From the time I was born until I was seven, every Sunday consisted of morning soccer games, watching afternoon sports with my dad and an authentic spaghetti and meatballs pasta dinner. Without fail, my grandpa would walk into our house in the late afternoon with a white box and place it on a mantle next to our dining room table.
The box featured two Sesame Street-themed cupcakes, almost always showing the faces of Elmo and Big Bird. The cupcakes had a vanilla base, white icing, red or yellow jimmies and little pieces of chocolate for the eyes and nose. The cupcakes could only be eaten once dinner was finished, and it became the highlight of every weekend.
My mom’s dad, or as we called him, Pop Pop, was a man of few words. He dropped out of Southern High School during his sophomore year to take care of his grandmother, who raised him in South Philadelphia. His morals were predicated upon loyalty and kindness, and after he left the U.S. Navy he became a suit tailor in the city.
No matter the conditions, road closures or any other plans he was offered, Pop Pop made sure to stop at the former Orlando’s Bakery in Collingdale, Pennsylvania, to ensure that the big white box was on the mantle before dinner. His wife passed before I was born, so Pop Pop’s sole family was in that room every Sunday evening.
His presence on its own could command a room, but he was always the one doing the listening. He had more stories than anybody else I had ever met, but he made sure everyone else was done sharing theirs before he would speak. As a kid, I never paid any mind to these details, but as I grew older, I became aware he was as observant as they come.
Pop Pop wasn’t an overly affectionate person, often waiting for others to approach him or offering smiles and handshakes instead of overt love. His grandparents raised him this way, but he always remained active in our lives no matter what.
My little brother and I cherished those moments every Sunday, rushing up to peek inside the box and play rock-paper-scissors to decide who got what cupcake. As the years went on, Pop Pop would walk slower and arrive later, but he would always show up with that same white box.
Eventually, my Pop Pop missed a few Sunday dinners, and when I was 7 years old he passed away. I remember the following week my mom took us to Orlando’s Bakery and picked out two cupcakes. Our fingers immediately pointed to the vanilla Sesame Street cupcakes behind the glass counter, and for the first time, we watched as the baker placed them into the white box.
Even during his final few weeks when he could barely walk, Pop Pop made it a point to try to make it to our house on Sundays. He simply wanted to show up for those he loved.
Whenever I think about who my grandpa was, my mind quickly jumps to memories of his Windsor glasses or leather jackets, but I ultimately picture the cupcakes. At the time, the cupcakes were simply a dessert synonymous with spaghetti and meatballs every week. Now, they represent a token of my grandfather’s parting lesson — always be there for your family.
When I decided to go to Temple in November 2020, the ability to consistently make the same trip my Pop Pop did every Sunday was at the forefront of my decision. I didn’t enjoy being far from home, and while I could have gone to a number of schools in the South, I wanted to be a bridge away from my house, just like my grandfather was.
At least once a month, I start my car at around noon on Sunday and drive across the Ben Franklin Bridge and into Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I walk into the house with the aroma of tomato gravy in the pot and Frank Sinatra playing from the radio my Pop Pop once owned.
As we sit down to eat, I sometimes glance at the mantle next to our dining room table, which features a plant, plates and cookies. But no white box.
This doesn’t make me sad anymore, because my grandpa’s presence was never just about the cupcakes. It was about showing up no matter what. His way of showing our family he loved us has stuck with me, and it is a tradition I always intend to keep.
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