The Last of My Trilogy of Tributes: My Pop

Most people in my generation were lucky to have two sets of grandparents. But because my dad was a "caboose" his parents were older, born in the 1880s, and they were both gone before I was born or shortly after. Which left me with one, younger set of grandparents. Since Mother was a working mom, even way back in the Fifties, and since the idea of day care hadn't occurred to anybody yet, I stayed with my grandparents during the day while Mother worked. I adored them. They contributed greatly to my happy childhood.

My brother was the oldest of their grandchildren, and Pop was a name my brother could say at an early age, so Pop he became. Pop was a lay Baptist preacher. He told me he found his calling on watch on a Navy tender ship during the Battle of Leyte Gulf in World War II. The ship was the USS LaSalle, and Pop promised the Lord if He would get him through the battle, he would turn his life over to preaching the gospel. The Battle of Leyte Gulf was the first battle where the Japanese sent kamikaze pilots to commit suicide by divebombing their planes into the decks of US ships. I would imagine that after watching a few ships sink in this way, quite a few seamen said quite a few prayers and made many promises to God. Pop kept his promise.

A lay minister usually is adopted by the poorest churches, the ones who can't really pay much if anything at all to their preachers, so Pop also had a regular job during the week. When I was a child staying with them, he would come home every day for lunch, or dinner as they called it then. Supper was the evening meal. Pop's arrival mid-day was a big treat. When I heard his car pull into the driveway, I would race to hide behind the refrigerator--which we called the icebox back then--and when Pop came in the kitchen door, I would leap from behind the icebox with a loud "Boo!" Without fail he put on a big show, trembling all over and moaning like I had scared the dickens out of him. After we ate our dinner, I would sit on his lap and he would sing songs to me. I always thought he sounded like Tennessee Ernie Ford. Then he would go to the back room and lay down for a short nap. He called it "resting his eyes" but more often than not, we could hear him snoring clear up in the front room.

Unless he was sick, Pop always wore a white shirt and often a tie. On weekends if we stayed with them, my brother would also be there, and we slept on pallets in front of the black and white TV set. Pop never missed "Gunsmoke." He wanted all the lights in the room turned out, and we watched without speaking. I didn't know it then, but learned later in my life when I became a writer, that Pop was a great student of Western history. He knew all the stories of the outlaws, the marshals, the feuds, and the Indian tribes. In fact, he claimed to have Indian blood running in his veins, and he did have their jet black hair and dark eyes.

Pop could speak Spanish. He and my grandmother had eloped to Mexico and he told me once he wanted to be able to read their marriage license. He was self-taught. He also taught himself to play the harmonica, or mouth harp as he called it. He tried to teach me "You Are My Sunshine" but I never got the knack.  For a while he had a Sunday morning sermon broadcast on the local radio, which he recorded on a big reel-to-reel recorder on Saturday afternoons and took to the station for airing on Sunday. When I was about six, I sang on his radio program: "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands," complete with the arm and hand gestures. I didn't think about it being played on the radio where nobody could see me. My youngest aunt accompanied me on a little portable organ.

In church, Pop was a pound-the-podium style preacher, had a powerful voice, and his congregation adored him. They payed him with eggs and vegetables from their garden. I once helped my grandmother pluck a chicken a member of the church had given to them. That was really hard work. I remember telling her I never wanted to have to do that again, and I haven't!

After my grandmother died in the late 1980s, I moved back to Corpus Christi for a few years, and Pop and I got together several times for lunch. By then he was preaching in nursing homes once in a while. I enjoyed those lunch visits. We talked about old memories, but also about the Old West. I was astonished at how much obscure history he knew. We always seem to underestimate the people in our lives. He had a fierce intelligence and interest in life, past and present. We had our last lunch the week before he died on February 5, 1991, twenty-seven years ago today.

After Pop died, we had a big garage sale before their house was put on the market. My mom and all her siblings and in-laws were there. My aunt gave me one of Pop's Bibles, and an old antique Mr. Peanut desk tray I remembered on his desk when I was a kid. I still have both those things and cherish them. When the sale was over, as I headed to my car, I spotted a heavy old metal sprinkler lying by the side of the garage. I recalled playing in that sprinkler on hot summer days when I was little. I picked it up and put it into my trunk, afraid it would get thrown to the curb if I didn't take it. It's heavier than any sprinkler you can buy today, and puts out a big spray as it rattles around in a circle. Wayne, even though he came into my life long after Pop was gone, calls it Pop's sprinkler whenever he sets it up somewhere in our yard. I hope it never breaks.

Onward....