Pop

"Shoot if you must this old gray head
But spare my country's flag," he said.
- John Greenleaf Whittier

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I know about these two poems and A WHOLE LOT OF OTHER STUFF because I am my father's son. He's an incredibly smart, big-hearted man with more integrity than anyone I've ever known. He's lived through some fairly horrible things, but you wouldn't know it. He's a talker, until you mention it. He's loved his wife (my mom) without ceasing from the moment he saw her, 47 years ago. He can be really intense and overly critical at times... and then he'll realize it and apologize. He reads constantly. He cries without shame. He's funnier than hell. He hates it when I call him Pop. He calls me "J" sometimes, in shorthand. I could go on...

Oh, and he's responsible for quite a lot of my strangeness... I owe him for that.

I don't know why... but I've been thinking about him constantly the last several days. Yes, I called him. And emailed him as well. We haven't connected yet. But we will.

I could write a long time about that man... and probably will.

Here's a photo we took together when he came to visit me last summer:

(This is him after 3 mojitos, on an empty stomach, at altitude.)

And another:

(This is him saying, "Enough with the photos, please! But I'll humor you, John...")