Poppy - Part 1

Poppy
Part 1


My maternal grandfather, whom I called Poppy, was born Benjamin Anekstein on December 3, 1900, in New Brunswick, New Jersey. He was the youngest of three kids. His brother became a lawyer. His sister worked for the City of New Brunswick. Poppy himself wanted to be a doctor. Family lore had it that he had a gift for math and science. But he never made it past eighth grade. His father, who was rumored to be the devil incarnate (loosely defined), made him drop out and go to work.

As soon as Poppy was legally able to leave home, he did. This may or may not have been of his own choosing. He had little formal training, but developed a mechanical ability to go along with his talents in math and science. He was able to fix almost anything. From what I remember hearing — again, family lore — in the period between the end of World War I and the beginning of the Great Depression, Poppy did well for himself and was never without a job.

I don't remember anyone saying exactly what Poppy did to get himself through the Great Depression, but a cousin and her large family and a boarding house in Chicago comes to mind. I don't remember hearing how he met Sarah, the woman who would become my maternal grandmother, either. Poppy married Sarah, who I would call Grandma, in April 1941. About a year and a half after that, my mother was born. She would be their only child.

Just because Poppy was a husband and a father and had a good job — the stability he always wanted — does not mean he was happy. He never quite reconciled with his own father. Grandma turned out to be hard to get along with. Poppy himself was prone to melancholia, or what we now call clinical depression. Through sheer force of will, he was able to fight his way through it and hold down a job.

But there was one incident that would haunt Poppy for the rest of his life. He and his best friend were working at a chemical plant, side by side. There was a massive explosion. In the aftermath, his best friend died in his arms. Poppy was never the same after that. After he had 'recovered' enough to go back to work, he moved Grandma and Mom down to Philadelphia for a fresh start.
~~~~~

Testing Gravity
 
I woke up this morning to a certain fourteen-year-old yellow tabby cat testing gravity because breakfast was late.

Meep!  Trill!

He jumped onto my bed and headbonked me.  I rubbed his chin.  Then I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Then he jumped onto my window sill and rattled the blinds.  I didn't budge.

Next, he jumped onto my desk.  I opened one eye.  It's like I saw the wheels in his little pea brain spinning.

Clickety-Clack-Clickety-Clack.  He's walking on the computer keyboard.  Unlike my late torbie nurse cat, Lilith, he does not know how to turn the computer on (or off when I'm in the middle of using it).

Crumple-Crumple-Crumple-Swish!  That was the pile of job ads I was all set to reply to.  They're on the floor now.  I still didn't budge.

RATTLE-RATTLE-RATTLE.  He found the bottle of vitamins I keep on my desk.  This should be good.

Mew!  ("Meowmie, I'm starving!")

RATTLE-RATTLE-RATTLE-PLONK!  Two points.  The bottle of vitamins landed in the wastebasket.

"Alright, I'm up!"

But did he really want breakfast?  Of course not!  He jumped onto my bed again, rolled onto his back, and demanded a belly rub.

And yes, I do still have both hands — and all ten fingers!