My father’s name is Harvey. At some young age he decided to go by the name Joe, which is how everyone who cares for him knows him. Whenever we get a phone call for “Harvey,” we know that it is a salesperson reading a name from a list. His brother John will call him “Josephus,” from time to time, an allusion to the ancient Jewish scholar. In fact, his nicknames are not numerous at all. Four people call him Dad, and another four call him Grampy.
Only I call him Pop. I can not remember why I started calling him that. I think the tradition began around the time I moved home to Seattle from New Orleans. I had been working in the Gulf of Mexico, and in my mind I had made a transition from a dependent to an independent person. My parents would and will always be my parents, but Pop was my friend. When I was talking to Pop, I could say things that I would not have felt good about sharing with the person I call “Dad.” I think it gave him permission to have new conversations with me too.
Pop, Dad, Joe, Grampy is just your steady, lumbering, predictable yet delightful old guy. At church he hollers out the choruses, quickly sets down his coffee cup to give a hug, pays extra degrees of attention to toddlers, and is a quick ally to new faces. When the subject of a joke or prodding he will quickly add flavor to the mockery, bringing an ease and smiles to all within ear shot. Being a dad is precisely the best fit he’s found as a human. If you should see him, linger in the bear hug and believe him when he tells you “I am so glad you’re here.”
albaniacalling 
This is my face during this whole post: 😀
Glad you liked it Chelse. Thanks