About Pop's

One of my favorite stories about Pop happened when my brother, my two sisters, and I were all kids. One evening, we were sitting around the dinner table, ready to eat a nice supper Mama had cooked. The only problem was that Pop hadn't made it home yet. He was out deer hunting, and he was really, REALLY late.

Sometimes Pop affectionately called her "Godzilla" whenever she got fired up, and somehow it was usually because of some wild situation he had gotten himself into. As we all sat there waiting, our mother became more and more upset.

When Pop finally walked through the door, of course he had a story to tell. He swore that while deer hunting, he shot a big buck and watched it drop immediately. Naturally, he assumed it was dead. So he climbed down from his stand and headed over to load it into the truck and take it to be cleaned. But as soon as he got close, that buck jumped up and charged him.

According to Pop, he had no choice but to grab the deer by the antlers and wrestle it to the ground. He always said it was either him or the deer. I won't go into all the details, but let's just say his buck knife became an important part of the story, and our Pop was the one who walked away from that encounter. Of course, after all that, he still cleaned the deer and hung it in the cooler to be processed later on.

The story was so wild that Mama didn't want to believe a word of it. But when we looked at him, none of us could deny that something crazy had happened. His shirt was ripped and tattered, he had blood all over him, and he was completely disheveled as if he'd just survived a battle in the woods.

We sat there in complete shock, thinking, "There is no way this actually happened." But then again, this was Pop. For some reason, the most absurd things always seemed to happen to him. And somehow, he always came home with a story.

As my siblings and I were growing up in South Georgia, we had a long list of pets over the years. Dogs, cats, baby birds that fell out of the nests, parakeets, rabbits, guinea pigs, an abandoned baby deer named Daisy, and probably lots more I can't remember at the moment. I desperately wanted a horse since we had pastures full of cows surrounding our house. I begged for one every year, but Pop wouldn't allow it since he was thrown off one as a boy. He was worried one of us would get hurt. So, I never got a horse and would still love to own one to this day. However, feeding that baby deer and watching her run, jump and play in the tall grass is one of my favorite childhood memories. I fell in love with her, and then we had to release her when it was time. I was heartbroken, just like every time I fed the baby birds until they were old enough to fly.

At some point, one of my sisters decided she wanted a monkey, and guess what? I'll be damned if Santa Claus didn't bring her one. To be fair, I'm almost positive Pop wanted a monkey, too. That's the only reason I can fathom how this ever happened.

One Christmas morning, I was thrilled to find my new, pink Barbie Dream House beside the tree. Along with all our other gifts sat an animal crate with my sister's new monkey inside. Santa delivered a stump-tailed macaque, and his name was Otis. For those who aren't familiar with monkeys, you should know that stump-tailed macaques are not exactly known for being ideal family pets. As a matter of fact, I'm almost certain they aren't legal to have as a pet. They're territorial and can be quite vicious. Otis proved that quickly over the 5-6 years he was with us. As for me, I wasn't his biggest fan right away. When the crate was opened that Christmas morning, he flew across the room to the top of the drapes and then launched himself right onto the top of my brand-new Barbie Dream House. It collapsed to the ground immediately, and back then, those were not easy to assemble! We still have no idea where Santa Claus got that monkey.

As Otis grew older, he became more unpredictable. He adored my middle sister and tolerated the rest of us, but he could be downright mean when the mood struck him. There were many times that he would chase us around the yard as we were supposed to be doing yard work, just to try and bite us. This seemed to be a fun hobby of his. And you would always have to look up before walking out through the screen door, because you never knew if he had gotten out, and if so, he would jump off the roof onto your head.

Years later, our little school in Damascus, Georgia, held its annual fundraiser. One of the highlights was a parent-performed version of the television show Hee Haw. There was music, banjo playing, comedy skits, and of course the famous "Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me" routine. If you've ever seen the show, you may remember the sad-looking bloodhound that laid beside the performers during the skit. Pop and his friends decided a dog was far too ordinary. They wanted Otis.

Somewhere in the planning stages, my mother made what she believed was a harmless suggestion. She suggested giving Otis a few tablespoons of beer to help calm his nerves so he would sit quietly during the performance while dressed in his little red shirt and miniature denim overalls. Unfortunately, Pop and his buddies interpreted "a few tablespoons" as more of a general guideline than an actual measurement. From what I was told, Pop and his buddies had poured beer in a dog bowl for him, but we have no idea exactly how much. By showtime Otis was not calm. Otis was drunk.

The poor monkey never even made it to his big performance. Instead, he got sick and completely missed his moment of fame. Pop and his buddies were so disappointed, and my mother was furious at them.

The next morning, Otis slept most of the day. When he finally woke up, he sat with both little hands covering his head, looking miserable. As I got older, I realized he looked exactly like a person nursing a hangover. It was probably the only time I ever felt sorry for him. Oh, wait. I did feel sorry for him when he accidentally got electrocuted, but that's another story.

In the early 1980s, Pop surprised Mama with a brand-new gold Mercedes for their anniversary, one he said was the car she had always wanted. Mama, of course, told it differently and insisted she never actually wanted the car at all, but that it was actually Pop who wanted it. As with many family stories, the truth likely lives somewhere in between.

For their anniversary, Pop took her out to dinner and a movie. He parked the shiny, new car far out in the lot, with what he said were at least forty empty spots all around to keep it from getting dinged.

When they came out of the theater, an old beat-up truck (what Pop called a "jalopy") was parked right beside the Mercedes, even though there were still plenty of empty spaces much closer to the theater entrance. He was convinced it had been parked there intentionally. And to make matters worse, there was a fresh, ugly dent right on the Mercedes door.

Pop was not happy about this. In his own memorable way, he decided to "handle the situation." While Mama tried to talk him out of it, he turned his back to the jalopy, placed both hands on the hood of the Mercedes, and while wearing his old "brogans," he began to repeatedly donkey kick in the door of the jalopy. He said he needed "to make things even." According to him, the door was caved in so badly afterward that you couldn't even roll the window down.

Mama was not impressed, of course, and made her feelings known. But Pop stood by his version of justice.

Uncle Herbie was our mother's brother, and according to Mama, he was a handful growing up. She often claimed he was one of the most mischievous boys she had ever known. That may have been true, but as an adult he was an amazing man, and also tons of fun.

Pop and Uncle Herbie became the closest of friends as brothers-in-law over the years, which usually meant someone was about to have an adventure that sounded like it was too impossible to be true. Our family owned property where we fished, searched for arrowheads, hunted deer, turkeys, and whatever else was in season. Like many hunters, they put out corn to attract deer. Most people did this with a pickup truck. Pop had a better idea.

By this point, Daddy had already taught himself to fly his crop duster. Having successfully survived that flight, he apparently began looking for new ways to use the airplane. One day he came up with a plan. Why drive corn to the hunting property when you could fly it there? The only thing missing was a helper, and Uncle Herbie was eager to do just that.

Daddy convinced him to climb into the hopper of the crop duster, which was the compartment normally used to hold fertilizer before it was spread over the fields. Instead of fertilizer, Uncle Herbie was carrying a large bag of corn, and he climbed aboard wearing a leather World War II-style flying cap and a pair of goggles.

With everything in place, Pop fired up the crop duster and took off. Soon they were soaring over the hunting property. He dipped the plane low over the fields while Uncle Herbie poured corn from the hopper. Then they climbed back into the sky and headed home. Mission accomplished. The corn was spread, the deer were fed, and they returned safely to the little country airstrip beside Pop's farm. These two men managed to turn a simple chore into an aviation adventure.

After Pop taught himself how to fly the crop duster, a friend asked if Pop could fly him up to North Carolina (or maybe South Carolina, the details get a little fuzzy after all these years). The idea was simple: save the friend a long drive and turn it into a quick flight instead. Pop said sure, and off they went.

He flew him up, landed exactly where he was supposed to, and headed back home the same day. But by the time he was returning, it was getting dark and fog had rolled in thick enough to make it difficult to navigate.

He got turned around somewhere over the country roads and couldn't quite figure out where he was. So Pop decided to fly really low, just above the trees, and looked for anything familiar. He spotted what looked like a quiet, empty two-lane paved road and a few scattered houses.

He landed the plane right there on that road like it was a runway, taxied up, and stopped in front of a house. Then he got out and checked the mailbox to figure out the address so he could get his bearings and figure out where he was. Once he had what he needed, he climbed back in, took off again into the night sky, and made it safely back to his little airport on the farm.

This was our Pop, never boring, always resourceful, and somehow always turning a "slight detour" into a story you'd be telling for the rest of your life.

Our sister having a monkey as a pet wasn't even the craziest thing our family ever had. Before Otis the monkey ever entered our lives, Pop had already decided he wanted something a little more unusual. Baby alligators. Of course, none of us knew that was the plan at the time.

I was about four years old when Pop announced we were going "on an adventure" out to some family property called Big Pond. It was swamp land, the kind of place you don't casually stroll through. According to Pop, it was one of the largest swampland areas in Georgia, second only to the Okefenokee.

Pop was in his usual farm attire: farm work boots, jeans, and complete confidence. I followed right behind him as we walked deeper into the swamp. I kept asking where we were going, but he just kept walking on and across slippery logs, through muck, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Eventually, he stopped. He bent down and scooped up three tiny baby alligators. There was no mother in sight. One of them had part of its tail missing, though I didn't think much about that at the time. As soon as he picked them up, they started making little grunting sounds, calls that sounded like they might be for their mother. In that moment, Daddy turned, picked me up, and swung me onto his back. He told me to hold on tight. And then he started running. We slipped and slid through that swamp so fast, across wet logs, through mud, back toward solid ground. I was holding on for dear life, half scared to death and half excited.

When we finally reached the truck, I asked him why we ran. He said the alligators were calling their mother, and she was probably a big one. We needed to get out of there quickly. That made sense to me at four years old. Then I asked the obvious question: why did he take them away from their mother in the first place? Pop didn't miss a beat. He told me he was rescuing them because their mother had bitten off the baby's tail, and he needed to protect them. I have no idea if he believed that or if he simply made it up on the spot, but at such a young age, it was enough for me.

When we got home, Pop set up a large aquarium for the baby alligators. There were three of them; I later found out there was one for each of his three daughters. Our brother wasn't born yet, or there definitely would have been four. My mother was, understandably, not happy at all.

For a short while, we had baby alligators in the giant tank in our house. Pop would bring in small fish to feed them, watching them like it was the most natural thing in the world. Eventually, my mother put her foot down and the alligators were released back into the wild.

But the story stayed. That was our Pop. He didn't just live life, he responded to it. An idea would strike him, and instead of talking himself out of it like most people would, he would make it happen.

Pop's parents, our grandparents, loved to fish, whether it was in a pond, lake, or deep sea fishing. They also had a boat we all used to enjoy when we were little ones. As a teenager, Pop was up for anything fun or involving a little danger. At some point, he decided he wanted a set of water skis.

Our grandfather, "Bubba," gave Pop a condition. "If you can learn how to ski, then I'll buy you a set of water skis." Most people would have seen the obvious problem in that. You need skis to learn to ski. Pop saw it differently. If he needed to learn first, then he needed to find something that worked like skis.

Pop taught himself to ski using wooden boat paddles. Once he got pretty good on two paddles, he decided to learn to slalom on just one paddle. When he finally demonstrated it to Granddaddy Bubba, cutting across the wake on a single paddle like it was the most natural thing in the world, there wasn't much left to debate. True to his word, Granddaddy Bubba bought his son a set of water skis.

Ultimately, he didn't even need the new skis. He taught himself how to ski barefoot. Once we were all born and growing up, he loved to show off for us. He was still able to slalom on a boat paddle and barefoot, even though he was a very young-at-heart grown man.

Our daddy was a farmer, and at one point in his career, he owned a crop duster. He had a pilot who flew for him, spraying fields throughout our little corner of southwest Georgia. Most people who own an airplane are content to let the trained pilot do all the flying, but Pop had other ideas.

According to family story, Pop decided he wanted to fly the crop duster himself. There was only one small problem. He had never taken a flying lesson.

The "airport" wasn't much more than a grass runway beside his fields. On the day he decided to have his first flying adventure, several members of his farming crew were there, along with a few friends and family members. Without any hesitation, Pop climbed into the crop duster, started the engine, and took off. Just like that.

The plane rose into the sky and disappeared over the fields, leaving everyone on the ground staring after him. As the minutes passed, one of the men standing nearby finally asked the question everyone was thinking. "How in the world is Henry going to land that plane? He's never had a flying lesson."

The question was directed to Eddie Will, Pop's trusted friend and what he often called his "right-hand man." Without the slightest sign of concern, Eddie Will replied, "Same way he got it up there. He'll figure it out." Apparently, that was explanation enough.

Sure enough, after flying around for a while, Pop brought the plane back and landed it. Whether it was skill, luck, determination, or a combination of all three, nobody seemed entirely sure. What everyone did know was that Pop had once again done something most people wouldn't even consider attempting. And from that day forward, whenever the notion struck him, he continued flying the crop duster.

Looking back, it seems that Pop approached life the same way he approached that airplane: with confidence, curiosity, and a firm belief that he'd figure things out along the way. Most of the time, somehow, he did.