Patricia Merritt Lear

My dad, Jim Merritt, died young, but wow, what a life. Born the son of a Delaware Indian whose grandfather was the last Chief of the Delaware Nation, some shit must have gone down because my dad was on a tear to get the hell out of Dodge (aka Nowata, Oklahoma) (down by Lightnin’ Creek). And whatever us kids were going to be, in his words, “a bunch of half-breeds” was not it.

After bombing all the Germans in the war, my dad started an ice cream factory and manufactured Dreamsicles, Heath Bar Crunches, Eskimo Pies, and all the stuff that will make you fat as a pig. While trying to come up with new designs for ice cream novelty items, one night, he came up with this rocket shape with fins. We kicked around the name, and, given his heroic war exploits, The Bomb Pop was soon unleashed upon the world.

What none of us Merritts saw coming was that beginning in the 2000s, the Bomb Pop would become the iconic Americana symbol of summer. The red, white, and blue Bomb Pop is everywhere. I just saw it today in a Gap ad, and last summer there was a Bomb Pop on the cover of the New Yorker.

I don’t think any of this just happened. I think my dad is still there, reminding us to reach for the stars, and how better to do that than to put a Bomb Pop in front of our faces when we venture to the Mall, open a flyer from Neiman-Marcus, or even go to Target to buy a float for the beach (in the shape of a Bomb Pop, of course). It’s Daddy reaching out, I am sure of it.