Wednesday, September 16, 2020
My Pop-Pop was a master of malapropisms. My favorite was whenever he would say, “It’s not the heat - it’s the homma-diddity” during the summer. He also thanked me for setting the digital clock on the VCR - or, in his words, the “digit-tallissed clock” - so that it stopped flashing “12:00” all the time.
“You’re a corker, Nic,” he’d say.
He couldn’t stand the smell of pickles. The juice made him gag, he would tell me. So did his socks if the seams weren’t aligned on his feet just so. And while he loved coming with us to Jones Beach, and bobbing on his back in the water with his floppy blue sunhat on, he hated how the sand got between his toes. And he couldn't bear wearing sandals. So, my mom bought him water shoes for Father’s Day one year. This way, he wouldn’t have to walk down the beach in heavy shoes and socks, and he could also swim in them. And then the first Sunday that he wore those water shoes to the beach … he sported them with a goddamn pair of socks. When we said, “Pop! You’re not supposed to wear socks with those shoes!” - he gagged. “Shoes without socks? Ouf!” he said. And we laughed and laughed
Pop-Pop worked hard and served his country as a member of the U.S. Navy. He took care of Grandma during both of her bouts with cancer. He later “took” two strokes, in his words. And he and Grandma took care of me, countless times: first as a little kid, and then for several months as a teenager. Yes, the ninth grade was when he would wake me up before 9 a.m. on the weekends by blasting his John Philip Sousa records, because he didn’t think I should be sleeping in.
I’ll be frank, I’m not sure whether there is something for us after this life on Earth; if there is, I’d like to think that Pop-Pop, Grandma and my Mom are all together again. But there are signs; Matt called earlier to tell me that he could hear someone playing “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes while he was walking down the street. And even as he was sharing this with me, I heard the opening theme to “M*A*S*H” come wafting through my window — and how many times did Pop watch “M*A*S*H?”
This is all proof that Raymond “Buddy” Doyle will never truly be gone. Lord knows he gave us enough stories to fill several lifetimes.
You were a corker, Pop.
