A Visual Obituary for My Grandfather, Pop Pop

My grandfather, Ralph Joshua Pogoloff—Pop Pop, as I’ve always known him—lived life on his own terms. He was a man of habits, a man of quiet moments, and a man who found comfort in routine. He wasn’t one for grand gestures, but he was steady—consistent in the way he moved through the world, in the books he read, in the music that filled his car rides, and in the LL Bean vest he wore almost every day.

For the last ten years of his life, he worked as a delivery driver for AutoZone. At 85 years old, he was still behind the wheel, still navigating familiar roads, still embracing the structure and purpose that came with the job. His world was one of solitude, but not loneliness. He found joy in history, in classical music, in the simple rhythm of an ordinary day. He had his favorites—hot black coffee in the morning, a glass of sweet Touch Nee tea in the afternoon, and a pack of Fig Newtons always within reach. Every Saturday morning, without fail, he made himself blueberry pancakes, a quiet ritual that anchored the start of his weekend. And, in his own way, he found joy in me.

Whenever I was home from college, Sundays belonged to us. We had a standing lunch date at La Madeleine—he’d get a bowl of mushroom soup with a black coffee, and I’d order the chicken pesto pasta (no tomatoes) with a sweet tea. These weren’t just meals; they were rituals. We talked about everything and nothing, about art and memory, about what he was reading, about the people he had met that week. Even when I wasn’t home, we texted every day. It was our way of staying connected, even if just through a few simple words.

In November of 2023, I spent a week documenting his life—the life of an independent 85-year-old. I photographed the small moments: him sitting in his favorite chair, deep in thought, the lines on his face softened by the afternoon light. I followed him through his Sunday grocery store routine, the aisles familiar and methodical, just like him. And I focused on his hands—hands that had held books, steered a delivery truck, poured countless cups of coffee, and carried the weight of his years. His hands told his story.

This project is more than an obituary; it’s a reflection of a life lived in the in-between spaces. It’s him standing in the grocery store aisle, it’s him in a worn-out chair listening to Pavarotti. It’s him at the stove on a Saturday morning, flipping blueberry pancakes just for himself. It’s the archival photographs of him as a father and grandfather, with my mom, Jill, and my brother, Kam. It’s the way time stretches and folds, the past and present colliding in a single frame.

Pop Pop passed away on February 4, 2025. There won’t be a service, but this is my way of remembering him. Through these images, through these words, he remains. Independent, observant, steady.