I’ve been thinking about my Poppa a lot lately. He passed away in February of 2009, and I miss him terribly. I was one of the lucky grandkids who was able to get to know him. Sometimes I can still smell his scent — peppermints & Old Spice. I LOVED that smell; still do.
That wonderful man had a large piece of my heart. I’m ashamed to say, but as much as I adored him I never told him so. He knew, though — I know he did.
When I was small he & I would eat toast every Sunday morning. I called it “Poppa Toast” (give me a break for the lack of creativity, y’all. I was still diaper clad when I “coined the phrase”). One of my favorite pictures is the two of us eating Poppa Toast (it was apple butter that made it special, FYI). I had my chubby hand on his arm as if to say, “Don’t you take my toast!” I love that picture… I really should frame it.
Pop told the corniest jokes; they really were awful. But he told them with flair, and that made them funny. He was a preacher, and could give a sermon that would silence Billy Graham. He was loved by many, & he lived a legacy.
He’s in Heaven right now, either mowing the grass, watching the Astros, or entertaining the other angels with Boudreaux & Thibedeaux jokes. Whatever he’s doing, I hope he knows I’m thinking of him. I hope he’s thinking of me, too.
“His eye is on the sparrow,
& I know he watches me.”