My Dad

My dad died a little over two months ago. I can hardly think about it without tears pouring out uninvited. Nothing dramatic. No long cry, just unwelcome tears that show up ever so silently and without any fanfare. I have so much to say about who my dad was to me in my life and the void I feel without him here on earth. But for tonight I'm just going to post his eulogy. I wrote it in just a few short hours. Ironically he was the one who taught me to write something that made sense, something worth presenting and something worthy of other's time. He was the one who was the great speaker and the incredible storyteller. To write this was a sacred privilege that I will treasure forever. 

He was one of the great ones. 

Merlyn Poppleton Eulogy

I had a little girl who loved to play dress up. Each morning she would get up and put one outfit on after the next. It could be 10-12 different ‘costumes’ within an hour. Some of those outfits or costumes didn’t even come off before she put the next one right on top of it. The hats, the gloves, the shoes, the accessories. The magic of becoming something new with each outfit was a thrilling adventure for her little world of magic and make-believe. 

I’ve often wondered if each of us doesn't repeat this little charade ourselves every day of our lives. Each of us without even knowing, trying on costume after costume, acting out our part, doing the thing, only to find out when our head hits that pillow at night and the costumes are stripped away that there's a little child who never really went anywhere. A little child that begged to be seen, had really big feelings and would do just about anything to survive in a world that was always just a little too big for them.

-Ragged little overalls toting around his little gun ( a real gun mind you) 

-Little white t-shirts, a size too big blue jeans and perfectly combed hair

-The football uniform

-The cap and gown

-The coast guard regalia

-The trunks and the boxing gloves

-The hip boots, the cap and the fishing pole

-The camo and blaze orange

-The crisp uniform and polished badge

-The striped tee, guitar slung across his shoulder, and a child hanging from each arm.

-The suit and tie, scriptures in hand and a message ready to share

-The scout uniform, the sleeping bag and pack

-The hat, the plaid shirt, and a deck of cards with a magic trick lying in wait

Regardless of the outfit, my dad took each role on with his whole heart. He was all in on all of it. Each role brought out the personality of this little boy who was bigger than life in every sense of the word.

And still, at the end of each day, sometimes at the end of two when he would pull a double shift at work, my dad took off the costumes and the uniforms, set aside the guns and the guitars, and that same little boy would lay down his head. I like to think he would hear in the distance even long after she was gone, the title he was given by his mother that transcended any uniform, “My boy.” 

Even long after he was a grown man and a father she would stand in the doorway when he arrived for a visit, and I can still hear her words with a big smile on her face, “My boy” she would say. “My boy!” He would always and forever be her little boy. 

On May 11, 1980 my dad wrote this in his journal about his mother, “I thank my heavenly father for my sweet mother, who always gave her time, love, and substance to bless the lives of her two sons. I remember her combing my hair, seeing that I was neatly dressed and always telling me what a handsome boy I was before she sent me off to school. When I left for school as a youngster I felt good about myself and had confidence because of my mother. May God bless her for the many sacrifices she made on my behalf.”

My dad was born to loving and devoted parents, a New Year’s Eve baby in the middle of a world at war. His parents worked hard in often desperate circumstances to raise their two little boys during those war years. My dad looked up to and loved his brother Max fiercely. Max and Mert were two little hooligan survivors. As dad would paint the picture, Max practiced all of his best pranks on him and often left him for death to save himself. My dad would say he learned survival skills not ‘from Max’ but ‘because of Max’. 

One of our favorite stories my dad recounts is when Max walked toward my dad and waved him to come closer to him. Without saying a word Max just continued to motion for my dad to come closer and closer as though he had some great secret to share. As soon as my dad’s face was close enough, Max pulled out a match and lit it, holding it up close to his mouth. And with a mouth full of lighter fluid Max blew the lit match. My dad says he thankfully only walked away missing his eyebrows. 

In the Poppleton home love looked like, just enough food, just enough brains, just enough friends (legendarily known as the Lucky 7 gang) and just enough weapons to survive a world otherwise in turmoil….and my dad had the scars to prove it…his extra fat thumb, his wayward pinkie, and his large bonus bump on his arm. Though all were seemingly self-inflicted, when asked if he went to the hospital when he shot himself in the arm or stabbed himself in the leg my dad would say something like, “No! We wouldn’t want to interrupt the deer hunt to take the child to the hospital now would we!”’ 

His descriptions of his childhood were layered with sarcasm, wit, hilarity, and a few questionable facts but there was always an ambient message, that he loved every bit of it. 

I cannot think of a sweeter reunion than those two little boys who kept each other alive and almost killed each other all at the same time. Those little boys with clothes too big and imaginations far too wild for the world to contain.

------

In the home of my youth on Brower street, the laundry room was in the garage. At any given time you might find piles of laundry, a basket of unmated socks, and a silver rod for hanging clothes. On that rod at regular intervals you would find three or four meticulously starched and pressed uniform shirts of my dads. It was as though there was special training for officer’s wives on how to make that uniform look like it was made of steel itself. 

Merlyn Pro Tip: (that my dad never really said but he would have if he thought of it) Find yourself a girl who will play make-believe with you. The girl who won’t just iron the costume, but will believe in the man wearing it. The one who’ll stand beside you through every version of yourself, the young deputy, the exhausted dad, the dreamer with a guitar, and the believer with a message to share. My mom was that girl. She made sure his shirts were crisp, his lunch was packed, and his dreams had room. And she even feigned belief in his magic tricks, when she had seen them a thousand times.

Together they built a life that was part hard work, part make-believe and all faith. Because that’s what love really is. It’s two people who keep showing up for the story, even when they’ve both forgotten their lines. Having said that, my mom never forgot her favorite line…..”Merlyn Ray!” And he never forgot his, “Judith Ann!” Those two names. The inflections. The frustration surrounding them, always were expressed with an undercurrent of love. Those two little kids still begging to be seen, having really big feelings and doing whatever it took to survive in a world that always felt just a little too big for them. And at night when that little duo lay their heads upon their pillows, sometimes wet with tears and at all times loud with snoring, they held hands through it all. 

When my mom passed away last year my dad stopped dressing up for anybody. The girl of his dreams who had now truly become the girl of his dreams took with her his will to go on. We could never have imagined the heartache that would accompany their separation. Every once in a while when a grandkid or great grandkid would visit you would see a glimpse of Papa Magic and always when his kids called or visited he would slip back into those Daddy shoes, but more than anything he spent his days waiting to be reunited with his one true love.

--------

Now back to the uniform, the badge, the gun. Every little boy’s dream….until it wasn’t. 

In 1965 The Watts Riots broke out. Officer Poppleton was truly still in the dress up phase of his career when he landed himself square in the middle of the situation. As he recalled his experience he explained it like this, “ When you start hearing shooting and you don’t know where its coming from ‘you’d be surprised how well this whole body could hide under a curb’

I spent an entire night reading through the reviews left from his superiors about Sgt Poppleton, Sarge or Poppleton as he was called. He was extraordinary in all that he did in his career. He taught himself photography and became the department photographer and then on his own took extensive training to become a trainer for even his superiors. He danced from being the face of the media to the head of the jails. One review stood out to me in particular. It read, “He is our ‘Jack of All Trades’ and our ‘Master of them All’ …Through his interest, enthusiasm and dedication he has been a counselor, coach and consistent supporter of his fellow employees.”

My dad shielded us from any of the hard stuff. The murders, the plane crashes, the near death experiences. To see in those papers over and over again that the man they knew was the same man I knew at home was so powerful. I knew the man who adapted to meet the needs of each of his children just as he had at work. You can imagine the insurmountable task of trying to connect with eight different children, personalities and struggles but he tried his very best to do everything he could to connect in the small moments between providing for those eight children and making it all happen at work.

He was totally invested in Travis’s movie making, all while zoning in on Heather or Ethan’s basketball interests, then seamlessly dialing in on Adam’s boxing and workout regiments. He became the late night therapist for Desiree, the guitar buddy for Tauni, the campaign manager for me all while oogling over Megan’s budding singing and piano talents.

And then he would magically go to work, and come home and do it all over again the next day. 

And while his job seemed a bit of a mystery to us we did glean a few simple truths from it all-- 

-Always sit in the back of the room so no one can sneak up behind you. 

-Lock all the doors each night and check them at least 12 times. 

-And women can’t go out at night without an escort because it’s dark. 

The magic in our home was in the daily. Long before my dad was called Papa Magic he was called Magic Merlyn and under that title, under that cloak, there was the most disciplined creative genius you have ever met. And the only way to describe him was….magic! The name came with a few card tricks and quarters pulled out of ears, but there were so many more layers to that title, to that role.

Buckle buckle beanstalk, Blind man’s bluff, Counting flowers, Family courts, Late night talks, Impromptu guitar firesides, Backyard basketball lickings, backgammon tournaments, Loquats, Figs, Never ending bunnies, Haunted stories, Quigley down under, Darby O Gill, Endless guitar playing, yardwork by the section, room inspections, the magic hours, sit on your own dinner, the northwind, fixing cars, hearing trains, writing songs, arm wrestling contests, water fights, hoses in the house, the poppleton school of success, 5am scriptures and the list goes on and on and on….

In a few minutes my siblings will share their thoughts or memories on him as a father and so here I will briefly insert mine…

When I was a little girl I would often run up to my dad while he was mid conversation. Instead of interrupting his conversation or scolding me for interrupting he would simply take my face in his giant hands and hold it right up next to his leg with the silent assurance that he knew I was there and if I’d just be patient enough he would love to hear what I had to say. And then when he was done and before I could blubber out my my sorrows or express the wanderings of my mind he would turn and look at me and he would repeat the words I had heard my entire life, “Sweetheart do you know who loves you best!” to that I knew my cue as it had been repeated so many times, “You do daddy!” Over the years he was always a gentle and safe space for me.. 

Last Friday night, an hour before he passed I began to be concerned at what he might be feeling. Was he scared? Was this really everything he wanted? Was he ready to go?. I crawled up on the bed next to him, mimicking the very thing I learned from him. I put my much smaller hand on his face and cupped it just like he used to do. A sign between us that he was now safe and that he knew that it was I who loved him best.

--------

Papa Magic. Perhaps his favorite role of all. I think my dad loved being Papa Magic so much because he loved his own Pa more than anything. His Pa was such a huge presence in his life. While my dad’s father served in the war Merlyn and Max lived in Wellsville with their mother for a time. Once they moved away Max and Merlyn returned in the summers to work on the farm with Pa. Dad called the three of them ‘the three musketeers’. When they weren’t working dad remembered them heading down to the gas station in Wellsville to play checkers and listen to the Yankee games together. Of my dad’s treasured possessions was a six page handwritten letter from Pa. It was one of the only things he requested we find and bring him to the assisted living home when we moved him there. Of the precious musings Pa wrote this, “How are you and Max getting along? I haven’t heard from any of you for a long time. I am here all alone--the clock sounds like a drum, it ticks so loud. So sit down and write me a long letter and tell me all the news…” My dad referred to that letter while in his last year of life many times, deeply connecting with the man he so loved. In his sorrow and loneliness Pa gave him the strength to go on.

---------

At some point in his life, and at the end of each day, when the costumes and uniforms came off  there was one that stopped coming off. Over time, what began as a role became a rooted identity. My father’s faith in Jesus Christ wasn’t something he put on; it was something that had settled into him. It became the way he saw, the way he chose, the way he loved.

Christ was not an accessory to his life , He was the lens through which my dad viewed everything. It would be impossible to separate the two. Faith was not a part of him; it was him. There was a steadiness about that, a kind of quiet safety in knowing where a man stands, and that he cannot be moved. My dad knew who he was. He knew whose he was.

While on his mission with my mom, he began sharing what he called “postcards from God”. Those little moments that reminded him Heaven was aware of him. He talked about them often.

Even in his final year of life, in the quiet of his assisted living center, he still looked for those postcards. Little mercies that told him God knew him, that God was still in charge, and that with God, anything was possible. He even counted the doves outside his window as postcards from God. That was the way he saw the world: all things denoted there was a God.

The day after he passed, our Jake shared that he’d seen so many postcards from Papa that day. He then expressed this thought, “I wonder if Papa is Heaven’s new postman.”

If he is, then keep an eye on your days.

The mail will come, a song at the right moment, a bird at your window, or even loving words that diminish your intellect (bee brain/mental midget)

Signed, and delivered, magically, Papa.

And if you ever want to send him a postcard back,

remember his parting counsel, his wish for all of us:

Go find someone to love… and love them.

Because in the end, that was his truest message 

that love is the only delivery that never gets lost.