If you haven’t read my story about Lady, you may want to as it adds a little more to this story.
The Name Poopsy
How did this man become known as Poopsy? Well, this man married my mother and moved us into his house in Fairborn, OH. He, my mom, and a few of my older brothers were painting the front of the house and we kids were running around the yard playing. Mom and Gerry (his real name) were pestering each other as newlyweds will do and as she walked behind him to get more paint on her roller, she rolled her paint roller up and down his ass a few times. We were all laughing. Gerry made some comment about us calling him “paint butt” and he cocked his leg to fart and shat himself. It was a wet diarrhea kind of shat. A big brown spot coming through the seat of his pants kind of shat. From that moment on he became known as “Poopsy.” Never once in the 37+ years that I knew him did he shy away from the name. Nope! He embraced it and his embracing it made him even more lovable.
Stray Kids
It was 1972 and I was just barely 15 and had scored a job working the 3-11 shift at Steak N’ Eggs (a high-end Waffle House). The deal was, that if my grades slipped, I had to quit. This shift was VERY slow and only had about 12 customers during the entire 8-hour shift. Mostly I had nothing but time to sit and study and read. Dad spoke with the manager, a lady whose name I have long since forgotten and they were in agreement about my hours and when I would be forced to quit.
My first lesson in the restaurant business came during this time and that was “Consistency builds business.” It doesn’t matter if your consistency is just mediocre or perfect but it has to be consistent because people like the predictability that comes from consistency. Well, I was nothing short of consistent and within a few months, my shift was pretty busy. I remember a few things from back then, like the one rush where I was slammed with orders, and some regulars just jumped in and started helping. One guy bussed the tables and did the dishes, a lady who worked her way through college as a waitress took orders, and I cooked. That was my second lesson, kindness to your customers pays off in more than just tips.
Usually, by 9 p.m. business had slowed down to a crawl but after a day at school and a hectic shift, I was too tired to study so my grades started slipping. Dad had already talked to me and my manager about it and she vowed to get me help and promised to hire a waitress.
While she was “looking,” a young couple started coming in every evening. The girl would order raisin toast and water and her partner would just have coffee. At first, I didn’t think anything about it but after a couple of weeks, it started bothering me. They were barely older than me and she was visibly pregnant. One night, leaving work to walk the few blocks home, I saw them making a bed in the back of a station wagon. I’d walked by that car every night for two weeks and hadn’t given it any thought, I figured it belonged to the guy working the overnight shift or one of the late-night regulars.
That night, when I walked through the door at home, Dad took one look at me and asked what was wrong. So I told him about the kids. Dad stood up, grabbed his jacket, and said “Show me!” and off we went. We approached the car and Dad knocked on the window. The guy looked out, saw me, and rolled the window partway down. I told him this was my dad. Poopsy then asked why they were sleeping in the car and the guy said “She’s pregnant and her folks threw her out. My folks wouldn’t let her stay with us and I wasn’t going to let her sleep on the streets by herself so here we are.” Dad said, “Okay, come home with us, we’ll get you fed and a good night's rest, and then we’ll talk in the morning.” The kids agreed and off we went.
As we walked in the door my mom, coming from the kitchen, was surprised at the visitors and Poopsy simply said “She’s pregnant, they’ve been sleeping in a car and they’ve not been eating. They need some supper” and Mom was off to the kitchen. While they were eating, Poopsy affirmed me by telling me I did the right thing.
The next morning, Poopsy sat Joe and Janet down and had a long conversation with them. The upshot was that Janet was 5 months pregnant, and both had dropped out of school; Dad would pay for their medical bills and keep a roof over their heads BUT Joe had to go back to school, and once the baby was born, so did Janet. Dad also insisted that he be given contact info for both of their families so he could call and let them know their kids were safe.
The agreement was kept and after graduating high school in 1973 and marrying Janet, Joe enlisted in the US Navy where he eventually became a SEAL and retired after 22 years of military service. Joe died in 2020 and he and Janet had been married since 1973… 47 years.
The Screen Door
For some reason, my mother was on the warpath. She was yelling, screaming and just being completely intolerable. I’m not sure how, but I became her target and she was yelling at me, calling me names and just saying some awful things. I tried escaping to my room but she followed me there and continued her verbal onslaught. She got meaner and meaner. Finally, I went back downstairs and, again, she followed me and that’s where I took my stand. We had a heated exchange in the kitchen; Mom saying some horrible things, and me telling her what a horrible mother she was for saying those things.
Somehow, I vaguely remember hearing the kitchen screen door open and then slamming shut with that double bounce it had, and then Poopsy appeared right in front of me. He looked furious and he barked “BARN! NOW!” Being a retired military man, when I say he barked, I mean he ORDERED me, and his orders were meant to be followed. Poopsy had never raised a hand to me and rarely ever raised his voice. He didn’t need to. He got what he wanted by respect and love, not by fear.
So I was doubly shocked when he yelled at me but outside and to the barn I went. I must have looked like a prisoner headed to the gallows as I walked across the backyard. I remember standing in that old barn and looking around at the light streaming through cracks, the various farm tools like axes and chainsaws, and thinking “This is it! Just like the pigs and chickens, this is where I’m going to die!” After some time, it could have been 2 minutes or 20, I have no idea, Poopsy appeared in the barn and walked up to me. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and very sternly said “Son, don’t you ever, EVER again let anyone manipulate you into losing your temper like that! The moment you raised your voice, she was in control of you and your emotions. That’s not a place a man needs to be. Are we clear?” I replied with a “Yes sir!” He stared me in the eyes 
for a few moments, nodded, and turned to walk away, he stopped after a few feet and as his hands swept around the barn he said “Clean up this place!” That was all that was ever said about it.
Now, does that mean I don’t get angry? Of course not. What it means is that in that one lesson, he taught me the difference between reacting versus responding and the difference between later feeling ashamed of my behavior versus having pride in my actions. Does that mean that since that day I've never lost my temper? Of course not. I'm human. But I do try and I do set boundaries, and, after trying and setting boundaries, now I remove myself from toxic situations.
Pecan Man
On the back side of the farm were railroad tracks. Across the tracks were about 5 acres of old pecan trees. The land and the trees belonged to the railroad. One day, some workers were replacing some of the railroad ties and Poopsy went back and asked for the foreman. He wasn’t there but would be in about half an hour. Dad waited. When the foreman showed up the workers pointed at Dad and the two met, shook hands and Dad said “Do you mind if I get some of those pecans? It’s on your land but I don’t want to take without asking.” The foreman told him he could take what he wanted, but the railroad wouldn’t be responsible if he got hurt. Dad agreed and they parted company.
Every year Poopsy harvested dang near every pecan he could off those 5 acres. He even invested in a shelling machine. He’d harvest, shell, weigh, and package those pecans and then sell them at the flea market for about half of what the grocery stores charged. This was a nice supplement to his military and postal retirement checks.
Poopsy loved the work because it was outside and away from Mom’s fussing and he loved the time at the flea market where he got a chance to visit with people in town.
One day, I was up visiting and sitting next to Poopsy in his flea market booth and this 'feller' and his wife stopped. The man looked at those pecans and, rubbing his chin in anticipation, said in his deep southern accent, “Hunny, If’n I can buy us some pe-cans you reckon you can make us a pie?” His wife nodded and said, “Ifn you can buy ‘em.” She walked on and the man looked at Poopsy and asked “Sir, how much is that 2lb bag?” Without missing a beat Poopsy said $1.25.
That price caused me to glance at Dad because he’d been selling that bag all day for $2.50. This feller digs through his pockets and manages to find $1.05 in change. I started to stick my right hand in my pocket but Dad very casually pushed my hand away. The feller says he “might’n be able to find the rest in his car” and asks Dad to wait. The man walks off, leaving his $1.05 on the table, and after about 10 minutes returns with the rest of the money. Dad accepted the money, and the feller took his pecans and started yelling “Hunny! I got’em, I got the pe-cans!” He walked off as one of the happiest men on the planet. I was amused.
After he was gone, I asked Poopsy why he didn’t just let me give the man a quarter and this was his reply: “I would never in a million years rob that man of his dignity. How much better is that pie going to taste knowing he bought those pecans himself?”
I sat there completely humbled.
Shoeless, Again.
I’m not sure why Poopsy liked going to the Waffle House for coffee. It certainly wasn’t the coffee… plus, he put so much cream and sugar in his coffee that I’m not sure anyone could legally call it coffee.
What I did know was that the easiest way to get Poopsy alone was to invite him to the Waffle House for “coffee.” One day we decided to run out for a quick cup and as we were turning left off Philpot St. into the parking lot, Dad glanced over towards the door, seeing a homeless man, he sighed.
We went in, sat at the counter, and had a cup. As we chatted, I could tell something was bothering him. I asked but he didn’t respond. We sat in silence for a few minutes and he asked me about my kids. They were all fine. He asked me about Amanda, Tom, and Katie. They were all fine. He said he felt bad about me and Amanda not getting married. I told him Tom was a good man, a good husband to Amanda, a good stepdad to Katie, and a good friend to me. He was quiet for a moment and said, “Yeah, Amanda makes everyone a better person.”
We finished our coffee, Poopsy tried to pay but I paid. It always bothered him when I paid but he made a joke about it because joking about it somehow made it easier for him.
As we walked out the door, Poopsy began looking around. Spotting the homeless man, Poopsy walked over to him, knelt, and asked “What size shoe do you wear?” The man was barefoot and said, “I think it was about an 11, that’s what size combat boot I wore.” Poopsy said “That’s what I wear, do you mind some socks that are a little bit dirty? I only put them on a few hours ago?” The homeless man looked at Poopsy with some confusion as Dad sat down and began to take his shoes and socks off.
Dad handed the man the first sock and said “Here, put this on” and before the man could object, Dad asked him where he had served. “Marines, Vietnam” was his answer. Dad handed him the second sock and asked “Which battles?” The veteran put the sock on and said “Hue, 1968. It was a bloodbath!” Dad said, “Yeah, it was.” The two kept talking as Dad watched this veteran put on and lace up both shoes. They chatted for a bit before Dad asked if he would be here tomorrow. The veteran said he would. I helped Dad to his feet and Dad handed the man $5 and said “Go inside and eat, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
As we walked across the parking lot, the pebbles digging into his bare feet, Dad uttered something about me always having to park so far away. He was joking and I chuckled.
Back at home, I had parked out back so we could walk across the grass and in the back door. As soon as Mom saw Dad shoeless, she went off. “Oh my God! Gerald Aldridge, have you given away another damned pair of shoes!” As Dad walked to their bedroom to grab some sneakers, Mom was still yapping at him. Apparently, Poopsy giving away shoes to homeless people was a thing and a thing she had a problem with.
The Poopsy Talk
In December 1998 Poopsy was given about 6 months to live. He’d been on dialysis for over a year and things were getting worse. His heart was growing weaker as were some of his other organs.
It was Wednesday, February 18th, 1999 when he called me at work and asked if we could come up this weekend. I said we’d be up Sunday after church.
As we pulled into the driveway I remember Poopsy sitting on the front porch with his beloved Coca-Cola in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It must have been 30 degrees out.
We went in the back door and I poured a glass of Mom's sweet southern tea and we all headed outside, the kids wanted to hug Papaw. It was cold as hell out and after being warm in the car, the kids really felt the cold so the hugs didn't last long before they went running back inside for warmth. After everyone had gone back inside and it was just the two of us, he sat his glass of coke down and began: “Here’s what the doctor said, here’s how much time he said I have and I want to make things right between us before I go. I need you to tell me all the times I caused you pain. I want to fix that before I go.”
As he spoke those words to me, my world came crashing down. I was losing my anchor, my light in the storm. I sat quietly for a few moments as my entire childhood flashed before my eyes. I reflected back on the conversation we had before I joined the Army. The warning he’d given me about marrying my wife ("anything that sweet is a mask for poison"). Everything. The few hurts I could recall (a missed baseball game that was VERY important to me) seemed petty in light of all the amazing things he had given me, so I said “I can only think of all the wonderful things you’ve done for me and for our entire family. Half of us would be dead or in prison were it not for you. I have no complaints or grievances to air.” He smiled and told me I “was being too kind and letting him off easy.” I told him that I knew he had stayed for us kids. We all knew it. He looked down at the ground, then back at me, and lit another cigarette.
Turns out, Poopsy had reached out to each of us kids, even those who hadn’t spoken to him in years (Mom was the cause of estrangement in our family) and to each one he said “Here’s what the doctor said, here’s how much time he said I have and I want to make things right between us before I go. I need you to tell me all the times I caused you pain. I want to fix that.”
We came to call this “The Poopsy Talk”
To my knowledge there were three of us kids he wasn’t able to talk to; Gerald, Gary, and Diane. Gerald and Gary have passed. I’ve tried to find Diane with no luck.
As I drove home, I was reflecting on the giant of a man who had become my “dad” and I wondered if I would ever be able to measure up to the bar he set. As I pulled into my driveway, I realized that if I managed to be half as good a man, I would have done well.
The Letters
For weeks I thought about Poopsy, about all the conversations we’d had. How he convinced me to stay in my marriage “for the kids.” Then his regret about giving me that advice. About how my oldest brother's ex-wife would move all over the place and when each move blew up in her face, or another man threw her out, she always moved “back home.” Poopsy and Mom had always made it safe for any and everyone to come home. Mom made it clear that she didn’t give a damn about anyone’s petty problems. She wanted her grandkids to be safe, warm, and fed. Poopsy made the space for that to happen.
There were so many thoughts. So many memories. Some, I’ve since learned, were not healthy experiences but I didn’t recognize that at the time. What I do recognize is the extreme burden Poopsy was under. How he provided for everyone. How he kept us all warm, safe, and fed. How he made home a place we could all come back to. How the door was always open.
By mid-March 1998, I had enough clarity to say what I wanted to say, so I sat down with pen and paper and wrote “Half The Man,” a poem about all the gifts Poopsy had given me. Without saying a word to anyone, I dropped it in the mail. It was just over a week when I received a response.
And, as I found out a few days before writing this, the day after I received my response from Poopsy, Amanda also received a letter. Never once did Amanda tell me about her letter. It wasn’t until after her passing that her husband Tom and I were talking and he said “I think she has a letter about that, let me look.” The next day, Tom sent a text with photos of her letter from Poopsy.
Somehow Amanda and Poopsy had arranged a dinner. Neither had said a word to me until a few days prior when Poopsy called and said "I have dinner plans with Amanda on Saturday, I'd like it if you came with me." I agreed. Mom and Poopsy drove down that Saturday and after a few hours of family time, Poopsy and I left the house. I drove Poopsy to Houston’s on West Paces Ferry Rd in Atlanta to meet Amanda for dinner. We arrived promptly and, as I knew Amanda would be, she was waiting for us. After some quick hugs, Poopsy turned to me and said “Go sign us up for a table and have a drink.” I nodded and walked away. I knew that was my clue to leave them alone. A few minutes before our table was ready, they found me at the bar and both had teary eyes. I smiled at the love.
Over the loudspeaker came “Peachtree party of 3” and we all laughed. People in Atlanta always heard my name “Petree” as “Peachtree.” It probably had to do with all the streets named Peachtree but no matter the reason, it always brought a chuckle.
We had a delightful dinner and talked, mostly about Katie and all the milestones she was hitting as a 7-year-old. She had begun playing soccer. She loved reading, science and math but hated pretty much everything else in school. Poopsy laughed and pointed at me.
Katie’s stepdad, Tom, didn’t come to dinner, I suppose he was babysitting. Missing that final dinner was something he later expressed deep regret over.
The Funeral
It was July 13th, 1998 when Poopsy passed and it was BIG news in that small town. It was all they talked about on the local radio station. Dang near the entire town shut down. There was no one in that town who didn’t know Poopsy but they knew him either as Gerry or “The Pecan Man.”
It was a packed service, everyone was there. People were constantly coming up and telling stories of how Dad had helped them. The most touching was the man who shook my hand and told me about how Dad had given him the shoes off his feet, had come back the next day, and helped him 
get into public housing, helped him get his Veterans Disability, and helped him get into AA. “Because of your dad, I have a roof over my head, food in my stomach and I’m clean and sober.” To honor him, I’m wearing the shoes he gave me outside the Waffle House.
I cried then. I’m crying as I tell you this now.
My Dad, known on his headstone as Gerald J Aldridge but forever known to his kids as Poopsy and grandkids as Papaw, Passed July 1999