MY HERO

I grew up in the mid-twentieth century when it was reported that families usually consisted of two parents and two-and-a-half children. I've never understood what happened to that other half child, so I've just always considered the number should be three and leave it at that.

Three is a good number for children unless they are all of the same gender. Then I believe it is very difficult for a mother to cope. Consider three girls. They are pouty, giggly, demanding, prissy, selfish, self-centered, shrieking, need constant hair-brushing and dressing. Now consider three boys who are loud, obnoxious, dirty, messy, nose running, bug-crazy, joke-playing, evasive, child-like until they die, making strange noises with odd smells, and are uncommunicative throughout it all. Just the thought of it is exhausting!

But when a mother has some of both sexes there is diversity and balance; getting a little bit of everything, and not an over-abundance of anything. That is until they are teenagers. Then, the only thing a mother can do for self-preservation is leave home.

This is all to say that I grew up in a home that was not average. I was not an only child, but I grew up as one. My brother was 18 when I was born in November, and in spring he left for college and then on to the Army. Over the years I wrote to him every week and kept in touch as you would with an uncle or older cousin. He came home for holidays, but our acquaintance was always long-distance. This didn't thwart the growth of my admiration or regard for him. My brother meant everything to me.

Stella High School 1948

I'm sure that never living under the same roof together was most helpful in keeping our relationship amicable. My brother and I saw each other two or three times a year. His life after the army was four hundred miles south of Falls City, in Wichita, Kansas. He would make trips to visit us, or Mom and I would travel by bus to spend a few days with him in his one room apartment.

Marvin Dean Johnson was born March 13, 1930, at a farmhouse outside of Stella, Nebraska, and spent most of his childhood as a farmer's son. Marvin worked hard on the farm, and was an excellent student in school. He was admired by his fellow students and his teachers alike. There was never a reason for his parents to worry about his behavior or progress in school, for he devoted himself to his work and his family. Marvin would carry these characteristics throughout his life.

The things that I know about my brother as a child come from many conversations with my mother. I was curious to learn about this man, and she was most willing to share her mother's thoughts about her only living son. There had been many years of life in my family that I had not experienced, so I had a lot of catching up to do. My mother and father had placed my brother and his behavior on a very high plane, and I was most anxious to hear all the reasons why, and I was also most honored to keep him there. There was never a bad report, and I was pleased to realize that I most assuredly had the most wonderful brother in the whole world. My assessment never changed over the years. Indeed, he was truly the best.

This is a fact that I love to tell people, and I often wonder if anyone believes me when I say it. My brother and I in our sixty years together on this earth never had an argument. We never even spoke a cross word to one another, not that I didn't deserve to be crossly spoken to. The only time I remember Marvin speaking to me in an unpleased way was once at a small cafe close to where he lived at the time. I was six or seven, and, as usual, I wasn't eating what was on my plate. Marvin's voice got very quiet and very deep when he looked at me sternly and said, "Clean up your plate." You'll realize the effect that had on me when you note that I have never forgotten that moment. I'm pretty sure he learned that from my dad, and the effect was the same. But I was not afraid of my brother. There was no reason to think other than the fact that I was disappointing him, and I would rather eat spinach that do that.

Waxahatchie Texas, @ Grandma Campbell's

In later years I once wrote something to my brother and his wife that was misunderstood by them, and I received a very stern letter from Janet wondering why I would speak so to them. I have no idea what I said, but I know it was never meant to offend. I was stricken to think that I had hurt my brother, and did what needed to be done to correct the matter. Marvin never mentioned it to me, but Janet sure let me know they weren't pleased.

Marvin also never spoke to me about the many years I lived in a manner that not only hurt my family, but I know must have embarrassed them. I couldn't have been an easy person to love, but he never criticized me, nor did he even mention that he was displeased, though I know that he was deeply hurt. I am so very thankful that I was not only able, through the grace of Jesus Christ, to straighten out my life, but I also had opportunities to apologize to Marvin both privately and publicly. The last time I spent some time with him I told him again how sorry I was for those years. I also was able to tell him how deeply I loved and admired him. Marvin was my hero, and I told him so. My brother and my mother were the two people in my life that I knew would always be there for me, would never disappoint me, would always love me, no matter what, and they were exactly the kind of people that I would strive my whole life to be like. The adoration, respect, and love I have for my brother far exceeds anything I have felt for any other person in my lifetime. And, make no mistake, I have no delusional thoughts that I will ever be like him. But I will try.

A number of men spoke to me at Marvin's funeral about the love and respect they had for him. But one man's testimony sticks in my mind. This man had worked at the fire department where my brother was captain for many years. His words were very similar to these, "I wanted to meet the sister of the man that I loved and thought so much of. Your brother was the kindest man I have ever known. When he gave us an order at the station, we didn't obey him because we had to. We obeyed him because of the respect and love we had for him. We would have done anything for him." There were more admiring words from those firemen, and from all who had had the privilege to know Marvin. What a privilege I had to call him my brother. Oh, that I could have made him as proud of me as I am of him.

Marvin's granddaughter, Katie. early 2000s

Marvin and I took a day trip to Canton, Ohio, one day, and in our visit I asked him if he was ready to die. I asked him if he had accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior, and he said confidently that he had. I know that I will be seeing him again, and we will be spending eternity together in our new home.

Marvin's funeral was the most spectacular one I have ever attended. He would have been so proud, but I think it would have embarrassed him as well. The testimonies of his life were remarkable. Though I can't remember what he said, I remember the minister remarking of Marvin's goodness and kindness, and his devotion to the church. Marvin's body and casket were driven to the cemetery in an old firetruck that was restored to mint condition by some of the firemen that he served with. There was an honor guard to deliver him to the grave site and to send him off in great honor with a twenty-one gun salute. And at the end, a bagpiper walked the surrounding grounds of the grave site and played Amazing Grace. A very deserved send-off for a man of equally deserved honor.

If you did not know this man, you might have trouble believing this story; that such a man should have ever been. But, I can assure you that such a man did exist. Especially through the eyes of a devoted and loving sister. Marvin Johnson is truly the best man I have ever known.

420 W 14th. Falls City Nebraska. The only side of the house free from seasonal fruits and vegetables was the front, and there in the summertime we kept a foliage plant from the top of a pineapple. There were fruit trees; one apricot (my favorite), one apple (a green cooking variety), three plums, three cherrys, and four peaches. There were five huge rhubarb plants, there were garlic plants, and herbs galore, parsley, rosemary, lavender, and I’ve forgotten what else. These treats were throughout the property, and not relegated to one area. And then, of course, the big garden was planted and tended and harvested.
The “big garden” was behind the house. It was about 100 feet wide, and twice as long. The house was wide, but not deep, so most of the property lay behind the house.
When we first moved into the house even at the ripe old age of seven I knew that it was not cool to paint a house dark green. But that’s what it was. Now, had it been trimmed differently it might have looked a little better, but I don’t think the person who last painted it had looks in mind. Well, it wasn’t the greatest idea, but it worked. I wonder if the fact of all the trees and fauna around the house just made it seem right to keep the natural look. There was lots of green.

My Early Years

Mom, Dad and I lived in a small town 60 miles south of Omaha, NE called Auburn until the end of my first grade year when we moved to a town a little farther south. I remember very little about the move or about the new first grade I was ushered into. However, there are many little adventures that I recall over the next few years. Even the bad memories become good memories after many years of contemplation.

Falls City was a nice place to live, to grow up, and to experience a peaceful existence as a child. The town was nestled into a pretty river valley in the most southeast corner of Nebraska, and it boasted at the time a grand total of 5,280 people. Anything that happened that caused tears for me was surely of my own making. I was a good girl and obeyed my parents out of love and respect. Of course, I had my moments when even a good little girl makes very bad choices. But those stories are for other times. Today’s story is a story of revelations and changes into a new world that previously had been unknown. And at the age of seven, there is much in the world to be awakened to.

We had settled comfortably into our new home on West 14th Street, and I was ready to meet new friends and experience the neighborhood. I had seen two young girls playing at the house just west of us. They seemed happy and full of fun, and I could hardly wait to meet them. They didn’t venture over to introduce themselves, so I knew there was nothing for it but to take on the introductions myself. That was a problem. I was very shy, and I had no intentions of going up to strange people and speaking. If they were to speak to me, of course, would be even worse, because then I had to make a choice. Either I speak or I run to hide in my mother’s skirt. I usually chose to run. My mother’s dress-tails were a very safe place to hide when strange people took notice of me. Even some of my distant relatives were strange enough for me to retreat to my favorite hiding place. (When mother wasn’t around I learned to improvise with my own dress-tail, bringing it up to cover my head.)

Finally, on a beautiful Saturday morning, I decided it was time to step out and do the unimaginable. With every bit of courage that I could find at the age of seven, I remember stepping up to the enclosed porch at the side of their house. I needed two more steps to get to the kitchen door and amazingly I found them. It’s always been remarkable to me that anyone in that house heard my faint little taps on the door. They surely must have been sitting quietly at the kitchen table with their half-filled cups of coffee and waiting for the new little girl that just moved in to come gently tapping at their door. Within seconds I stood staring up at a very pretty woman who I assumed correctly was the mother.

“Can your girls come out to play?”

I couldn’t believe it! Those words actually came out of my own mouth! Shocking! And yet, at the next moment this pretty lady was responding to my words.

“I’m sorry,” she answered. “They can’t come out now. They’re watching Looney Toons.” And the door shut. I stood there staring at the closed door. The door had a nice window in it that was right at my eye level, and there were pretty yellow curtains hanging on the inside with just enough space for me to see her return to the table where two other adult people sat, one woman older than the mother, and one man who looked to be a teenager, only maybe just a little older.

I turned and walked off the porch, up the sidewalk, across their driveway and stepped onto our property. And then it struck me. “What the heck was a Looney Toon?” I’d never heard of such a thing. She said they were watching it, so it must have been something that was on the television. When I got back to the house I asked my mom if I could turn on the television, but she said no, there were other things to do. I’m sure there were, and I’m sure that I found them, but I’ll never forget how I pondered the notion of a Looney Toon. Of course, over the years I became very familiar with Looney Toons; Porky Pig (my favorite) and Petunia his girlfriend, Daffy Duck, Bugs Bunny (dat wascallwee wabbit!), and Elmer Fudd. Great fun! I even remember a small yellow 75rpm record someone had given me with all of the characters playing out their great fun. I, too, became a dedicated Saturday morning watcher because everyone else was, and there was no one to play with.

I don’t remember how it happened, but the two girls, Margie Lockard, age 5, and Candy Lockard, age 4, and I became fast friends. We enjoyed many fun days together building imaginary cities, making flower dolls out of hollyhocks for our cities, gathering dandelions for our mothers’ bouquets and playing many pleasing games. I’m sure there were times when we didn’t get along, but I remember none of those. I think our friendships were constant and enjoyable.

Captain Kangaroo

Another morning brought a new excitement into my world through these two girls. This was another moment of introduction to a wonderful new friend who would be my constant daily morning fare. His name was Captain Kangaroo. I can hardly speak of him without tears welling in my eyes and a large lump developing in my throat. Captain Kangaroo was the best friend a child could ever have, and he showed up every day, every morning with his keys and his friends Mr. Moose, Bunny Rabbit, Grandfather Clock, and Mr. Green Jeans. Captain taught us good behavior, good hygiene, how to brush our hair and our teeth. He read to us, and told us wonderful stories of ducks and monkeys and Tom Terrific! And through all of his teachings we laughed until our sides split at the antics of the Captain’s friends. We laughed when Bunny would trick the Captain out of a bunch of carrots. We laughed when Captain counted to three, and then call to Grandfather Clock to wake up, and Grandfather’s eyes would flap until they opened wide, ready for another good story.

We especially laughed when hundreds of ping pong balls came falling from the sky onto Captain’s head. Mr. Moose would play some kind of joke on the Captain and he would stand there with such big eyes as little white balls were falling, wondering how in the world did he fall for this again. It happened every day, and it never stopped being the funniest joke in the whole world.

Mr. Green Jeans was a farmer that came to visit the Captain every day with stories of his farm and of his barnyard friends. He brought many of them with him so that all the children would get to see and learn about them. That farmer was not the brightest card in the deck, but he certainly was one of the most beloved.

Captain Kangaroo came to children through the tube for many, many years. He was loved by children and parents, and he was a great humanitarian in his private life even after the Captain was retired. Bob Keeshan was noted for his efforts to promote reading and education for young children. He was a wonderful man, and I miss the friendship we shared through a television screen. I loved him.

One more thought. In the early 1950s there was a wonderful, very popular and classic program on television called “Howdy Doody”. I watched this when I was younger; pre-school age. On this program was a funny clown who never spoke, but tooted his bicycle horn, played by Bob Keeshan, who later went on to be Captain Kangaroo.

Clarabel Clown

Margie and Candy’s mother was named Dora. She lived with her mother, Marge, and her brother Kenny. Her father lived there as well, but I didn’t see him often. Their last name was Harper. They were nice enough people. Dora worked hard at the Creamery where they made lots of food products, but I know that she made hot dogs. Her hands were constantly stained red with the dye that they used in the product. She worked long hours, and since there was only one car for the family, she walked to work every day which was about a mile and a half each way. In the 1950s this was just the way of life in a small town.

Dora was divorced, and this too was a new word for me, a new concept. I hadn’t known anyone before who was divorced. I’d never had a friend who didn’t have a dad living at home, and these girls never saw their dad. This was unimaginable to me. Who did they call “Daddy”? “ No one”, was the answer, and it broke my heart. How on earth could I ever live without my “Daddy”? How did they?

The Lockard girls were at our house a lot, and my family became very fond of them. I believe my dad felt sorry for them, not having a daddy, and he was happy to give them special attention when they were around. Candy was an especially pretty little thing with dark eyes and long, dark, curling hair. Her eyes sparkled when she smiled and giggled, and she was a delightful child. I remember the awful feelings of jealousy when they were there if my dad were around. I was his only girl. I was his “Tootsie”, his nickname for me. It was very difficult for me to share this man that I adored, especially with two little girls who I knew to be prettier than I was. I never voiced my feelings that I remember, and I have never thought about it until now; how jealous I was!

I don’t remember my first meeting with the girl that lived to the east of us. Her name was Harriett Hunker, and she and I must have hit it off from the very beginning. Harriett was an only child, living with older parents. This we had in common. She was musical, played the tuba and piano, and sang. I remember delightful times with her learning and singing some of the new songs of the day. Perry Como, Patty Page, Teresa Brewer, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Eddy Arnold, are just some I remember.

Harriett was three or four years older than I and was very sociable and popular with her school friends, only one of which lived close. I attribute this to be the reason we became acquainted at all. She would have had to be the one to make the first move. She was a delightful friend, and treated me as if I were the same age as she was. We were both creative and loved to sew and create clothes for our dolls and paper dolls. She and I didn’t get along as well as I did with Margie and Candy, and I remember times when we wouldn’t speak. But soon we were together again, creating and singing.

One thing that I believe Harriett helped to teach me was to come out of myself. She had a friend who lived directly behind her house that I became acquainted with. Charlie and Harriett and I would talk across the back fence. Many times I would sit in my yard and listen to the two of them practicing their instruments, together, yet each in their own yard. Charlie played beautiful trumpet. He practiced a lot, and I remember when I got older listening to him in orchestra and band and marveling at his skill. Harriett would play her tuba, and I was content to listen to these extraordinary friends of mine who had such talent.

Many summer days Harriett and I sat on a wooden bench in her long and narrow back yard among the garden plants and trees shelling sweet peas. Oh, what a lovely memory! Most of the peas made it into the bowls, but every so often, when moms weren’t looking or weren’t around, two or three would slip into our mouths, and we would enjoy the sweetness of summer. We stemmed, or popped as my mom called it, green beans and husked sweet corn. We were helping our moms, but it was so much fun to sit and enjoy each other and the beautiful days.

I am especially fond of my memories of Harriett Hunker. In later years we lived with my father’s mother due to her illness and age. I had been away from Harriett only a few years when news came that she had been in a fatal car accident when traveling alone to Hiawatha, Kansas, which was just a few miles across the Nebraska/Kansas border. Her appearance was so that they would not show her at the funeral, and I mourned that fact as much as I mourned her death. I had not seen her for about 3 years, and I would have liked to look upon her face one more time. As it is, I have good memories of a very special friend at a very special time in my life. 

These were the girls next door, my friends, my companions in fun and games, in good times and bad, in mischief, and they were instruments in helping to open the eyes of a naïve little seven year old to a new world of cartoons and life. Ah! The innocence of youth!

Vacation at the Beach

It was July 2008, and Ron and I were on our way to an ocean beach in South Carolina. It was an ordinary day in the hot summer. Many travelers, just like us, were doing the ordinary visit to the beach for the weekend, their cars loaded with beach toys and apparel, and lots of tanning oils. But this wasn't an ordinary day for me. Here I was, sixty years old, on my way to something I'd never seen before; an ocean.

Myrtle Beach, SC, was the setting for the first look at this great body of aqua that I had dreamed of seeing and hearing for my whole life. Our son-in-law, Christopher, had made all the arrangements, and we were meeting him and Jill and the kids to share the memory of a first for this old gal. And it was a great memory.

We arrived at the hotel before the kids, so Ron and I pulled chairs out onto the balcony of our room and spent some time quietly taking it all in; the sun-bathers, the umbrellas stuck into the sand, children playing and running and swimming, people's voices, and that great expanse of blue that went on and on and had no break in the horizon. That's what I had always wanted to see. And above all, this was the constant roar of the ocean going out and coming in against the shore. Ten minutes passed, and I'd had enough. I was ready to go home now.

The kids came soon and we had a wonderful week-end with them. They swam, and I watched, we ate out for meals, Jill and Christopher took a sunrise stroll on the beach the next morning, and we fit all seven of us in that one room. It was so much fun. And meanwhile, the ocean roared. And the seagulls cried and screeched, and the ocean roared.

So, now I've done it. I've seen the ocean; I even waded in the water, though I could hardly stand up with the sand shifting on every step. I had my picture taken there for the memory, and I sampled the famous ice cream shops along the streets. If I never go back, that will be fine. The only reason I would go would be to spend time with my family. I need to move on now, and I need to campaign for another first in my life while I'm still young enough to enjoy it. Like maybe a cruise, or maybe to see the Rocky Mountains or the Grand Canyon. Google Earth is great, but I really want to see these places in person. Whining and complaining got me to the ocean, after all.

I like quiet places, and I'm sure the Grand Canyon is quiet, and the Rocky Mountains even with the wildlife and the skiers shushing, is peaceful and serene and, yes, quiet. I like quiet.