Pop

“Pop”

My Grandfather was 62 when he died from a stroke. My Father was in the Army at the time and had to catch an Airforce flight home to make it to the funeral.

Decades later, I was stationed at Ft. Lewis Washington when we were issued orders to travel to Ft. Chaffee Arkansas. We were to augment the OPFOR there. OPFOR stands for OPposing FORce. They play the bad guys in the Army’s laser-tag war games. We flew in on a Saturday.

Sunday was supposed to be filled with briefings to teach us how to be the bad guys. I wouldn’t know because about 20 minutes into the first briefing I got tapped on the shoulder. The First Sergeant wanted to see me. I collected my things and walked to the back of the briefing hall where he waited for me.

He took a quick breath and said, “Linder, your father’s dead.”

Just like that.

I’d like to say that I was numb. Isn’t that how all the stories tell you you’re supposed to feel when you hear this? “I was numb.” They write in dramatic tones and artsy fonts. “I couldn’t believe it.” They throw out there. Many times not even knowing what that means. Well I know what it means. I COULDN’T believe it. I don’t mean ‘I refused to believe it’ or that I was in denial. I mean I was incapable of believing it. I felt a bit like a sociopath because I didn’t feel anything. Nothing had changed. On an intellectual level I knew the First Sergeant was right but I just couldn’t comprehend it. The First Sergeant was a good guy an all, but he clearly didn’t know Pop. Pop was a force of nature. He could NOT die. God didn’t have enough beer in heaven and the Devil was terrified of the man.

“We’re tryin to get you on a plane to Dallas but everything on post is closed so we’re not sure how long it’ll take.” He said.

I think I nodded. I’m not sure if he told me to follow him or just motioned me to. Either way I followed him out of the building to a HMMV and we went to another building on post. I think I spoke to the Company Commander. I think he said he was sorry.

About two hours later they had me on a flight to Dallas. Not bad for a unit on a strange post on a Sunday when everything was closed.

I -do- remember sitting in the plane and thinking I should be broken up. I mean I should have been destroyed. Pop is my hero. That’s not a grammatical error. Pop was and IS my hero. Faults and all. When other kids were asked who their heroes were? They would say George Washington or Martin Luther King. I always said “My father.” The adults thought that was adorable. Until they met him.

My older brother John once got caught with a forged permission slip to go to the zoo when he was seventeen. When the school secretary asked him why he had forged it? He said he didn’t want to bother Pop with a stupid permission slip. So she called Pop.

“Mr. Linder, John has been caught with a forged permission slip for the trip to the zoo.”

“...Why’d he do that?” He asked.

“He says it’s because he didn’t want to bother you with a stupid permission slip.”

“Huh. Sounds like my son has more respect for my time than you do.”

AND - THEN - HE - HUNG - UP - THE PHONE.

Pop had a thick head of silver hair. He said he went silver when he was 23. He was built like a gorilla. I mean, I swear his hands hung down to his knees. He was only 5’11’’ but he was about four feet wide. He wore thick brown framed glasses. Always had a half smoked Optimo cigar sticking out of his mouth and could usually be found with a beer in his hand. He was born and raised in Durango Texas in 1933 and if you don’t know where that is? It’s OK. They only got one beer joint and a buttload of cows.

Now that you have this perfect little image of an old redneck in your mind, here’s where it gets froggy.

He had a bachelor’s degree in geology from Texas Tech University, class of 53? I think. I didn’t know he graduated from there until I was fourteen. I’ve had friends who are alumni from there now and they say it’s a great college but when Pop went apparently it was not good. He hated the place. He also had a Master’s degree from Texas A&M in paleontology. Class of 59. I knew that by the time I was three. He loved A&M.

He was fluent in Spanish but he was trying hard to learn Tejano. He said he didn’t want to get laughed out of the bars in south Texas. He learned the language because, as he put it, he was just sure those women were talkin about him. He was very disappointed when he found out. They were having the same boring conversations the rest of us were having.

I think I had peanuts and a coke on the plane. I know I had a window seat because I remember looking out the window for the whole flight.

He hated suits. The oil company he worked for required him to wear one to work so he had about seven of them. Full three piece jobs with a double windsor knotted tie and thick soled Florsheim shoes. He said the building looked like it was filled with bankers. I remember Pop liked sounding like a racist. He just thought that was funny as hell. The first time he met his friend Sonja was when one of the sample washers, Cliff, was giving her a tour of the building. She had hired on as a secretary and Cliff had been tasked with showing her where everything was. As they walked down one of the halls they passed Pop.

“Good mornin, black MoFo.” Pop sneered to Cliff.

“Good mornin to you, honky MoFo.” Cliff sneered back.

Sonja waited a bit before asking, “Who was that honky motherfucker back there?”

She said Cliff smiled and told her, “That is your black asses best friend for as long as you’re with this company.”

I’m not sure how it happened but Sonja wound up being Pop’s secretary.

I don’t remember the plane landing. I DO remember hugging my brothers when I saw them at the gate in DFW. We went to a Wataburger to eat. As I recall we were pretty quiet.

Sonja’s husband was a paramedic for one of the hospitals in town and at one time she had been a nurse. Whenever he got a gig at a concert or something cool. She would put on the uniform again and go with him because she was still certified. One time BB King was coming to town and Sonja asked Pop if he wanted to tag along. She knew he was a big fan.

Now Pop knew BB King was coming to town. What fan wouldn’t know? But he had something he couldn’t get out of so he already knew he couldn’t make it. But is that what he told her? Of course not. What he said was,

“Nah baby. Somebody’ll shoot off a gun and start a stampede and all those black folks’ll just crush my white ass dead.”

“...You honky motherfucker.”

Later at the concert someone lit off some firecrackers. And Sonja and her husband had to take cover under the ambulance. Thank God, no one was hurt. But Sonja was under the vehicle cursing as mobs of people ran by.

“Henry Linder, you honky motherfucker! Henry Linder, you - HONKY - mother-fucker!”

Over and over again she was yelling until her husband looked at her. “Baby, big daddy ain’t even here! Why you cussin him?!”

“Because he -SAID- this would happen!”

It probably wasn’t funny at the time but once it was all over and nobody was dead, it was funny as hell.

The drive from Dallas to Marlin is 3 hours. I think my brothers may have talked some.

There was a group of Canadian geologists visiting from a sister company one time. One of them commented during a meeting that they would probably get their results out faster. If the sample washers weren’t so slow.

Pop replied. “You mean the BLACK sample washers?”

The V.P.’s, Directors and Senior staff went quiet.

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that.” the man replied.

“Yes, I’m sure you didn’t... I’ve never had a problem getting my samples in a timely fashion. But then, I talk to those men like their men.”

The Canadians didn’t have much to say after that. So the V.P. running the meeting was able to gently get the meeting back on to less confrontational topics.

There was a load of people at Mom an Pop’s house when we got there. I remember hugging all of them. But when the conversations started, I think I just nodded a lot.

Pop hated his boss, Sam Miano. And from what he told me, Sam hated him. (at work). Away from work? We ran into Sam at the 84 World’s Fair and hung out with him for hours. Him and Pop talked about everything. Ran into Sam at the Jazz Fest and again hung out with him for hours. Ran into him in the French quarter, same thing. As a matter of fact. Sam was the only person from that company to make the trip from New Orleans to Little Deer Creek Baptist Church in Falls county Texas for Pop’s funeral.

One time Pop was at a Willie Nelson concert with his friend Will. I think the man’s last name was Red but don’t hold me to that. The concert was about to start any minute and Pop tells Will, “I gotta piss. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Will says, “Alright. I’m gonna stay here cause I don’t wanna miss the start of the show.”

Pop goes to the bathroom and when he’s coming back there’s Willie and his entourage. Being escorted by a ton of security towards the stage. Pop steps to the side and let’s them pass. Then Willie stops the group and sticks out his hand to Pop.

Mr. Nelson says, “Hey, how’ve you been?”

Pop shakes his hand and says, “Pretty good. How you holdin up?”

Willie answers and they talk for a few moments until Willie asks, “I don’t know you, do I?”

Pop smiles. “No you don’t. BUT I am a big fan and I’m really lookin forward to the show tonight.”

They talk for a few more moments and then Willie had to head off to the stage. Pop sat back next to Will and said, “Willie should be out in just a minute or two.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh. I was just talkin to him.”

Will had a disgusted expression on his face as he looked at Pop. “YOU… Son of a Bitch!”

Now that I think of it. Pop got called a lot of bad names a lot of the time.

Pop claimed he got to meet Edwin Edwards when he was the Governor of Louisiana. Because Governor Edwards thought he knew Pop.

Pop and a friend of his were leaving their office building when this beautiful young woman walked up to him and asked, “Can you jump me?”

Pop’s friend looked at him, “Henry, you lucky son of a bitch!”

“My car. Can you jump my car? It’s dead.”

“Ohhhhh.” they both nodded,

“Yeah. That makes more sense.” His friend said.

Years after Pop died my wife was looking at photos of my parents from when they were in high school.

She commented, “Wow. Your mom was beautiful.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “What about my father?”

She nodded and said, “Wow. Your mom was beautiful.”

I found out at a young age that if I was looking for Pop at a festival. All I had to do was go to the general area where I saw him last and ask someone, “Have you seen a fat man in a hat?” They’d nod and point. I’d walk a few feet in that direction and there was Pop. He was a lot like John Wayne. Ugly but remarkable. People just noticed him. People loved him.

At some point Pop had met and become friends with a Catholic priest. His best friend Jerry had introduced them because Father Carlutta was Jerry’s priest. Now Pop was a dyed in the wool Southern Baptist. A beer drinking Baptist but a Prody’s Prody none the less. Father Carlutta loved him. Apparently it’s hard for Priests to make friends. Many times the people have a distance they want to keep between them and their priest. So Pop was like a Godsend for the man.

One day Father Carlutta came running up to him.

“Henry! Thank goodness! I’ve been looking for you since I got back! You’re the only person I know who’ll appreciate this story.”

Pop knew that Father Carlutta was back from a trip to the Vatican. He’d actually gone to see him so he could find out how the trip had been. “What happened?”

“One day another Priest and I were walking through the streets of the Vatican city. Just taking in the sites.” Pop nodded in reply. “Suddenly this man jumps out of a doorway and points his fingers at us like they’re guns.”

“OK.”

“When he does the shooting action he didn’t say “bang.” He broke wind!” Pop started laughing. “He farted once at my friend and then at me! Then he jumped back in the doorway and closed the door!”

“Well, yeah!” Pop laughed and nodded.

“My friend looked at me and said, “You know, this sort of thing would never happen in New Orleans. But we come to the “Holy of Holies” and get crapped on.”

AsI said, there were a lot of people at the house when we got home. They had held a party for Pop the night before he passed. Mostly family but a few old friends as well. When Pop’s cancer returned he couldn’t even make it all the way across the Living room without a rest.

I remember Pop and I had been at JazzFest in New Orleans one year. We were waiting in line for beer. I was too young to drink but that didn’t mean he had to miss out. The girl behind us had noticed Pop was overweight and made this realization known by saying,

“What’s it gonna be? A boy or a girl?.” She stated energetically with a smile.

Pop turned back toward her and her boyfriend before removing the cigar from his mouth. “An elephant… You wanna see it’s trunk?”

The girl sputtered a few moments as Pop replaced the Optimo in his mouth and faced forward.

“Did..? Did you hear what he said to me?!” She asked, I’m assuming, her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend, the giggling one, replied, “Hey, big man was minding his own business and you had to go an mess with him.” He laughed.

Somebody had the bright idea to go and see Pop at the funeral home. I blame my eldest sister, Lori. Mostly because we always blame her. So, we loaded up in the cars and went to the funeral home. I was fine on the way there. I was fine when we got to the viewing room. I was fine when I saw him.

It didn’t look like him.

He was wearing a suit like he was going to work. That was Mom’s revenge. She didn’t care how he looked. But she knew him being buried in a suit would piss him off.

Then my sisters started crying. Now it was real. Pop was dead.

I bawled like a baby. To the point that I left the viewing room and sat on the stairs in the lobby of the funeral home. I cried for what felt like hours. Pop was dead.

The man who once killed a rattlesnake with an 18 inch club. The man who could cook a gumbo so good that his Cajun friends came by to eat it. Because it was better than their momma’s. The man who could drink more beer than a former Center for the Kansas City Chiefs.

My hero was dead.

His funeral was a two hundred person potluck. Stuffed into an old Baptist church meant to hold one hundred. Everyone was laughing and crying. Sharing food and old stories of Pop. I heard my Mother say, “Ya’ll, I’ll feel terrible sayin this. But this is one of the best times I’ve had in a long time.”

Pop would’ve loved it.

I was standing with Hoss and John, my brothers, when a man approached. He said, “I hope you boys can carry on your father’s proud tradition.”

Without missing a beat John replied, “I don’t think I can drink that much beer.”

The stranger didn’t seem to get the joke. However, me and Hoss laughed our asses off.

Pop once told me that every morning when he woke up. He thanked God for another day.

Pop died on Valentine’s day. One of the last things he did was to send my brothers to buy a dozen tulips from the florist. Because they were my Mother’s favorite flower. She was a combination of flattered and furious. She said something later about years of him being a selfish prick only for him to go out with class.

When Hoss’s twins were babies Pop would prepare one bottle of milk for them. Then toss it into the middle of the living room and watch the “Baby wars.” Jane had an advantage because she learned to walk first. But her twin brother Sam was a fighter and could crawl faster than she could walk.

They told me that just before he died Pop stared off into the distance and whispered, “The Lord… The Lord…”

Then he exhaled and that was the end.

He was 60 years old.

The night of his funeral, my four siblings and I, and Hoss’s wife, Mel, were drinking around his grave. Listening to his favorite song Jerry Jeff Walker’s “London Homesick Blues.” And generally commiserating about Pop.

But all I could think was,

That fat bastard swindled me out of two years!