He was the best of us...
Děkuji (thank you) Poppy
My grandfather had a rather enviable default sunny disposition, with his penchant for humming along at random intervals in a baritone voice (he was a radio DJ at KENO Las Vegas under the name Mark Lane). I would sleep over at my grandparents frequently and Poppy (a name affectionately given when my sister was little) would make the BEST sticky buns. A simple list of Pillsbury biscuits, butter, cinnamon, walnuts, and a powdered sugar mix for the icing. I heard tales of my grandfather running a doughnut shop when my mum was little, so it makes sense he was a wiz with baked goods.
John ‘Poppy’ Buchko was a Czechoslovakian immigrant. I believe he came to the US landing first in Pittsburgh with his mum, dad, and a few siblings. I vaguely remember his mum, my great grandmother Helen, who I met long after they’d settled in Sacramento. I think she spoke Greek… or was Greek Russian Orthodox? I find my memory is hazy as I get older which is partly why I decided to start documenting what I can remember. For many reasons I was reluctant to begin, but mainly I suppose I have considered telling the stories of my life and of my family for so long that I was frozen with where to start. Then, New Year’s Eve morning (NZDT) I received word that my grandfather had passed.
Growing up, my grandfather was the calmest and most sober out of everyone (until my Uncle Dave also went sober). From recollection, the one and only time he raised his voice was when my sister and I were sleeping over. We refused to go to bed and to stop arguing, when he rushed in and hollered, “Go to sleep, now!” We were shook and knew he meant business. That was the first and last time I ever heard the man get angry.
My grandmother, aka Gaga, on the other hand (they were married 50 years before she passed in 2017), was a fierce woman. A matriarch in every sense of the word, and we never had the same gathering as a family once she was gone. I remember how accommodating my grandfather was to her, he rose to meet every call that woman requested, from exactly how the Christmas lights should be hung, the amount of fluff her chair pillow needed, and the precise ratio of Kahlúa to vodka in her White Russians. She would continue smoking (inside) and drinking long past the time grandpa decided to quit, but you never heard him complain.
There were 2 times my grandfather and I had a misunderstanding. One, was on Thanksgiving, when I overheard him say the N word. He was discussing the NFL players on TV and it was a casual mention, something like, “Why are there only N-words on the field”. Again my memory is spotty. But I do remember being incredibly angry, and let down. I must have been in my late teens. I hurried out onto my aunt’s back patio and spoke loud enough for everyone inside to hear, “I can’t believe Poppy is such a racist!” I had come to expect the offhand comment from my uncles (and my mother) but my grandfather up to that point had been a saint in my eyes. My uncle Dave said I should go talk to him, that he was upset. I couldn’t believe it. “What about me?” I thought. I am the only one who should be upset! I went to find my grandpa in one of the guest rooms (the biggest of course, my grandmother would not have it any other way). His back was to the door, he was facing the wall, in shambles. I had never seen him cry before. I sat on the bed beside him and we talked. About what it was like living in San Fernando California, father to 6 kids, 1 (Dave) got jumped by some Black teens (or Hispanic teens? Not an excuse either way, but I listened). Poppy had a neighbour, a kind young Black fellow who would come over and help him with his car. He had a lot of respect for him but it sounded like neither would cross that line into true friendship. They understood some unspoken rule that you could be civil but you can’t ‘mix’ in that way. So I don’t blame my grandfather so much. When my mom wanted to marry my dad, there was an urgent late night meeting between the families; my father’s and my mother’s. The men shared whisky and discussed the dire seriousness of their children’s actions and what it meant for their lives going forward. This was 1970s-1980s California, and one thing people still can’t quite grasp about my home state, is just how conservative it truly is. Only, the blue areas have more money, and therefore, seem to get out the most votes. I digress… my grandfather and his family had fled Czechoslovakia, just as the Soviet expansion was pushing further into Eastern Europe so I can’t pretend to know what his upbringing was like, or why and how he developed the views he did, despite eventually having two biracial granddaughters.
The second time I lashed out was over politics. We were visiting Utah (my cousin was placed in a boys ranch, to learn life skills or something), there were Vote Obama signs posted all over downtown SLC, and I, a half Black kid raised in a predominately white town, was stoked. My grandfather though, well he loved his talk radio, and his favourite show at the time? Rush Limbaugh. He had started going on about some nonsense while we all ate lunch at Denny’s. Again, I lost my shit.
“You just regurgitate that man’s bullshit without thinking for yourself!” Or something to that effect. I got up from the table and walked off. With my young cousin following behind, we went to a nearby store, which refused to sell me cigarettes because I had an out of state ID. We were walking back to the restaurant when one of my uncles came over and told me to apologise (likely Dave again, who I genuinely still respect despite it all, partly because he’s so damn intimidating and partly because he’s always been really protective of me, and that means something to a wee girl whose dad walked out when she was 3). He said I shouldn’t speak to my grandfather that way, and by this time I was use to being the odd person out. Most of my uncles were gun toting conservatives, those who had married into the family were military vets, so of course I was always outnumbered. By that point I was also the only child of colour left (my sister took off for the Navy when I was 13) and often made fun of for being a ‘hippy’ because I didn’t believe in war. So I apologised.
Whatever my grandfather’s views were on the world, I knew very little about. He was good to my grandmother, kind to me, and that’s all that really matters in the end. My entire family is upheld through having a good time, cause we ain’t got a long time, and no one has ever been interested in having serious discussions on the state of the world. Poppy was an elder, and we were raised to respect our elders, regardless if we disagreed with them and especially if we knew they were being indoctrinated by racist bigots on the radio.
This is a brief glimpse into the lives of the folks who raised me and cared for me, and despite everything else you will come to read through this journey, I will always be grateful to them.
Rest easy Poppy. Glad you made it out before the world’s next phase of chaos and cheers to 2025.
I'm sorry for your loss! The distance doesn't make it any easier, I'm sure. This was beautiful and honest and just rich with life & love. Thanks for sharing!
Erin- This is such a heartfelt and bright look into your life and Poppy’s. Perhaps one of the most admirable things from this essay is your ability to apologize even when it isn’t necessary (or is it)? Either way—I appreciate this nuanced writing (and life).