going in heaven. (You're welcome, Grandma.)