Tribute

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been trying to write about my grandfather. Or, Pop-Pop, as we all called him. He passed away on April 17th and I didn’t want to jump online and go blindly stream of consciousness. I wondered if this blog was even a forum to pay tribute to him meaningfully.

But then it struck me. This whole thing has always been about family. Recording and celebrating the big and little events and moments that become the months and years. And above all, that’s what Pop-Pop was – a family man. Enjoying each and every moment. The man fathered nine kids so let’s face it, he was a family man whether he was going to enjoy it or not. But he did.

So instead of diving back into his history, I’ve decided to remember him here through all the small moments and impressions I’ve collected of him over the past 32 years, in no particular order.

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The summer we arrived in Ocean City (as we did every summer of my life) and he was missing his trademark moustache. I was probably 6 or 7 and it blew my mind.

Manhattans at restaurants, Screwdrivers at the shore.

Friday nights in Broomall with the Dukes of Hazzard.

The consummate host. Offering to get you something constantly.

The stories my Mom has told about the multitude of jobs he had, usually two or three at a time, to support his huge family.

He never once yelled at any of us grandkids (that I remember). Not once.

His whistle was so darn loud. Like amazingly loud.

“You’d never see a Marine doing that.” (tongue-in-cheek)

The little jokes that kept coming back. He’d catch someone drifting off into space and say, “Those little naps are nice, aren’t they?”

Hanging out with his older brother, making fun of each other, criticizing, joking. Like they were kids.

Whenever concentrating or working on something, he’d stick his tongue out over his top lip ever so slightly.
Heinie Manush. A lost baseball player he and his brother celebrated every summer for no good reason other than his name was Heinie Manush.

He liked both the Cowboys and the Eagles.
Maybe the single slowest eater I’ve ever encountered in my entire life. Chalk it up to enjoying every moment.

The Hardly Ables Retiree String Band. Greatest band name ever?

The sound of his tenor saxophone. Equal parts Lester Young and Stan Getz - soft, deep & lyrical. It sounded like he did.

He always called his wife, “Love.”

That last talk he and I had.


And the thousands of other memories I’m sure will creep up as the years go by and we all continue to feel his influence on our lives. Not that he would ever take credit for anything like that. Ultimately, he was a modest, sometimes shy person who’d rather not have the attention. Sorry Pop-Pop, you’ve got it now. So I’ll raise it up to him and celebrate a great man. Because that's what it's all about, isn't it?