Pop was Irish.  His family came here from Ireland some 5 generations ago.  At least that is the story as I knew it from Pop. Just before he died we talked about the "family tree", his grandmother and grandfather, and their parents. I never would have a piece of paper to write it all down,  I'd ask a question of him about their Irish descent and he was off, talking like nobody's business.  Oh Pop was a talker.  He loved to talk. Opinonated, loud, happy, voice like an angel.  I guess the last time we talked I was following up on some family history.  McCall history. I loved it when he'd tell me about great great grandma Nan who would keep a paring knife in the old mantle so that when she got ready she'd go up on the hill to the orchard and pick apples, fill her old apron and then come home to peel them in front of the old fireplace.  The paring knife was already ready. The old homeplace sat under the hiill of what is now the old McCall cemetary.  Up the hill from the homeplace was an orchard, pop would talk about what a wonderful orchard it was.  I was shocked and appalled that my McCall family had owned slaves.  Thomas, my great great grandfather owned slaves.  Of course when pop was on a roll with the history lesson you just listened so when I said " WHAT"? NO WAY? He just nodded his head "yep, yeah sure did" and off he'd go again.  I'd quiz him on the names of my ancestors trying to keep them all straight, John A, Nan, Thomas... so many of them and he'd roll them off his tongue and keep right on talking. Those  little talks were not enough.  Some of the family would say, why do you care about all this stuff?  Why worry about it? I just did, it was my heritage, my ancestors, the people who were here before me and yet I knew nothing about them. I'd say: "but the people are all dying off and I won't know anything about my ancestors". I decided a trip to the family cemetary woudl be a place to start trying to sort out the my ancestors.  I knew pop loved to visit the old family cemetary so I said "pop, how bout we go to the family cemetary?"  Never one to impose on you, pop said, "well honey I'm ready whenever you are, that sounds good'. So I proposed a day and we agreed. We woudl go to the family cemetary.  I would take my camera and capture those names.  Maybe one day get them straight. Maybe one day visit Ireland. Maybe one day...
So on a warm sunny Sunday in August, I went to granny and pop's for Sunday dinner.   Oh, Sunday dinners that's another chapter.  I digress.   That Sunday pop was happy, out on the front porch talking with dad and Jeff (my hubby).  He had a headache so of course I had to "fix" him.  Then in true nurse fashion I had to assess him and rub some cream on his shingles. They were a nuisance in his last days but he never really complained. I rubbed the cream on him and helped him to the dinner table.  It went something like this...."Now pop, watch that rug". Where's your cane? Why don't you use it?  Be careful now. Dad help him there so he won't fall."  Good thing pop was hard of hearing becuase I chatter like a magpie when it comes to risks, and assessments and what you ate or didn't eat and how much and...ugh I get on my own nerves.  Never pops.  He'd say "youre a poliitician sis'. ha  Growing up he'd say that to me when I was chattering and pulling his leg as he called it about something; I had no idea what it meant.  But  back to the Sunday dinner.  It was delish and we retired back out to the front porch to give our food time to settle.  I gave it all of an hour and then rounded us all up to head out.  Dad said he was n't going so Jeff was the designated driver.  We piled in, pop in the front with Jeff and me and granny in the back. The drive went something like this: 
Stoney Ridge was where I grew up the majority of my life with pop.  He carried me all over those hills.  Up and down from one house to the other.  On our Sunday drive we rolled thru Stoney Ridge and gawked at how it had changed.  When WE lived there it was all neatly mowed, painted and neat and now...whoo weee what a mess.  On up the mountain and heading down the other side to Bishop. Pop wanted to see the new coal plant so we rolled around that area while pop extolled the virtues of the coal plant and I hung the camera out the window shooting pictures. Not a clue what they were talking about but like the majority of my life just being with my pop and hearing him talk made me happy.  On up the road we started across Dix Creek to the cemetary.  Now I have to digress a moment here because every mile of hte way I'm yelling at Jeff to "watch it", "becareful" "keep your eyes on the road Jeff".  Pop just sitting up in there not a word did he say just chatting with us all.  It had been 30 years since I had been back to the old McCall cemetary. When I was little me and Tim would go with pop to mow it. But it had been years since I had been back there.  Pop pointed out the old sludge pond and I freaked out because of course Jeff tried to look and the drop down to that pond from the top of hte mountain made my blood run cold.  Jeez.  So I yell "Jeff, keep your EYES ON THE ROAD".  Like a mexican jumping bean mixed with a magpie all the way there.  But we arrived in one piece and I be danged it looked ALMOST like I recalled it.  Well, almost.  Pop had put in a new gate. It had red McCall across the top. He was proud as punch over htat gate.  Dad had tried to open it by using the letter A in McCall and pop chewed him good. So I offered ot be the gate opener. Pop said, " Now sis, don't use the letters to open it, lift up adn push it, I've got some wheels to put on that gate so it will open easier but just lift up on it." I didn't say it but I remembered back when we were kids lifting up on the old gates for the barn and the cemetary. I knew how to open it but I listened to him.  Jeff rolled in and I met them.  I helped pop out of the car. Of course,  I bounced around him like a 2 year old making sure he was steady, had his cane and was able to walk thru the second gate.  He was and we did.  He pointed out the people.  He noted that in one corner of the lot there was a baby that my great grandfather had allowed to be buried there becuase hte family did not have a place. He loved his flag pole and the old tree in the corner.  He told me where he and "mommy" were to be buried.  We checked out the names of those gone on before us, McCall clan'  and I ignored the fact that my pop was not well, that this woudl be his final resting place too. I ignored the fact that it would probably be sooner rather than later. I ignored the fact and enjoyed the day with my pop.  We left there that day. I didn't know that less than a month later I'd be carrying my pops casket to his final resting spot on that hillside.  I didn't want to know and candidly ignored the little voice.  I wanted him to live forever. My hero. 
Our journey took us out another winding crooked road.  We stopped adn visited some people pop and granny knew.  And when we were ALMOST home pop said: " You know Jeff,  You are probably one of the best drivers, I've ever rode wtih".  That was my pop. He was trying to take any sting out of my words to Jeff about his driving. Trying to build him up. I just smiled. I knew if that was me in the drivers seat he would be saying the same thing.  The short drive on the winding road that Sunday was all too short. It stays with me. In my heart. A moment in time made more enjoyable wiith my gpa, my pop, my papaw. The first man I ever adored. So while he rests high on that mountain, while he chats with JEsus and Sings wtih the angels, were all left to recall these stories.  Stories of pop and the winding road of life.