Poppy’s Lessons

“Quit your belly-achin!” he’d say, “And stop fiddlin with those windows.”  
 
My two brothers and I were sitting in the back seat of my grandfather’s spacious Lincoln Continental. “Poppy,” as we called him, was at the wheel and we boys were clamouring for an ice cream stop. Young males were a new challenge for Poppy; his only child had been a girl, my mother, Adele.
 
Poppy found his three grandsons charming on an individual basis, but collectively we drove him to distraction.   Much like a cat that’s received more attention than it wants, he’d narrow his eyes and hiss: “When we get home I’m gonna skin you alive,” or “Keep that up and I’ll spifflicate ya.” This was serious so we’d shut up and stop sending the electric windows up and down.
 
Poppy was a man of routines.   In the mornings, he’d arm us with slingshots and pellets to fend off possible varmint attacks, before we set out for a walk in the woods.   Days he spent in an office stuffed with papers and accounts. Poppy could usually be found in front of a Remingtontypewriter, tapping away at the keys. 
 
After supper he’d share chocolate-covered almonds and let us watch an episode of Death Valley Days, with its stories of the old American West.   After the sponsor’s final pitch for 20 Mule Team Borax, a potent laundry additive, he’d switch the TV off, light a Cuban cigar and read a book, encouraging us to read a book as well, or at least to pipe down and give him some peace. He loved reading about prehistoric times and, had he lived long enough, he would have devoured Jean Auel’s stories about Cro-Magnons and Neanderthals.
 
To get with Poppy’s reading programme, I’d borrow from his collection of books by Hal Foster -- basically Prince Valiant comic strip stories with sumptuous illustrations -- and then imagine myself battling brigands or shielding Europe from the ravages of Attila the Hun.
 
Poppy’s real name was Louis Stemmler. He was a hard-working romantic and a passionate archer who made bows and arrows for friends. In his book, The Essentials of Archery he wrote: “Bows and arrows standing in a corner or hung on the wall draw people like honey does flies.” To meet a growing demand, he set up an archery factory on a remote Long Island farm. There, on the sandy grey-white soil, and among the pine trees, he taught me three lessons, lessons that I’m still learning.
 
Poppy’s first lesson was that physical exploring of the wider world is a source of infinite pleasure. He loved the pine forests, ponds and tidal basins of Long Island; they were the venues for his avid canoeing, hunting, swimming and walking. His favourite overseas destination was Cuba, where he’d go to buy cigars and Lemonwood, the best wood he could find for the bows that would be stamped with the label: Made by Stemmler Archery Inc., “America’s Oldest Name In Bows & Arrows”.
 
Poppy’s second lesson was that you can only do so much reading and then you simply must write. Throughout my childhood, I would receive carefully typed stories, written by Poppy, relating the life of a boy, same age as myself, who lived in a cave and had to hunt for his family’s food. This involved setting elaborate traps for wooly mammoths and sabre-toothed tigers, hurling spears and not incidentally, becoming so expert with a bow and arrow that the family was able to enjoy regular feasts.
 
Poppy’s third lesson was that there are always people in this world who need your help. During Long Island’s cranberry-picking season, Poppy would bundle us into the car and head out to the shacks of migrant workers who laboured in the area’s cranberry bogs. He always brought food and blankets, but what he most enjoyed was sitting down and practicing the Spanish that he had picked up during his Cuban trips.
 
I hope we all have the good fortune to learn from someone older and wiser like my Poppy. It might just get us to stop our belly-achin before we get skinned alive, let alone spifflicated.
 
 
Andrew Taylor is the Principal of the Maru-a-Pula School in Gaborone, Botswana.  His email address is: principal.map@gmail.com.  Maru-a-Pula’s website is: www.maruapula.org