Tribute to my Poppy Allen
My grandfather did not have an easy life. His father left him and his mother when he was very young. As a result, he ended up being raised by his great-grandparents in Westville, NJ while his mother worked and lived in Philadelphia during the week. Later when he was about 11-12 years old his mother married again and he moved in with his mother and step-father. He didn’t have his own room like many children have today; he had to sleep on the couch in the living room. He entered the Air Force shortly before his 19th birthday and ended up serving in Korea as a mechanic for jet engines and achieved the rank of staff sergeant. One night while he was serving in Korea he had to walk out to check on the planes. The paths were lined with sandbags, and as he jogged back to safety he could hear the gunshots hitting the sandbags next to him with a pfth, pfth, pfth. Often the sirens would sound at the base and they had to jump into the trenches for safety. As you might imagine his favorite tv show of all time was MASH.
During his home leave, he married his sweetheart, whom he met at a dance. When they were dating he would drop her off at home after a date and then would alternate walking and running home based on the telephone poles. He said he would, “walk a pole, run a pole, walk a pole, run a pole all the way back home.”About a year later, his first child, my father, was born at George AFB in California. My grandmother would tell us how when she was expecting he would write a reminder note on the calendar saying, “don’t forget to take your vitamin dearie.” He was enamored with her. My father has many fond stories of growing up with my grandfather that included lots of fishing, hunting, and camping together. My grandfather, like my father, seemed to have an infinite amount of patience and a goofy, but endearing, sense of humor. My grandparents had two more children, my Aunt Sherri Lyn and my Uncle Bob.
He completed his service after 4 years and then worked as a mechanic for Lockheed. The family moved often with his job adding California, Wyoming, Kansas, and Upstate New York to their list of residences. He eventually worked on the Atlas Missile Project under General Dynamics. He loved that job, LOVED that job, but his time with it was cut short when my grandmother left him with their children to raise on his own. My father was 10 years old, my Aunt Sherri was about 3 years old, and my uncle Bob was under 2 years old at the time. He had to leave the job he loved and return to the ancestral town of Westville, NJ to raise his children as a single father in the 1960s. With the help of his mother and extended family, they survived long enough, nearly a decade, for my grandfather to meet his second wife, my Grandmom Allen.
My Grandmom Allen had her own difficult story including the tragic death of her father when she was about 9 years old to her own divorce which also left her raising 3 children on her own. They started out as friends who would dance together at the bar. Neither ever imagined they’d be destined for each other, but as fate would have it they were. They married in 1972, merging their two families together. When I learned all this as a child I exclaimed to my Grandmother, “you guys were just like the Brady Bunch!” To which she quickly retorted, “Oh, no we weren’t. We didn’t have Alice!”
Together my grandparents tried to navigate the difficulties of a blended family. My father and my grandmother’s son Bob (yes, they both had sons named Bob) had moved out before my grandparents were married, but there were still 4 children living at home thirst into a new family dynamic: my Aunt Sherri, Aunt Ruth, Uncle Bob, and Aunt Ronda. I’ve heard stories of the mischief and the squabbling that was certain to occur in such a situation. My grandparents’ house always seemed enormous to me as a child, but like so many things it grew smaller as I grew older. One bathroom was shared among 6 people, and while there were bedrooms to accommodate all there were marked differences in the dimensions of the bedrooms that created real inequities. Perhaps the most often told story was how my Aunt Ronda had to take the little bedroom and that it was so small, it barely fit a twin mattress sideways. My grandfather, being the creative, loving and handy guy that he was, build a custom frame to fit the space for her bed, and since there was no room for a headboard or a foot board, they painted images of her feet on the wall. Laundry flowed continually. Love flowed even more.
The first time I ever heard about my Aunt Sherri was in hushed tones. I remembered seeing this picture at Gammy’s house (my great-grandmother) of a beautiful young woman with straight long red hair. “Who is that?” I asked. “That’s your dad’s sister Sherri” was the whispered response. I thought through things for a moment. I didn’t know any Aunt Sherri. “Where is she?” I inquired. “Nevermind” was the reply. Over the years the story of my Aunt Sherri would unfold gradually in pieces. I’d pick up a fragment from a passing conversation here or there. My cousin Tish, who always seemed to be more in the know on these things, would help fill in some of the details, but only when far out of hearing distance from the adults who couldn’t bear to utter her name out loud. Aunt Sherri was the light of my grandfather’s eye. When my grandmother was expecting with her, my grandfather grew a beard and said he wasn’t going to shave it until they had a little girl. She was energetic, funny, beautiful, mischievous, and strong willed. Sadly as a rebellious teenager she had fallen in with the wrong crowd, controversially moved out of my grandparents’ home to live with her mother and tragically died at the hands of her boyfriend early in the morning on New Years Day 1975. She was just 16 years old.
Sherri’s tragic and untimely death understandably put a dark cloud over the family dynamic for years to come. Everyone tried to grieve her as best they knew how. But life moves on with or without our consent and eventually there was joy to be had in the family again as weddings and grandchildren (like me) entered the scene.
When I was a child, the week of July Fourth was my absolute most favorite week of the year. I would look forward to it with such anticipation, pestering my mother endlessly, counting down the weeks, then the days, then the hours. I would be bouncing off the walls, unable to control my excitement, usually getting myself into trouble and inevitably spending some time completely whacked out and crying every day as this wonderful week drew closer. My parents referred to this behavior as having the “ha-has”, a kind of high-strung malady reserved for the time periods preceding the most anticipated of days, usually involving family gatherings. I absolutely loved having my family around, especially my grandparents. And it was even better if I got to go to their house, as was the case on this glorious week of the year.
I grew up “down the shore” according to some and “out in the sticks” according to my grandparents. Being a fan of open spaces and all too aware of the increased accessibility of mischief in more populated areas, my father was keen on his daughters not growing up “where there are sidewalks and street corners”. We lived about an hour and a half drive from my grandparents who lived in Woodbury,
NJ. It is one of the cities in the Philadelphia suburbs that has its own rich history. The homes on my grandparents' street were predominantly built in the early 1900s, and despite its proximity to the big city, Woodbury had a quaint, small-town kind of nostalgic charm reminiscent of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, especially during the most patriotic week of the year. The homes all flew flags from the front porch and the front gardens were full of flowers and flags as well.
My Aunt Ronda was still living at home in those days and I absolutely adored her. Not trying to start any fights, but she was by far my favorite, not that it was a secret. I got to be flower girl in her wedding and when I found out that I wasn’t going to get to ride with her and my new Uncle Dennis in their limo, I cried and cried and cried. In fact there is a picture that captured this epic meltdown. There I am, 5 years old, beautifully adorned in my dress with my face all scrunched up and blotchy with tears streaming down. During our stay at my grandparents’ house I would wait eagerly for her to wake up, continually asking my grandmother, “Is Aunt Ronda up yet?” Like most young adults, she would finally descend the stairs very late in the morning.
My Aunt Ruth and Aunt Ronda would play with us girls. They would take us to the backyard and we’d play whiffle ball. Aunt Ronda would cheat and refuse to run the bases. We’d swim in the little kiddie pool, blow bubbles, take turns on the swing my grandfather built, and “paint the sidewalk”, which was a poor-man’s game of taking a bucket of water and brushing it onto a hot sidewalk in July. We’d play hopscotch, listen to the old-timey radio programs, and walk everywhere. Woodbury was a very walkable town and my grandparents’ home wasn’t far from the action. Sometimes we’d walk to the old Five and Dime store on Broad Street. On one such occasion my grandmother bought us jellies, an enviable and highly uncomfortable shoe that was all the rage for little girls in the mid-1980s. One great thing about a city like Woodbury in those days was all the other kids on the street. Where we lived it took a coordinated effort to go play with your friends. On Davis Street in Woodbury all you had to do was walk next door or across the street to see if Donna or Nicole were home. One summer they even set up a slip and slide in the front yard of the Snodgrass home across the street!
My grandfather, who we called Poppy, would predictably return home around 6 pm from work at Texaco (later Hercules) where he worked as a pipefitter. Grandmom would have dinner started and Poppy would emerge through the door with his lunch pail and thermos in hand. He’d wash up for dinner and we’d all sit at the table together. In those days, Poppy’s back teeth would make this special clicking kind of crunch noise when he would chew and we would look on and marvel at how this sound was created. Poppy loved to drink Coca-Cola. When the doctor asked him how much soda-pop he drank he would reply, “Just one glass”. Of course that was simply because it was the same glass he just refilled multiple times throughout the day. Poppy was always a little silly, and would often frustrate my grandmother with his little foibles. The most infamous was how he’d drink his coffee with the spoon still in his cup. If it was tea he would drink it with the spoon and the bag in the cup with the bag string wrapped around the spoon so it wouldn't fall out. I remember the first time I heard my grandmother talk about it I had this moment of, “well then how are you supposed to drink it? What do I do with my spoon?” His habit was clearly passed on through the generations. Even my mother, who started dating my dad when she was 13, would drink her tea that way. Poppy was known for being a bit of a prankster. He’s always point down at our shirt and say, “he what’s that?” And when we’d look down he’d “boop” us on the nose and laugh. You’d think that over the years we’d have become wise to this ruse, but I inevitably fell for it every, single, time.
After dinner we’d watch tv with Poppy. With any luck the Phillies would be on. I loved baseball and I especially loved watching it with my Poppy, and the Phillies were our team. Sometimes we’d play card games together, especially “go fish”. Before bed grandmom would let us have a snack with Poppy at the kitchen table. Our favorite was to eat ice cream and mix pretzels into it. There was always Rocky Road in their freezer too. After our snack we’d return to the living room where Poppy would recline in his chair. Grandmom would tell us it was time to say “good night”, so I’d run up to Poppy in his chair and say, “Poppy, give me a kiss goodnight!” To which he always replied very seriousl, “Do I have to?” And then his wry smile would cross his lips. I would thrust myself up onto his lap, embrace him, give him a goodnight kiss on the check and bounce off to bed.
Upstairs my sister(s) and I would sleep in the back room. There were two twin beds, each with a stuffed puppy on them. My bed was the one closest to the windows. Nina’s was the one closest to the door. When Sara was older and outgrew the crib in the little bedroom (Aunt Ronda’s old bedroom) she would sleep on a cot propped between our twin beds. Grandmom would come up and tuck us into bed. I would sleep soundly in my bed clinging to my stuffed puppy and wake up in the morning to the sunlight streaming in and the sounds of Davis Street flooding in through the opened windows. I could smell the coffee brewing downstairs as my grandfather would leave for work. I’d leap out of the bed and bound down the stairs eager to start another day. If I got up early enough, I’d find my grandmother sipping her coffee, reading the newspaper, and donning curlers in her hair. She would get up and get me my breakfast, usually milk and cereal, and then resume reading the paper before getting dressed and ready for the day’s adventures.
One day during the week, my grandparents would take us to Clementon Park. It was a small amusement park, but the best thing about it was that you didn’t have to purchase tickets for each ride. Poppy would buy us bands that we could wear and we’d get to ride every ride as many times as we’d like. My grandmother loved to ride the carousel, the tilt a whirl, and the tea cups. The first real roller coaster I ever rode was the “jackrabbit” there at Clementon park. My older sister, Nina, wasn’t too keen on roller coasters at the time and neither was my grandmother. I wasn’t allowed to ride it by myself, so Poppy went with me. Naturally I thought it was great fun. Nina eventually rode it too, with Poppy, and buried herself under his arm into his chest the entire time.
The week would end with the big fireworks show at the high school. My parents would come up and join us, and the whole family would get together for a cookout in the backyard. Hot dogs, hamburgers, macaroni salad, potato salad, Gammy Slaw (that's the best coleslaw in the world, made by Gammy) and watermelon were staples on the menu. Naturally we’d walk to the fireworks show. We’d get there early and stake out our spot. Depending on the weather, we'd sometimes bring blankets, but we always brought circus peanuts and cracker jacks. After the dazzling display, we’d walk back to my grandparent’s house and light sparklers in the front yard. We’d twirl around and write our names in the air, just before the sparkler would die out and then we’d be right back in line for the next one.
Time to go home was the worst part of the week. The moment I would get into the car to go home, I’d start counting down until the next time I got to go to Grandmom & Poppy’s house. When I was 13 years old we left NJ and moved 700 miles away to Southeastern, IN. We saw less of my grandparents after that, maybe once a year if we were lucky. Holidays weren’t the same. The Fourth of July definitely wasn’t the same. I’ve never been able to find another July Fourth display that even rivaled the experience of those back at Woodbury High School with my grandparents and family. As an adult, I’ve made many trips back to NJ to visit family, taking my children so they would know their great-grandparents and could see where I spent the formative years of my life. I’ve been blessed that my company has an office in Princeton, NJ to which I travel at least once a year. Often times, I’d be able to schedule my trips to that I could stop over for dinner either as I was coming from the airport or going to the airport. In the last couple of years, some of our best friends moved to Upstate NY about 30-40 minutes away from where my grandparents have been spending their summers. We took full advantage of the opportunity to see both our friends and Grandmom & Poppy these past two summers. In fact the last time we visited with them was for lunch at the Beef & Barrel in Olean.
There is always a bit of disillusionment when you grow up and realize that the family members you idolized during childhood aren’t perfect. Sometimes they disappoint you, they mess up, they say hurtful things. And in our immaturity we often respond immaturely. But as we grow we learn that we’re just as flawed as they are, sometimes even more, and that loving each other in spite of our flaws is so much richer and more beautiful than loving just the perfect fantasies we believed as children. But when it comes to my grandfather, I can’t recall a single bad or painful memory or even an untoward word. What I do have is a beautiful tapestry of memories woven in love from a man who gave abundantly out of what he had, even when what he had was nothing. That tapestry has threads that include:
• That time Maggie’s shoe fell off while riding on the golfcart in NY. He willingly and uncomplainingly went back after it to find it
• That time he had to fix the bed in the front bedroom because it broke when I sat on it. He never said anything, though we all know it was because I weighed more than the bed could handle.
• That time he and Grandmom came out late at night to pick me up from the airport when my flight was canceled and the hotels were all booked. And then they rose early the next morning and took me back.
• When Grandmom & Poppy would come to our house “down the shore” and watch the String Bands in Mummer’s Day parade on New Year’s day.
• When my father’s mother passed away a couple years ago and Grandmom and Poppy welcomed us into their home with fresh homemade Waffles and Ice Cream to refresh us after our long drive in.
• When Grandmom, Poppy, Aunt Ruth, and Aunt Ronda had to tag team and gang up on me to get me poyty trained. Something I’m really appreciating now, with my own strong-willed, stubborn, 3 year old.
• Going Canoeing on Easter and landing on a beach with eggs hidden by the Easter Bunny, just for us girls!
• Poppy coming down to our house and working on the roof with my dad.
• Staying at Grandmom & Poppy’s house, playing cars with cousin Jeff and walking him to school with cousin Philip in the stroller
• Cattell Run family reunion, where Poppy beamed with pride as Uncle Bob, Lizzy, Jenn, and I finished the 10 mile race in honor of his famous ancestor, Jonas Cattell
And there are countless more.
The more I reflect on my Poppy’s life, the greater my love, respect, and admiration for him grows. He endured the worst heartaches that this broken world has to offer and yet maintained a loving and jovial spirit. Words are truly insufficient to describe him and the impact he has had. But here is one thing I can say: I have had a wonderful father because he was a wonderful father to my father first, and that is the greatest legacy any man can leave on this earth.
