My Pop

I showed you a pic of my father down below (his handle used to be Flying Tiger--get it? He was a pilot). This is his father, my grandfather, the amazing phenom whom we call "Pop. "

Pop made his grand entrance into the world in May of 1915. He came from a long line of coalminers (after his ancestors from the UK came over as indentured servants. Yeah, there's a long history of losers in my fam). They used to get on ropes and actually chip the coal from the mines.

Okay, dangerous work. Pop had oodles of siblings and his dad had several wives. They all pretty much stuck down in the southern part of Illinois, but Pop decided railroadin' was his thing.
Engineer, no less, and my uncle followed in his footsteps. I, however, really only remember him as a retired old coot with butterscotches in his pockets and a constant supply of candy. In fact, I never remembering hugging Pop whenever I saw him; instead, I ran up to him and patted him down, ready and willing for a butterscotch and, never fail, one was always there! He used to keep his 5 o'clock shadow waiting for us to come to town. Then, he'd chase all over the place and give us whisker burns. Yes, this is my Pop. This is the entire epitome of his personality--thinking ahead to make life interesting.

I think I was 10. See, one set of grandparents lived about 45 minutes away from the other, so they took turns driving us back and forth. Pop always bought Caddies. Awesome cars, and, from a youngster's standpoint, there ain't a better ride from the back seat point of view. We drove over a road under repairs, and gravel comprised most of it, save those little pop-up road dividers. Pretty soon, Pop drove almost down the middle of the road, with Grandmom asking,
"Charley?" in the most patient tone.

"Hey, kids!" Pop exclaimed, verifying his find in the rear-view mirror. "You run over these things and they pop right back up!" Sure enough, every time he hit a divider, the thing sprang back into place.

Trips to the park to catch fireflies. A camper for us to sleep in for the summer, and then selling it. Riding in the back of his truck and on the back of his motorcycle.

Yes, motorcycle.

Pop and his buddies rode through the bluffs in their houndstooth pants, but, one by one, Pop outlived them. Then, the time came renew his license. At almost 80, Pop couldn't quite pass the exam. "There ain't no damn cones on the highway," he said, and put his motorcycle in the shed forever.

Bicycling, though, became a popular pastime. And it still was, until very, very recently, but we'll get to that soon enough.

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I gave Pop his three first great grandchildren. Tiger's Eye made him proud, KitKat made him ecstatic and Man Cub just brought his wallet out even more to flash photos. "I love them kids," he likes to tell me. "They're my own."

We always go to his house for Halloween and the 4th of July. It's just tradition. He loves to see the cubs all dressed up or waiting for the fireworks. Now that he's getting older, though, they make him nervous, especially when they head down the steep stairs to the basement, but the boys love his punching bag in the basement. Yes, a punching bag. It still gets used, and Pop still likes to show off his prowess. It hangs from one of the joists in the floor and, quite honestly, the floor shakes like crazy no matter whose turn it is at the bag. He loves to tinker with things. Last year, we popped in for a visit while he trimmed hedges, and he chased us with the hedge trimmer, reminding us how dangerous and sharp the teeth were. Go, Pop.

The man had a tumor removed from his colon while Dad was still with us, so I think that was in 2002. That's when his girlfriend found out she was quite younger than he. :) Grandmom passed on in 2000, and when Alma walked into his life, he knew a good thing when he saw one, and we soon came to realize what a prize she truly is. Even if she is, as Pop says, Catholic. Pop got the nurse's call button mixed up with the morphine PCA button. I know there is only so much he could give himself, but considering he really required none, he got a little goofy while punching the button without getting the nurse and then pressing it again.

Alma helped sit on him during his recovery. She had to. Three days postop, he insisted that his yard needed cutting, and it took a LOT to keep him from sneaking out and getting out the mower. The Energizer Bunny took lessons, folks, from my paternal grandfather!

Pop does have some minor health problems, and just as you pinpoint him as eccentric, he does something totally and completely rational. Then, there's this:

This is Pop after he had two accidents in two hours with two different modes of transportation. I seriously enjoyed testing out my new cell phone for this awesome shot of the maniac at his finest. He took his bike into the back of a parked car. The Hog-heads at the biker bar rushed out to his aid, and bandaged him up. I don't know how he got home, but the bike was there. So, what does he do? He needs to take the Caddy out for groceries. This time, his target was a defenseless boat hooked to the back of a 4x4 pick-up truck. We are very grateful no one got hurt, but it's just too funny. Of course, he no longer has the bicycle or the car, and he swears he's going to St. Louis to get a new license (across the state line) but, as we tell him, "Well, Pop, who's going to take you?" His only injury was a bump on the noggin, and they kept him overnight for surveillance, but there really wasn't any need.

Okay, flash forward to age 91: Pop has a new invention--91 years old and still thinking' like a maniac. It seems as though age even makes your poor schnoz droop, so he has found a way to circumvent that and get a restful night's sleep.

All it takes is--get this--a plain drinking straw and medical tape.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, he cuts the straw into nostril-length pieces plus 1/2" and wraps the end with medical tape, which he places in his nares for optimal nighttime breathing.
Pop-suckles? What do we call these things? His ENT CRIED laughing so hard, but he couldn't argue with Pop's genius-like logic. It's to the point now where we can't wait to see what he does next!

Well, we didn't have to wait long to see what he did next. A nice big tornadic storm blew through his town, dropping a tree branch on his detached garage. Mind you, with the temperature at 100+, no one was in any big rush to get that branch down for him. So, one of my relatives drives up and...guess who's on the roof with a hacksaw???? Sigh. She yelled at him for that. Bigtime. Later on that 100+ day, she called the house and did not reach him. That's not too surprising, because what hearing his brother didn't take when he punctured his eardrum with an awl, the trains did. Just in case, though, knowing that my Pop is Pop, she drove over to his house anyway. Guess who she spotted waltzing down Main Street under a banana-yellow umbrella?

He's a tightwad. My mother is his primary caretaker, which is surprising to some people, because she's in-law. My family's good people, though, so it does not surprise us. Mom is great to him, although he's a little crusty and cranky with her. She says he's gone to stooping over in public places, looking for change on the floor.

I guess, though, when you're 91, you can pretty much do what the heck you want. You've paid your dues. I need to bump up my time spent with him, but I just love to talk about him.