AK's Father's Day Column: The (miss) adventures of "Pop"
Previously published: Over the years, I have written countless stories about my mother, grandmother, grandfather and even my great-great-grandparents, and some readers have asked, "Why don't you write about your father?" The truth is that I know the least about the man the community called "Pop Carr." Forgive me: People who have followed my columns in the past have heard this all before.
What I do know, personally (and I appreciate all of the stories that have been handed down), is that Floyd Alexander Kerr II was a builder originally from Rowan County, and his great-grandfather, Robert Partee, owned the land that was sold to former U.S. Sen. John S. Henderson. After an unsuccessful Senate race, Henderson began secretly purchasing land to develop a depot district for the Southern Railway. I've written details about the portrait honoring Pop's great-grandfather located in the Transportation Museum in Spencer.
{Robert Partee/Contributed Family Photo}
My Pop was also a local legend of sorts. I was reminded of that by several attendees during this weekend’s Juneteenth festivities. Pop always had a new business venture or idea. He often smelled like the perfect blend of wood, cigars and Crown Royal when we lived at a muddy little cabin he built on High Rock Lake. Probably one of my earliest childhood memories was drinking milk from my Fred Flintstone bottle, and Pop convincing my mom to let me ride the goat. I still can't get a straight answer about why we even had a goat, but I am told it was my father's “bright” idea. He was stubborn and determined (Pop…not the goat).
After Dad moved out, I remember going to visit him on construction sites and in the place they called "The Cut." At that time I only knew The Cut as the place where the "happy" people would give me quarters. The Cut had a reputation around town for being a place of nefarious activities. I've heard the stories, and the house we visited has since been demolished, but I still drive past with nostalgia.
When Pop kept me, we had “adventures.” He drove large vehicles that always had an emergency tool box on the front seat. He also used to pretend that he was building the place on Cotton Grove Road once known as the Glass Castle for us to live together again. Dad had traveled while in the Army, and he used to put me to sleep by telling stories of his trips abroad. He was fascinated by castles. Builder Zane Matthews was the first person to point out that Pop and his business partner Flop Craven had signature gables and elaborate construction elements on homes and renovations.
I love that Pop let me be a free spirit for the most part. We wouldn't worry ourselves with things like bathing and hair brushing, but he didn't want me playing on his construction sites. So I played with dolls and developed a love for reading and journaling.
I don't know my dad's favorite color, song, or food. By the time I was old enough to think about those conversations, my father had his first in a series of strokes. According to my birth certificate, he was 51 years old when I was born, and by the time I was 12 years old, Pop was living in a nursing facility in Salisbury. His older sons, my half brothers, were kind enough to take me to visit him. They would tell me stories, and while I cherish them, I quietly longed for my own.
My brothers would occasionally drop me off, and I would spend hours at the nursing home pushing Pop around in his wheelchair. He liked to go fast and even in his state of being disabled he wanted to go around and "see the pretty ladies." Pop and I watched television a laughed a lot.
It was hard seeing him go from a brawny contractor to a wheelchair, so we rarely had serious conversations. But there was one time when he was ill that he motioned for me to lean in. His voice was slurred after the second stroke, but I still recognized the words "I'm sorry." As a teenager, I was overwhelmed with emotions that I was too immature to express.
One day my family called me home from my freshman year at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill to his room at the Veterans Administration hospital to say goodbye. The once strong and stocky man looked frail and weak lying in bed unable to speak. When I walked in the look in his eyes still seemed to be saying "I am sorry." I didn't know if he could hear me so between tears, I quietly kissed his forehead and said Goodbye.
The truth is, I never blamed Pop for not being there, but there were moments when I was upset. His sons did their best to be his surrogates at cotillion, games and graduations. I spent years making the same request: "Tell me about our dad."
I think it’s hard to get know dads. I've adopted fathers over the years. I’ve also admired amazing fathers through out the years. From their love of grilling to their unwillingness to load their plates until they “cool off.”
Father’s real and adopted have been a blessing, but somehow the idea that Pop didn't know how much I appreciated our short time together still bothers me. I will always be thankful that he planted in me a quest for adventure. Our brief time together was a prelude for a lifetime of colorful characters, and I really wouldn't have it any other way.
So each Father's Day I pay homage to all dads — biological and adopted.
Even when your human imperfections show, you’re a sneak peek of the love and colorful adventures that come from our creator!
Happy Father's Day to all the “pops” out there!
