Pops Would’ve Been 78 Today (A post for Alan—My Father, Pops, Papa Sanchez, and the original dealmaker.)
Since he is gone, It always sneaks up on me. Alan’s birthday. It lands right around the time Candor, North Carolina throws its annual Peach Festival—a small town’s attempt at glory with live music, boiled peanuts, and hand-painted signs that spell “funnel cakes” like it’s two separate words.
Every year, it’s Peaches and Pops.
We called him “Dad” sometimes. But toward the end, he was “Pops” more than anything—partly because my sister started calling him Papa Sanchez in the summer. By August, his skin was tough and sun-baked like worn leather, marked by years of hard work and long days outside. That squint wasn’t just from the sun—it was a look of someone who’d been through a lot and wasn’t about to back down.
If you’ve followed any of my “Road According to Alan” stories, you’ve seen the wild side: the traveler, the hard driver, the fast-talker who could negotiate at a gas station and somehow get free coffee, discounted windshield wipers, and the kind of bait the guy “wasn’t really supposed to sell anymore.” Pops didn’t just make deals—he conjured them out of thin air. He could lean on a counter, tell a story, and walk away with something extra just by being Alan.
But he wasn’t just the backroad bandit with no radar detector and a plan—he was also a hell of a father and one of the most uniquely interesting humans I’ve ever known.
He had a gift: the art of the deal, and the patience to wait for bacon to nearly expire. He’d strike bargains with the local IGA like it was a hostage negotiation. “That’s 50 pounds of bacon you’re about to toss—how ‘bout you give it to me for a buck a pound?” And they would. Every time. In all fairness, he bought a lot of supplies for the Elks and VFW dinners and meals and could probably push a little harder based on the spend he made.
Once there was a pricing typo at a local ShopRite flyer—chicken leg quarters at 29 cents a pound. I bought two 40-pound boxes before anyone could stop me. He was so proud of me that day. One of the few times he told me in the moment that I’d done good. I made a lot of chicken soup that winter. But mostly I just wanted to impress the man who taught me the value of seeing opportunity in odd places.
He wasn’t loud with love, not one for long talks or heart-to-hearts. But he taught you things along the way—quiet, lasting lessons buried in action. He taught me how to shoot. How to throw the overhand right. How to counter steer into a slide. How to split wood. How to stack it perfectly—freestanding, corners interlocked like Lincoln Logs for grown men. Let just enough air flow through so it seasons right, but not so loose you waste space. I thought it was just something we did until I read Henry David Thoreau, who wrote, “Every man looks at his wood-pile with a kind of affection.” And I do. Every single time.
He taught me that it was “a long way from your heart,” which meant: rub some dirt in it, walk it off, be tough. I know now that line didn’t always hold up. Because sometimes, when someone’s gone, it is right there in your heart. Every missed call you’ll never make. Every beach walk where you half expect an echo from the other side of the wind.
He taught me how to fish—and how to love nature without saying it out loud. We’d hit tiny trout streams and massive lakes. One time, we went deep sea fishing, and I remember thinking: This is living. He taught me that if you want to keep trout fresh all day, you put a little damp grass in the bottom of a wicker creel and toss in some fresh mint from the streambank. Not just to cool the fish—but because it smelled right. It was practical and poetic at the same time.
He also showed me where to find shag hickory bark if I ever wanted to smoke meat the right way. You had to peel it just right, soak it in some water, let it smoke over your coals slow, and then let it kiss the fire like good music hitting the first note.
He carried the scent of worn denim and faint campfire warmth, with a trace of Aqua Velva — and somehow, it always felt like comfort. Even if he never said much, when he was around, you felt like things might just work out..
Most of my best memories with him happened outside. There was rarely a big speech or moment. Just knowledge handed down by doing. And now I wonder—did he plan to teach me those things, or did he just live that way and let me catch what I could?
Either way, I caught a lot.
So today, on what would’ve been his 78th birthday—while Candor’s out there celebrating peaches—I’m thinking of Pops. The man who taught me to see value in almost-discarded bacon, find joy in a trout stream, and stack a woodpile like it meant something.
I’ll probably talk to him on the way home tonight. I still do sometimes. On the long drives. Into the setting sun. When I’ve got a fishing rod in hand, and the wind howls, and the waves crash—hoping the static in the air says something back.
Happy Birthday, Pops.
I didn’t realize it back then, but every mile with him was a lesson. And now, I carry those miles with me—every time I turn the key.
“Rub some dirt on it” will always be a classic response to any type of ailment in my life 😂 he was an iconic dood.
ReplyDeleteHappy birthday to your pops Nathan