Remembering Pop

The last thing Pop said to me was, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

We had had many conversations over the past few years about his eventual fate, and I think we both knew that June Father’s Day that it would probably be the last time we would look each other in the eye or hug each other. 

He died as I was racing back across the country to see him, but I take comfort knowing that his passing was peaceful, on his terms; that we had to make no decisions on his behalf, and that, most importantly, my brother Jeff was holding his hand.

One of my earliest memories of Pop was his return home from a business trip. I must’ve been really little, and I was so excited to see Daddy! Mom told me he was home, and we ran to the door. But then he opened it, revealing that he’d grown a mustache, and I cowered in the corner. He’d always been clean-shaven, and was terrified of this new person. And that broke his heart. I think he shaved it off in the morning, and it took him a long time to let one grow back.

That was Pop – he was very family-focused. I went to my Grandma’s place in Escondido for week one summer, my first time away from Him and Mom for so long, and when he called to check in and asked if I missed him, I said of course not – I was having such a blast with Gram! Mom told me later he cried, which of course broke my heart.

And he was funny! Always ready with a joke and a laugh – sometimes even at our expense. He and Mom spoke expert-level sarcasm, and Pop was especially good at the ol’ dead-pan. I was visiting during a break from college and, putting on his best Michigander, he told me to “warsh” my hands. Of course I had to snidely ask where the “r” was in “wash” – to which he cracked, “goddamned upstart! I send you off to school and you come home to correct me!” 

He might actually have made a good teacher though, despite his infamous inability to spell! – he loved to break things down and explore how to build them back up. He always offered as much context as he could, and expected us to use our words, enunciate, speak up. (Well ok that last may well have been because his time in the Korean war left him a bit hard of hearing…Mom was always saying that he was just tuning us out, but he truly couldn’t hear us a lot of the time.) 

Our Dad … well, he was … steady. He rocked us to sleep when we were little, always made sure we knew we were loved before going to bed. He was always there, always expected obedience, and always offered comfort. When I got in trouble, I knew I could go to him for direction without accusation. He was fiercely protective, and fiercely private – sometimes to a fault. He was tough on us – harder on Jeff, unfortunately – but I always got the sense that that was driven by a desire for us to be strong, to be capable in the world, and to be good. His deepest value was loyalty, and I think that, with little exposure to the world outside of his limited circles, sadly could get twisted and definitely broke some of his relationships, some irreparably. He projected a very black and white perception of the world and if you didn’t fit into that, he struggled with how to handle it.

That said, he loved a good road trip, and, especially as he neared retirement age, craved the opportunity to get out and explore the country. It was a shame that as he aged, he also lost mobility. He was so giddy that he was able to get out east to visit family and friends, and to take in the sights. He’d always loved to drive around neighborhoods with picturesque houses – he loved architecture. I often thought he fancied himself a de-facto architect or builder, so gladly would he measure out spaces and populate with theoretical families and furnishings.

That was part of the appeal of real estate, besides the vast community it afforded – getting access to so many houses! But also, I think what he really loved about it, more than the sale process, was the one to one interaction he had with buyers or sellers – he loved guiding people, assessing their wants and needs, and finding a property to fit. 

Somebody asked me recently what his favorite drink was, which’d have to be Scotch, though he was a big martini drinker for a while. I could “build him a drink” before I even knew that drink was a vodka martini, rocks. I’ll never forget over-pouring the vermouth one time. Never happened again! 

He always closed his notes to me “HofL, Pop” – and so, sadly but so fondly, I close this with: Heaps of Love to you, Pop, and safe, fun journeys. Kiss mama and the pups for us.

You can find our dear Pop’s obituary here.