Popi

In loving memory of Joseph Barone Sr.
September 30th, 1939 — July 9th, 2010

I spent most of my early years and a lot of my childhood with my Noni and Popi. Noni and Popi have always been a single entity — more like NoniandPopi. I can remember spending days at Noni’s and Popi’s while Mom and Dad worked. During the day, I would watch cartoons and play with Noni. I always knew it was almost time for Popi to come home from work because Noni’s soaps came on. Between Noni and Mom, I got really familiar with General Hospital.

As soon as Popi got home, Lauren and I would run into the kitchen, where we would be greeted with a big hug from him and the scent of the shop. He always had Winterfresh gum, either in his pocket or in his metal lunch box, and he was always more than willing to share.

Popi was our hero. Since Dad spent a lot of time on the road, Popi kind of took over that fatherly role. He would run out to the store for cough medicine and cough drops when we were sick. He could fix loose screws in glasses within minutes. (He also always offered to fix scraped knees or elbows with his chainsaw.) If one of us had a sliver — and boy, did we get them, with the hardwood floors at Noni’s house — we always knew who to go to. Popi would remove that sliver with precise and gentle hands.

He taught us to collect worms up at camp to go fishing with. He taught me all about monster trucks and Rescue 911 — a show I wasn’t allowed to stay up late enough to watch at home, but could always count on watching at Noni’s and Popi’s during sleepovers, with plenty of popcorn and ice cream.

He tried to teach me to play guitar a little, but I’ve always been instrumentally challenged.

Popi pointed out all of the birds and their names up at Camp, and told the best stories about his time in the service and when he used to play in his different bands. He could name any car, make and model, as they zoomed up and down the street. I’ve always marveled at how easily he could remember everything.

Even during the last nine months, Popi continued to teach us. He taught us strength in the face of an incurable enemy. He taught us all to love harder and to appreciate every little moment. Suddenly, little things that had normally bugged me became insignificant, and I learned to enjoy every hug, dinner, and TV show — even the ones he watched over and over, like NCIS and Reba.

He’s still teaching me now. I’m learning to cherish every memory — even the ones where we got on each other’s nerves. I’m learning to love my family even more than ever before.

And I’m learning that I am pretty lucky, to have spent so much time with the best grandfather in the world.