by Gaetan Caputo

* Warning- this entry may not fair well with weak stomachs.

As I’ve told you before, I have been enthralled with gathering family history as told by the ones who lived it. I don’t want to receive second or third hand stories while the authentic sources are still in this world. I want to write it all down and preserve it all; I cannot be the only listener to find these tales utterly fascinating.

I will begin with the unnerving near death experience of Poppy Joe.

I have always known of Poppy Joe as my grandfather or “step grandfather” on my mom’s side. Long and intimately personal story short, Poppy Joe romantically came into my Mom mom’s life immediately after she left my real grandfather Daddy Dan. 

In my youth he was simply a sweet, loving, and generous man with bright chalk hair combed back greaser style. He sat in his green rocker watching football games on the holidays but never allowed the tube to distract him from familial conversation and interaction. Despite his age I’ve always known his profession to be the nightly bartender at The Crazy Cat in New Jersey. Only in the past few years have I begun to wonder about him as an actual human being. After all, as a child one becomes so accustomed to the unchanging faces around her that she barely acknowledges each individual has a story to tell, a legacy lived throughout a time period she will never know. So I’ve asked my seventy nine year old Poppy Joe to share himself with me. 

He grew up in a small mining town and may have worked there forever if it hadn’t been for the lung related death of his father. Thankfully his elder brother had moved to Philadelphia and was working at a newspaper mill. Never afraid of hard work Poppy Joe agreed to move and take a job there as well. Throughout the 50’s he faithfully labored there until one horrifying day.

 Poppy Joe was doing something he’d done countless times. He explained that there were metal ramps throughout the newspaper presses that looked over the enormous rollers and he was simply padding through. He couldn’t tell me how, explaining it had happened so fast, but next thing he knew he was falling in slow motion towards the crushing rollers. By the time his brother called out and a frantic worker ceased the giant machine Poppy Joe’s entire body was rumpled and broken up to his neck in the machine. The pressure was so intense his eyeballs hung from their sockets. Thankfully he passed out and the next portion of the tale was something he had to receive secondhand.

 Poppy Joe was rushed to the hospital and lay shattered and bloody on the elevator ride up towards surgery accompanied by one German doctor. My mom mom says she was revolutionary and brilliant, the only reason my grandfather is alive today. This woman recognized the gravity of his situation and reacted courageously. She made a quick incision in his throat and inserted a tube into his trachea to avoid suffocation. Immediately after he was in the room she realized his ribcage was crushing his internal organs and needed a solution for that as well.

 Days later Poppy Joe woke up in a haze. As the picture came into focus he recognized chains reaching from the bed to the ceiling. Hooks were inserted into his torso and the chains stretched heavenward protecting his organs from his lifted and shattered ribs. At the time hospitals were experimenting with oxycontin as a pain reliever and he was enjoying a heavy dose. Well perhaps “enjoying” isn’t the right word. Poppy Joe continually called in the nurses to hold his hand while he fell asleep. He kept seeing himself floating up towards the ceiling, the chains giving and dangling in the air with his body. Very unpleasant feeling as a matter of fact.

 Obviously in the end he lived to tell the tale, thousands of times over if he’d like. Makes me think that there’s no way of knowing the incredible feats people have survived, unless of course you choose to ask. 

Poppy Joe upper left & center