Pops and Ammie

An old man sits in the Carolina sun, a bald crown glistening from the heat, and a cul-de-sac of wisdom-grey hair decorating the back of his head. He neither smiles nor frowns, but an air of contentment surrounds him. A meek woman sits to his right gently rocking back and forth, peace in her eyes, and a folded newspaper in her lap. They are ready to greet any who may pass by, but silently they wait for nothing, enjoying the stillness of the moment in front of this white Masonite home, on an unimportant street, in Irmo, South Carolina.

To the outside world this is John and Jean Teague, but those are not their real names. This man is Pops. The woman, Ammie. Apart from ‘Momma’ and ‘Daddy’, these names have served as the most affective calling cards the two possess. In the Bible, a new name is given to someone as a sign that their identity has changed. In 1983 John and Jean became Pops and Ammie, and for those in their third generation, Pops and Ammie are the only identities they’ve ever possessed. It is hard to separate those names from the individuals who possess them. I cannot hear the syllables spoken without being comforted by warm memories of them. Pops, kind and loving, an expert salesman, and fierce defender of his family. Ammie, gentle and often quiet in comparison to Pops’ gregariousness, but no less fierce a lover of those who were hers. Together, these two served as patriarch and matriarch of my family. They were two of my favorite people in the world. In recent years they have passed, leaving a chasm in my life that can ultimate never be filled except by the dear memories that cause my eyes to joyfully swell with tears of remembrance. I am the youngest child to the middle of their three sons, the third youngest of their 7 grandchildren, and father to two out of their 10 great-grandchildren. I cannot ultimately do justice to their memory, but words need to be written about them. Their impact was too big in the lives of those they loved to end with my generation. My hope is that I can forever collect memories, both general and specific, of who they were. My generation continues to bring forth a new generation, and whispers of Pops and Ammie are still on our lips. I hope that this short collection can give insight as to why.

As I think back on their lives, I selfishly crave another moment with them. More time to get to know them and hear their stories. Perhaps another Christmas… A fire burning in the hearth that makes the house too hot with the number of children and adults rushing around. No one says anything to Pops and none of us can deny the comfort of its crackling in the background, but many are sweating. Fudge, peanut brittle, scrabble mix, and cookies fill the plastic containers that sit on the faux-wood Formica countertops, as Ammie makes punch. The containers are not full for long as ravenous offspring fight for a taste of the homemade treats that we get only a few times a year. And before long, the snacks are taken away and replaced by a feast of turkey, ham, mac and cheese, and the best cornbread dressing anyone has ever tasted. A small dish of ambrosia sits on the corner, though in my youthful ignorance I believe that I don’t like it because it looks strange. Ammie tries to convince me otherwise. Before we are allowed to get our plates Pops prays – an incomprehensible murmur that so many in the family wish they could decipher – or better yet replicate. We enjoy the meal, but more than anything we enjoy being in each other’s presence. All the cares and hardships of the year have led us to this moment of togetherness, spurred on by two people filled with love for their family. After dinner, I crawl into Pop’s lap as he lounges in his dark plaid chair-and-a-half. This is a place I should’ve stayed longer, enjoying the comfort of his closeness, but the enticement of the Hess truck that Ammie has expertly wrapped and placed under the decorated Leyland Cypress in the corner makes me impatient. I would assume the others too are enticed by this materialism, though for Pops and Ammie the joy seems to come not from receiving but giving. They light up as they watch their loved one’s tear through their gifts, and crack open a walnut that they’ve somehow put a $100 bill in. The aftermath of this animalistic behavior is then cleaned up by those older than me. It’s all over too soon. This day should have lasted forever. Not because of the money, or the toys, or even the food, but because of the familial love that holds us in that stifling living room. How I long to go back there.

Birthdays, too, cannot be forgotten… I know that I received countless, but I’m not sure I can remember a single birthday gift that was given to me. However, though my fickle and childlike wants changed year to year, Pops and Ammie’s birthday meals served as a constant. To me, sides were unimportant. Two things, and two things only, were crucial. Riblets and cherry-o cream pie. Those long strands of meat studded with small bones went onto Pops’ huge charcoal grill in the middle of June every year – just for me. Now days I’ll spend much of my time thinking about food and trying to come up with new ways to make something delicious. Still, nothing replaces those simple pork ribbons that were coated with salt and pepper and misted with apple cider vinegar as they seared over hot coals. They simply can’t be beat. I looked forward to sitting on the back patio as Pops cooked them every year. His voice, which told stories or gave advice, was the only thing that could overpower the smoky smell of vinegary meat. And then, after those delicacies had been devoured, Ammie would bring out the best dessert in the world. The consistency of a key lime pie, but the taste of cheesecake, topped off with canned cherry pie filling. One piece was not enough. For the plump young me, often two pieces would not even suffice. This was not a hard pie to make, yet the precision with which it was created and cut was special to Ammie’s kitchen. It was a glorious meal! Its simplicity was complexified by the generous amounts of love that I felt from the people preparing it. I have eaten these dishes since their passing, but they will never taste quite the same again. (And I’ll not even attempt to touch on the BBQ sauce…)

These memories and more swirl in my head as I think back to their love. But the special occasions aren’t even the best of my recollections. For that we must go back to the garage. The two-car garage, where this old man and woman sat daily watching the world go by, stands as a familial altar in my mind, and I return to it often. In one of his songs, Randy Travis talks about “cigarettes and sawdust” as two characteristic traits of a good honky tonk. But the first time I heard those three lyrics my mind went not to a dance hall but to the garage. To a smell that was even better than the riblets. Regardless of their health implications, anyone who has had a loved one who was both a smoker and a woodworker will understand the comfort of these smells. How sweet the smell of tobacco is when it is first lit, or the woody yet almost bubblegum-like scent a piece of cedar gives off as it pushed through a table saw. In my mind, this garage was a sanctuary. A holy place of creativity and community. Where we would sometimes gather to cook hash, or eat a meal, but more often where we would just sit. It was an intricate part of the two people who owned it. I loved to scavenge through that small, dark back room that was filled with so many treasures from days past. I felt like an archaeologist waiting for the next great discovery, often finding something that I’d want so badly to take home. But looking back I realize that my greatest role in that garage was not archaeologist, but apprentice. I sat often under Pops’ guiding hand as I hammered small nails into the pieces of pine he’d cut out for me to make a birdhouse. He and my dad together taught me how to hold the hammer for maximum power and accuracy. And for projects I was too young to participate in I could sit in Ammie’s lap rocking back and forth as I watched my dad and uncles create works that astonished me. I was mesmerized by the way they could take raw materials and turn them into something beautiful. Looking back now I realize it was never about the things that were created, but the people that surrounded their creation. Guided by Pops and Ammie in that garage I learned to build not only woodworking projects, but a family. Posterity was the greatest project they worked on, and though it may be often flawed or broken, that was their masterpiece.

To Pops and Ammie: That posterity resounds it’s love for you, may your memory last for generations to come.