I call him B

He makes kites and French toast better than anyone you will ever meet. He is not frivolous nor extravagant, save in generosity and affection. His mother and father christened him Marion Edison in '24, but they and his siblings always called him Eddie, as did most of the acquaintances of his youth. And if you've anything to say about a boy named Marion, I'll remind you that that was John Wayne's monicker. His wife since '48, Mama (mammaw,  phonetically, to rhyme with papa) called him Marion, though typically in a very accusatory tone, if she had to call him down by name. My dad and uncle call him pop, my aunt daddy, their cousins Uncle Ed, and mine simply Poppa. He was my 'Papa B' originally, but I'd dropped that southern formality by the time my memory functioned, so I can shed no light whatever on my original reasoning.

 I call him B, as does nearly everyone who knows him through me. He is most of my early memories, though I can't order them chronologically. When I'd just turned three or four, he and Mama took me on a roadtrip in his 1983 Ford F250 diesel, pulling a massive 5th wheel camper, to the gulf coast. I've loved campers ever since. My dream is still to live in one. The first time in my life I ever had mint chocolate ice cream was on that trip, sitting with mama at the banquette in the camper in some quiet, four o'clock sunshined  state park. It was wonderful. It was nearly thirty years before I could bring myself to eat it again lest I taint or supersede the memory the second instance was six months ago, and with some fairly special people). We stayed somewhere on that trip that had a big pool with a slide. I remember the slide, nothing else. B took me to the pool to get us both out from underfoot while Mama made dinner. We were out of sight from the camper, but Mama says by the time we'd been in the water 15 minutes, she could hear at least half a dozen kids' voices hollering 'me next, B!' Presumably, he'd been tossing me up in the air and everybody else wanted a go as well. He was 61 or 62 that summer, and he spent that evening being surrogate grandfather-and-monkey-bars to seven 8- to 10- year olds we never knew and don't remember. Even kids know you're more likely to get what you're asking when you ask by name. Mama was understandably caught off guard by all the commotion and familiar addresses- prior to that moment, he'd been B to no one else.

I've only ever introduced him as B, because that's who he is. I've never converted my cousins, though. To them he continues to be Poppa, and as a grandfather he's undeniably irreplaceable, though he has been so much more than that easily familiar title to me. I've never really felt like I was given someone to just simply call grandpa. I got B.

When Jay, the other man I could theoretically have called something-derived-from-grandfather, passed away, I was amazed to discover how many people knew him, without knowing him. They certainly didn't remember him anything at all like I did. It'd never before occurred to me how many different faces, subriquettes, or reputations one soul could carry. The two men who begat my parents were very nearly larger than life by the time I knew them, and for 30 years I've only been increasingly dazzled by them, and continually honored to ride their coat tails.

But at 3 years old, none of that had even begun to occur to me. What I did know was that mom had left me at preschool as per usual, that I'd immediately been challenged to a toy truck race by the class bully, that in turn three my truck suffered a dubious mechanical malfunction, causing me to vault it arse over apex and put multiple teeth through my lower lip on regaining terra firma, and that, less than 20 minutes later here was I, seated in B's massive armchair in front of the TV, watching Tom & Jerry or Mr. Rogers, with my very own previously unopened bag of Oreos and a steaming cup of coffee that must've been half milk and sugar.

THAT is my first memory of B and I knew from then on I was going to love him very much. What he didn't know about child psychology, nutrition, or entertaining toddlers he made up for in intuition. I still prefer my coffee to that original recipe. Jay never let me have coffee, nor did my folks, for that matter, but B made it, routinely, exactly how I liked it. I collected marbles as a kid, and though I've given most away, there's still a few with specific sentimental value. B gave me one the exact color of coffee done our way. It's my coffee marble. It and the china marbles and my bumble bee marble and the other  twenty or so I've retained reside in a drawstring bag from the old First National Bank. B gave me that as well.

In Viking tradition, manhood is achieved only once you've built a boat, fathered a son, and written a book. B's done the first two already, though in reverse order, so if I'm able, I intend to write his saga to show my gratitude for him having started mine.

He is the reason I have glaucoma, phenomenal allergy-sinus issues, and an inability to throw away glass jars or string. I hope to goodness I inherit his shockingly white hair to make up for the sore joints as well. He instilled in me my love of Volkswagens, secondhand bluejeans, and storage capabilities. He is practical inventory personified. I've met no one more pragmatic nor practical, save Jay. It's my greatest ambition to exemplify these and as many other of the marvelous assets I grew up witnessing in those two men as I possibly can.