A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the front porch enjoying the lukewarm rays of a toddling spring afternoon sun and a cold one, all the while contemplating existential brain-teasers, like “what’s the difference between a comb and a brush?” and “if humans were created in God’s own image, is Heaven a trailer park, then?” when my friend and neighbor, Trey Samson, came by to share a twelve-ounce intoxicant or three.
We chit-chatted about this and that, watching the grass grow, when our musings turned to the proliferation of videos that purportedly show proof of UFOs, ghosts, poltergeists, angels, demons, Bigfeet, elves, fairies, and all types of weird, supposed paranormal, activities. Trey was convinced of such stuff, he said, because something supernatural happened to his family a few years back–and he had proof to show me (the skeptic).
After pulling up the video on Youtube and watching it a few times, my mind was blown. We popped another brew, not even thinking about applying suntan lotion yet, and he told me how the strange event came to be.
Trey said that his granddad, Cecil, was the Samson family prankster, and that everybody loved the old guy. When his older cousins came along, they called him Poppsie; when his youngest niece was learning to say his name, it came out, Popsicle. His niece got a hearty laugh; the nickname stuck, and the ensuing ritual that came afterwards became a genealogical tradition: Samson family get-togethers, weddings, reunions, and holiday dinners were toasted, not with the clink of wine glasses, but with a group kiss of flavored water frozen on a stick.
Trey went on to say that Popsicle’s hearing started failing in his later years and he depended on closed-captioning while watching tv, and that he died of natural causes four years ago (now I understand, I thought). Then the weird part:
“The day of his funeral was cold and snowing, yet, on the way to the cemetery the cortège passed a girl who bore a striking resemblance to his moniker-naming niece when she was a tyke, licking on an orange popsicle (mass delusion brought on by grief, I thought). At the gravesite was a little cross made from popsicle sticks that nobody in the surviving Samson family admitted to making (although a Samson family prankster could have fibbed, I rationalized). As the casket was being lowered into the permafrost, a hearty gust of snow-drifting wind blew a popsicle wrapper into the hole ahead of the eternal rester (that the same Samson family prankster likely released, like a balloon, as a final send-off).” He sighed and said that dearly beloved Poppsie was interred, and the family returned back to his Earthy home and to the many casserole dishes left by many caring friends.
That first evening after a loved one is interred is usually a solemn, empty one full of reminiscences and final farewells covered over in sod. Trey said they were all moping around and sad that night; and that it was all too quietly weird without granddad’s usual shenanigans taking place.
“Grandma, his widow, sighed like her world had just caved in (it had), and choked out with stuttering disbelief that her husband was tucked away in their nice warm bed only three nights before . . . but today Popsicle was put forever in the old deep freeze. Her woeful lament was answered with silence, at first; then tittering after the phrasing sunk in; then full-blown family laughter! We could almost hear granddad roaring alongside us.”
(Holy smokes, this is getting good!)
“The evening wore on and the spoons in the casserole dishes finally scraped bottom,” Trey remembered, laughing. He said they all got kind of antsy of the quiet, so they decided to gather around the tube and watch the episode of Poppsie’s favorite show that got recorded but never got enjoyed. The Samsons performed their frigid, fruity toast, and his Uncle Charlie pushed play.
Trey then looked stern and flummoxed as he explained what happened next. “We were half-assed watching Histories Mysteries with the closed-captioning still on, the host going on about an old shoe that changed the world, when the first ad break came on. There were the usual string of video come-ons–until a Borden’s Popsicle commercial, vintage 1957 broke the plane—with Poppsie starring in it and looking about fourteen! We all about crapped our pantaloons, we were so stunned–of course, even more so when the closed-captioned words crawled across the screen read: Hey guys, I made it! Everything is so magnificent and blissful here. Just wanted to let you know I love you and will see you soon–Popsicle.”
We watched the video several more times while finishing off the six-pack: now I, too, have become a believer in weird, supposedly paranormal, activities. 188Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3cv95evUEW
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