my pops

Analyze this.

Who is Joe Pearson? A father, a son...a haunting ghost to some. I've heard many stories of who Joe Pearson is/was to someone or perceived to be, or could of been, should of been, should or could be currently. This is who he is to me.

Joe Pearson took me down by the railroad tracks early one moring with a pigeon catcher we had been working on for a week. We sat quiety behind the railroad tracks and bushes with a long rope attached to our make shift pigeon maker, ready to pull the rope at a second's notice as soon as the pigeons headed towards the trap. "Any minute now, they'll see the grain, and we'll get 'em!", we kept repeating for hours. We didn't catch a pigeon that day, but what I recall is hearing the pharse repeated "This is life,...here it is." To this day, I have no idea what we would of done if we caught a pigeon but I don't recall questioning it. It was life.

Joe Pearson would walk with me. We would walk from the house I grew up in Billings Park down around Arrowhead point and back up Belknap Avenue. This was a three mile walk. I only know this because of the silver pedometer clicker he carried with him and every couple minutes he would say "Been about a block right?" Click. Click. On these walks I used to fantazie about which house I would live in when I grew up. He would entertain my interior decorating skills. Most of these walks were spent with him listening to me about how I would decorate this one specific house, and many questions like "What color would you paint the living room, dining room? What type of landscape? What if you didn't get along with your neighbors, would you build a fence and what kind of fence? Even down to interior/exterior light fixtures? I can pinpoint right here as to where I had perfected my over-thinking of hypothticall situations.

Joe Pearson taught me a fine art of a deep introspection through music, by observation and relating lyrics to human struggle, more so overcoming struggle. Country music. I recall many moments riding in his truck where he would tear up from lyrics, always about an underdog, sung with a simplistic melody, again repeating the line choked up "This is real life" That man rarely expressed how much he was moved by music with physical outburst, as one would expect. However, looking close enough you could see his eyes squint, he eyebrows squish together, his mouth close, all while tightening and expanding simuatiously, and numerous head nods. He was quiet. He felt it. This was real life.

I would be no one close to who I am today if it wasn't for Joe Pearson. I want to thank you dad. Thank you for being you. Without you in my life all these years, more or less my dad, this world would have broken me. Regardless of time, space, what-if's, high points and low points in my life, I know you have had my back dad, and most importantly you tell me the truth. Even in hypothetical land. This is real life.

Love you & Happy 70th dad!