Stanley E. Coppock (1916-2011)

My grandfather was special. He was a special man. He wasn’t just special — in the way that virtually all grandfathers are special. He was more special than that.

Now, in making that claim, I know I sound like any grandchild might when his grandfather passes away. And if you didn’t know him, then that’s all I could expect you to believe. But if you did know him, then you already know what I’m saying is true.

But I didn’t always know my grandfather was special. As a child I only knew that he was my grandpa. I knew he was fun. I knew he was nice. I knew he looked me in the eye when he talked to me and never condescended to me. I knew that my parents, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins all loved him and loved to be around him.

But I was just a kid. For all I knew, he was exactly like every other grandfather. It was only very slowly that I realized that he was not just any grandfather.

I began to have suspicions when I was only ten or twelve, because of grandpa’s daily trip into town. If I was visiting, he’d invite me to come along, and I’d hop into his truck with him, and we’d run whatever errands he needed to run that day. This always included a stop at the post office, where he’d greet what seemed like every person in town. After that we’d often stop at the bank, where he’d greet every employee by name. He didn’t stop at just the teller that helped him — he’d walk down the line of tellers.

But the fact that he seemed to know everyone did not make him special. It was the reactions he got. Every one of them was clearly and genuinely glad to see him. Every one of them smiled when they saw him coming.

Later, at family reunions, I noticed that a disproportionate number of people told fond stories that involved grandpa. Members of other parts of the family — sometimes people I’d never seen before in my life — would stand up and tell fond stories not about their grandfathers, but about my grandfather. It was clear from the looks on their faces and from the stories themselves, that I wasn’t the only one that was crazy about my grandfather.

My grandpa was also tough. He was a hard worker, and he loved being outside, working on his farm. (Anyone that worked with him knew that there was never any danger that he’d win any awards for craftsmanship, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying himself.)

Years later, after I’d grown up, on a sunny day in late summer, I got on my motorcycle and rode up to Springer to see my grandparents. I took the frontage roads, and soaked up the scenery — something that I’d only learned to do after living in places that, in comparison, have no scenery.

What I had in mind was a relaxing day visiting with my grandparents, perhaps sitting out on the porch and listening to stories about how they met, or what it was like when they moved to Springer all those years ago. That’s what I had in mind. But grandpa was not one to let visitors leave without doing some work.

So he and I went around the farm, doing chores and chatting — nothing strenuous. Then, late in the afternoon, we drove down to the pond, and stood on the shore and looked at the pier, which was slowly but surely sinking into the water. He mentioned that he was concerned about it, and we talked about how the pier might be propped up. Apparently one of the ideas sounded reasonable to him, because suddenly he told me to get into the water and that he’d hand me the tools I’d need.

He was not joking. I stood there and looked at him, wanting to help, but knowing that the day was already cooling off, and I was on a motorcycle, had no jacket, and had to ride back to Vegas that evening.

But before I managed to say anything, he brushed me aside and waded into the pond, out to the end of the pier, where the water came up to his neck. I spent the next hour on the pier, sheepish but dry, handing him tools. At times I laid down on the pier and reached into the black water to help him. Our heads were close together, and I could hear him breathing.

He was eighty years old that summer. He was eighty, and yet he was pushing me aside to do the hard work. He was as tough and determined as I’d ever seen him that day. He finished up and we went back to the house where grandma was making dinner. If he was mad at me, he never let on. But that day I fully understood why he had always, even when I was a little boy, called me a “city-slicker.”

Update: three more pictures: