Papoo

This is my grandfather. We called him Papoo. People who know my family will say he wasn't really my grandfather. As far as bloodlines go, they're right, he wasn't. He married my grandmother in 1939 and accepted my then 6 year-old father as his own. He was the only grandfather I knew. He was kind and forgiving, generous and understanding, patient and loving. He never raised his voice or his hand. He didn't have to. Whether you were in his Sunday school class, in his barber chair, having him take your picture, or sitting quietly in the coolness or his darkroom watching images appear like magic, you HAD to listen when he spoke. Not because he demanded your attention, but because he didn't speak too often or too loudly. He listened. And when he chose to speak you knew he had something to say, something you didn't want to miss.

When I was in high school he would pick me up every day and drive me across town to my after school job. When I got into the car he would say, "How's your day going, baby?" And then we would sit quietly and listen to Paul Harvey for the rest of our short trip. I think that's why I'm such a news nerd now. The point being, he never said that dress is too short (and it probably was), or what have you done to your hair, or did you pass that test, or I have so many other things I could be doing right now (and he probably did). When I got out of the car he would say, "Have a good evening, baby. I'll see you tomorrow." Whatever my day had been up to that moment or would become later, I looked forward to those kind caring words and our few quiet minutes together. I miss his gentle reassuring presence.

International Center Of Photography
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