I Call Him Poppa

2010-08-18T12:05:00.001-07:00

Charley is my Poppa. Before he developed an impressive midsection, I used to climb on him as he laid shirtless on the sofa. I would lay my head on his chest, he would wrap his arm around me, we would watch The Flintstones.

Poppa was a hard man, but he had a soft spot for me.

I remember when he bought a little black-and-white to put on the eighteen wheeler's dash. He plugged it into the cigarette lighter and I would try to watch TV in between little towns in North Dakota.

Poppa would take me on his trips to the tool wholesalers in Chicago. I loved those trips. It was just me and Poppa. He was one of their best customers, which meant the cabinet door to the arcade version of Asteroids was unlocked, so I could play without needing quarters. After awhile, Poppa would come get me and we’d grab a sandwich and a Pepsi from the truck that fed the warehouse workers, or, better yet, go to McDonald's. If we drove the big red F750, I’d curl up on the seat, put my head in his lap, and fall asleep on the trip home.

If I didn’t make the trip with him, Poppa would always bring me back whatever toy or doo-dad was sitting around the warehouse. I loved the ridiculous battery-powered Japanese robot, the Atari 5200, even the pet rock. But it was the stuffed beagle that I loved the most. It sat on its hind legs and a patch of velcro held a little puppy in its front paws.

Poppa loved me, and I knew it. That knowledge was something I could hold on to, something I knew and felt and treasured.

Poppa went to my first football game, although by junior high I was much too old to call him Poppa. He was there when the first pass thrown my way bounced off the back of my helmet. We averaged one win a season. But, with his encouragement, I stuck at it. So Poppa was also there six years later when I was named captain of three varsity sports.

He claimed none of that mattered. What’s important, he told me, was that I gave my best and tried my hardest. But I saw him clip out the newspaper articles, heard him brag about me to anyone who would listen. And it made me proud to make him proud.

Poppa bought me my first car, the "booger". I wrecked it two weeks later. He fixed it. I wrecked it again—for good—just a few weeks after that. That was the last car he bought me. I was stuck driving the mini-van or one of the dozen or so hoopty’s we owned from that point on.

Poppa taught me a lot of stuff that only a poppa can teach. He taught me how to laugh. He taught me how to work. He taught me how to fix things: remove a drive shaft, tar a roof, hang sheetrock.

He taught me what it meant to help other people. If someone fell on hard times and needed a place to go, they knew the doors on the old house over on Riverside were always open. More than anything, Poppa taught me how to be a poppa.

As it turned out, he didn’t actually have to be my poppa. He gave me a gift whose value is beyond measure. He chose to raise me.

He drove across town, over to the sagging old house where I had been abandoned on the doorstep. He reached down, he picked me up, he took me home.

He called me son.

And, in only a matter of months, I will drive across town, possibly fly across the globe, to a place where a child has been abandoned for one reason or another. I’ll reach down, I’ll pick him up. I’ll take him home.

One day, he might even call me Poppa.

Night of the Living Blog

2010-08-18T12:01:00.000-07:00

While I'll never recapture the once-or-twice-a-day posts of my blogging heyday, I might start using this space again to post articles/thoughts/essays.

2009-01-05T07:44:00.001-08:00

I'm on facebook.

I also have a podcast on Pokerroad called Cash Plays.

Jeremiah Smith

I Call Him Poppa

Night of the Living Blog