Merril, the Gentle Man

I've often proclaimed my love and adoration for my dad. Despite his sullen moods and harshness of temper, he was an exceptionally charming and handsome man. I enjoyed being with him because we shared the same interests, and what interest I didn't share naturally, I purposely cultivated. I wanted to be like him, and in adulthood, I realized how like him I was. Alas, I was like him in manner, but my brother Marvin had his handsome looks. I look like my mother, but Marvin was kind and gentle as she was. And yet, the older I get the more like her I am becoming, not in gentleness, but allowing my Lord to shape and mold me into a kinder and more loving being.

Dad could be gentle. Sometimes I would crawl into his lap and many times on Sunday mornings I would snuggle with him in his feather bed. Those times were sweet and tender moments as he read the Sunday funnies from the newspaper, sometimes reading aloud, other times just allowing me close.  Each day he came home from work he always lay on the sofa, his feet propped on one arm and his head on the other because he was so tall. He would read the newspaper, and when finished he read a western of some sort. He seldom watched television though in the same room. But as he read, he would either sing softly in his beautiful bass voice, sometimes hum, and often he would whistle a tune through his teeth. I loved to listen to him. He sang hymns, which always surprised me. And sometimes he would sing along with whatever song my mom was singing. My mom sang continually, from the time she awoke until she finally got to bed. Then when he was sure he was done for the day, he would stop me as I would pass and say softly, "Tootsie, would you please take my shoes off for me?" Are you kidding? Would I fly to the moon for him? Would I jump over mountains for him? So I carefully untied his wingtip shoes and removed them as he would sigh and then say, "Thanks, Tootsie. That feels so much better." My daddy's feet never smelled bad, but I honestly can still recall the odor of them as they came out of his shoes.

When dad did little jobs around the house, or if he was dabbling with his fishing tackle and was in a good mood, he would whistle. He never whistled with his lips, but always softly through his teeth. He often chewed gum, and he would always offer me a piece. I tried and tried, but I never developed a liking for it. As soon as the flavor was gone I had to spit it out. And one thing that you could always count on was my dad had a toothpick somewhere in his pocket or his mouth. If he came up to kiss mom or me he would make the toothpick quickly disappear into his mouth, then it would appear as he walked away. I can see him bent over the car parts book at the work counter, he's humming or whistling with a toothpick protruding and his glasses at the end of his nose. He would look up to see me watching him, and he would grin at me.  Oh, I loved that man!

Dad was about age fifty when he had his first heart attack. After that, he would keep a bottle of peach or apricot brandy in the freezer and under the front seat of the car. His doctor told him to take a swallow if he felt his heart pounding too hard. If mom wasn't looking, he would hand me the bottle from the freezer and I would take a drink. He had two more heart attacks that I am aware of. Another change was that he began to sleep in a separate bed from mom. He said that he couldn't have sex anymore, and to sleep with her was just impossible. So he got a feather mattress, which would have hurt mom's back, and they slept side by side in different beds. This would never amaze anyone who knew my dad very well. He was a man of many passions, and my mom was one of them.

Before we left Auburn to live in Falls City mom and dad would often sit on the front porch of our house after I had gone to bed, and they would sing and dad would play the harmonica for her. They would talk for hours, or it seemed like hours, for I fell asleep and never knew when they came in. My mom told me a story often of when she was hospitalized in Humboldt sometime before I was born. Dad would come to visit her, and they would talk and laugh the whole time he would be there. One day one of the nurses came into the room and asked my mother how long she and dad had been married. She could hardly believe their answer. "We just can't believe you two have been married so long," she said to them. "You two talk and laugh with one another as if you are newlyweds," I remember those days, but they stopped when we moved in with my dad's mother. I've always believed that he felt torn between the two women. My cousin, Evelyn, had moved in with us and so there were three women. Maybe that's why he would take me along with him because I was safe.

As I went through childhood I loved my mother, but I adored my dad. Mom was the disciplinarian, and I was with her more. She worked hard at home and didn't appreciate when I would dawdle at getting my work done, procrastinate at doing the dishes. She and I did a lot of yelling back and forth, and I often talked back to her. I often got spanked, too. But, when I got older my feelings changed toward my dad, and after I got married my mom became my best friend. She and I shared so many long hours of talking about things in ways we couldn't when I was a child. My dad died soon after I married, so mom came and stayed at our home often. We loved having her there. It's interesting to me how my affections transferred over the years. I can't say that I ever really missed my father after he died. But still, forty years after her death, I miss my mom a lot, often sobbing tears at the thought of her. There's a line from a movie, You've Got Mail, where the female character is trimming a Christmas tree, and she says, "And missing my mom so much I can hardly breathe." Yes. I know that kind of miss.

Merril, the Scallawag...Part 2

Merril Johnson could have been considered a very complex fellow. He had varying sides to his personality which must have been the reason that he had so many friends. Men either loved or hated him, I think, for he could endear himself readily to those he chose to like and quickly spurn the ones for whom he had no respect. He was seldom verbal about his feelings. He simply gave them no attention. I do remember once when I came home from a new job and announced the name of my new boss. My dad's eyes rose to meet mine, and he said, "Don't ever trust him. ______ ________ is a son-of-a-bitch." Frankly, I took that to heart and never, ever trusted the man.

Dad had a very hard life, which led to much heartache and not a little hardness and anger toward his Maker. When people talk about the characteristics of a person with red hair, I have to agree with the assessments. Within my family, there are quite a few of them, and they display them strongly. My dad was no exception. He was quiet and reserved but had a fiery temper that was almost never seen at home but was displayed in his employment with either firm words of quiet anger or he would simply leave. Once you had made an enemy of my father, you could never expect to be forgiven. My son, Jay, is like this. Rather than confrontation, it is simply easier to walk away; permanently.

Another side of this man was an excellent work ethic. He worked long, and he worked hard, diligently, honestly, precisely, making sure that his customer or the end product was of great satisfaction.  One job Merril Johnson had was to sell auto parts for a national company, and two days in each week he was required to travel around about a fifty-mile radius. In the summers I took great delight in being allowed to accompany him. These trips opened my eyes to the respect and true friendships that my dad had. Of course, I was always introduced as if I belonged in the encounters, and I was mostly introduced as "Tootsie", my dad's nickname for me. At every stop, dad stood and talked at length to each of his customers, creating a good relationship, even personal, getting to know their families and hobbies and such. He wasn't there to just sell something. He went in the business to befriend and show interest. He never had to tell me why he did these things. I knew instinctively as I was to receive these same gifts.

Years before I was born my parents had, in some ways, had a different life. They were both forty-one years old when I was born, and by then there had been tragedies and harshness that I would never experience. They were farmers for years, leasing land and a home located somewhere between Verdon, Stella, and Shubert, but closer to Verdon. I asked many times to be shown the exact place, but there was always some hesitation on their part to point out a definite spot. After all, it had been quite a few years later, and changes to the area made it difficult to recall. I always felt a hollowness in this reasoning, and I understood it.

A few stories have been recalled to me by my mom about life on the farm. Both parents were up long before dawn to milk cows, feed poultry, gather eggs, slop hogs, etc. Farm work. And the farm work had no motorized equipment. Plowing and reaping were done with strong mules and horses. The years were the 1930s and 40s, and most farmers had tractors and combines and such. My parents couldn't afford such luxuries, and their work and their home were primitive.

My mother had three jobs, keeping the house, raising the children, and helping with the outside farm chores. All food was prepared from scratch. All bread, pies, cakes, were endless and daily work. The meat was butchered from the farm.

My mother was outside raking leaves one day and later noticed that her wedding ring was gone from her finger. Now, this ring was far from an expensive piece, but it was the sentiment that mattered to her.  They searched and searched the yard and leaves but never found it. Later that evening, during supper, my dad received a bit of surprise when he bit into his thick slab of bread and found the silver jewelry that they had been searching for most of the afternoon. Kneading the bread dough that morning, it must have slipped into it, with no notice.

When mom had a baby to attend to, there were arrangements to be made while she was outside at the barn working. Marvin was her firstborn, and small babies can't tag along. There was an old wooden rocking chair on the front porch where mom would place Marvin on the seat and, using a kitchen tea towel, tie it firmly around his waist and tie it on the back of the rungs. There she started the chair to rock and then left him to enjoy the ride and, hopefully, fall asleep. Meanwhile, mom was in the barn or yard. Marvin was born in 1930, remember. Things were done much differently then and there on the farm.

My dad was a disciplinarian, but he loved his children very dearly. He had high expectations for them with the hope that they would not have the hard life he lived. Dad left school after the 8th grade, so his options were limited for employment. Marvin was his pride and joy who worked hard at home and school and was a wonderful son. Dad never hesitated to use his huge hand to his children's rears to get them to understand his intentions. Even if mom had done the duty, when dad came home he added to it. I remember often being spanked twice for one infraction, and I never felt there was a fairness in it.

My father's second son was William Dwight. My mother says Billy was a delightful child, full of smiles and vigor. He was a redhead, and full of mischief and fun. There is one black and white photo of Billy, and you can see that he was tall for his age, long in limb, and I think he might have been just a bit shy with people outside his home. He was born in 1936. He died in 1942.
The first daughter was Janice May. She was born in 1945 and died three days after her birth.  The story is that mom had a fever of some kind when she gave birth to Janice. The doctor instructed the nurses to not take the baby to my mom until the fever was controlled and mom was feeling better. (By the way, Janice was mom's first birth in a hospital.) One of the nurses evidently didn't read the instructions, or perhaps they were jus

t given verbally, but one of them brought the baby in for my mother to nurse and Janice developed a fever and died. In today's world consequences would be paid for such a mistake. At that time, there was remorse and sympathy, and they buried their child. As was told to me, money could never take the place of their lost child, and that was that.

Shirley Ann was the last child born to Merril and Lucile in 1947. My father had lost two children before her, and he was not about to lose this one. I was "daddy's little girl" for many years. He doted and adored, but was firm and extremely over-cautious. The word is strict, and he was so strict with me that it made things for me a bit difficult. I wasn't allowed to wear certain types of clothes, go to many places without a parent, and my friendships were sometimes forbidden if he didn't like their father. I adored him and wanted to be like him, but later in my teenage years that changed. I began to resent his strict ways, feeling repressed and almost like a prisoner. It was the 60s, and my friends were going to all the activities that I long to go to, and I was resentful.

My mother's family were devout, staunch churchgoers. Her father Calvin Connor Campbell was a strict disciplinarian with his children and even his grandchildren. Being of Scottish descent, he considered himself lord of the clan, and they got away with nothing. None were rebellious, fortunately, and most grew to adulthood being pillars of their community, quietly being pious and good. His sons all married well, women from fine families of which he approved. His daughters did not marry so well. My father was a foul-mouthed, hot-headed, dirt poor, albeit very handsome man. My mother's sister, Leora, married a drunk who was also dirt poor. These two men were not approved by my grandfather and were hardly welcomed into his home. Mom's brothers did not have that same attitude, though they were not overly affectionate, so my dad believed they, too, didn't like him. Therefore, my father kept a distance from the Campbells. The one brother my dad liked was Russell, and we visited them frequently, but never any of the others. They seldom visited us as our home was not as nice as theirs, he would say. In photographs of mom's family when there were reunions, they would all gather together with my dad standing two or three feet to the side. His feelings were quite apparent. You always knew where you stood with my dad. His feelings were seldom hidden from view, another trait I have inherited.

Merril Johnson was a man of his time, the early twentieth-century man who expected certain behaviors from men and from women. He set the bar high for his children, and he demonstrated in his life what he expected. He was an entertaining and fun fellow with those he liked. He was a joker and loved to laugh. Both my parents loved to laugh, and in my mind, I can hear both of them talking and laughing loudly. They both had infectious laughs. If you heard it, you began to laugh without knowing why. They were just fun people. But, my dad was haunted by the personal losses and hardships in his life. I believe he died unhappy and unfulfilled. But there's hope that on his deathbed he finally made peace with his Savior and that I will see him again in eternity.

Merril Johnson and His Family....Part 1

My father's name was George Merril Johnson, but he was always called Merril, one (l). It was pronounced Mai-rel, not Mur-rel. He was the oldest of six.  After him was Howard, Vera, Harold, Lawrence, and Randal who died in infancy. All of dad's siblings were, um, not touchy-feely kind of people, but they were very sensitive.  The first three all had red hair, and they had the temperament to go with it. But even the younger sons were the same, touchy, hot-tempered, moody, extremely sarcastic, hot-blooded, strong-minded, opinionated, intolerant bigots. Believe it or not, they were all quite likable, but they all had enemies as well. As a child, I loved them. As an adult, I respected and tolerated them. And, except for the bigoted part, I tended to take after them.

These attractive characteristics were passed down from their mother, Margaret Ann Morris Johnson.
My grandmother was far from being my favorite person. Margaret was a snooty, snobby, (no. they're different), mean, gossipy and sour old woman who loved throwing cold water on anyone having a good time. She had no time for me, and if I wanted to play a game or to just talk, she would instantly shove me off to my grandfather with whom I had a delightful time. He and I belonged to a mutual admiration society, and we had way too much fun when we were together.

William Johnson was a quiet, soft-spoken and gentle man who I always felt a little sorry for. He could never go home and get away from her as I could. He wasn't allowed to smoke in the house. He was forbidden to drink, but I saw him bring bottles of beer home more than once and, with a rye smile, drink it in front of her. I have a picture of him outside the house holding up a bottle with pride I think. Still, he was a sweet man and I loved him dearly. I always thought it was such a rare mistake for God that he took Grandpa first and left her to terrorize us.

After my grandfather died, we went to live with my grandmother until she died. During my teenage years she and I spent lots of time trying to get on one another's bad side, and we both were very successful. I'm ashamed now of how I behaved toward her, but, if I had to do it over again I probably would do much the same. I think I would try to be just a little more respectful, but, wow, that would be very difficult indeed.

Just a note here before I go on. My grandmother was so mean and childish that even my dad would laugh at her behind her back. Often she would stomp through the house, upset about who-knows-
what, and my dad and mom would chuckle. We had a parakeet that was truly a remarkable bird. Peewee picked up comments and phrases, he laughed like my mom, and was just a very entertaining fellow. When my grandmother would stomp through the house, Peewee would laugh. But he didn't care if she heard him. She would stop at his cage and glare at him, then stomp away while Peewee continued to laugh just a little louder.

My mother was never unkind to my grandmother, and mom took loving care of her when she developed breast cancer and until she died.

The William Johnsons were a respected family. They were all hard-working and honest people. I honestly don't know what occupation my grandpa had when he was a younger man, but I knew him to be a janitor at more than one school in Falls City. He was janitor for Grandview grade school until it closed. He was also employed by another grade school and I went with him often on weekends when he worked at the Junior High school. I'm not sure that he was paid, but grandpa also cleaned the First Christian Church building where he and my grandma were members.

My uncle Howard chose to be a preacher in the First Christian Church, but not in Falls City. My uncle  Harold was a salesman for Sunshine Foods in Iowa, and uncle Larry was a police officer in Wichita and Grants Pass, Oregon. My dad was a mechanic, a car salesman, and finally sold car parts for Sidles. When we first moved to Falls City he owned a Texaco service station at 20th and Stone. I loved when he had the station. In the summers I would ride my bike there with the lunch that my mom would make for him. I remember that the sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper because that was before they made sandwich bags. I was allowed to choose a bottle of pop from the pop freezer that I would drink while he ate his lunch. The pop was Big Chief brand flavors, orange and grape et. al. and Dr. Pepper and such. I usually chose orange, but sometimes I would get strawberry or root beer. After he ate his lunch there were usually jobs in the garage to do like fixing tires or lubing a car. I loved when he fixed the tires because he would let me help. I was very little help. If a customer came in for gas I went with him to the pumps, and if I hadn't already been introduced, he would introduce me to all his customers. Dad had lots of customers who were his friends. When he introduced me, I think I must have felt ten feet tall, as he always told them my nickname that he called me. He would say, "This is my daughter, Tootsie." And I would beam.

Riding my bike to the station was about a mile. But, even at the age of 8 it was no big deal. I was allowed to ride anywhere in the town of 5200 because it was the 1950s and it was a small enough town. I ache for today's kids that don't have that freedom.

We got farm fresh milk from either of two dairy farms just outside of Falls City, so two days a week I would grab the two empty gallon glass milk jars and wait either on the front porch or inside the door if it was cold. Dad would pull up about 5:05 pm, five minutes after he got off work, toot his horn, and I would run out to the car. Many nights he would grab a bite of supper and we would take off for the Nemaha River or some creek nearby and sit quietly on the bank fishing for a couple of hours. Sometimes we talked. Other times we would watch the bubbles from the fish on the water and he would point to silently say, "There's one. Maybe he'll get your hook." I didn't mind if he did because daddy never made me clean what I caught. If I'd had to do that, I would have thrown them back, and he knew it.

In the fall I went hunting squirrels, pheasant and quail with him, and in winter we went rabbit hunting. I never got to go deer hunting with him because he usually went with other men. There came the time when I decided I didn't want to go with him. That's when things changed. I changed and he changed. It was never the same after that.

I loved my daddy to the moon and back, and I can't say I ever stopped loving him. But there came a time when I hated my father. At first I didn't know why I hated him, but reality began to invade my innocent and naive love for him. I hated the man I loved, and that's a very hard combination of emotions for a young woman. When I finally knew the reason he was no longer alive, and I will never have that opportunity that one needs to say, "I know now, and I understand. It was wrong of you, but I love you anyway." So, I've told my Lord, confessed my anger and repented, and that's enough. Or, it will have to be enough.

After writing this I looked up the word "scallawag", and I have determined that scallawag may be a very good word to describe the William Johnson clan.

My Mother's Right Foot

It's a shame that parents no longer have a free hand, pun intended, to discipline their children. We've all witnessed bad parenting in the supermarket or in the dress shop. I've heard parents that are clear across a large store yelling at their children and being completely out of line in their own behavior. But normal, every day, run-of-the-mill parents usually know moderation and selecting battles is the true key to being a good parent. Of course, we all have a bad day here and there, but the idea that parents have no rights for spanking is absurd.

It's a very embarrassing situation for a child to be harshly reprimanded publicly. My mom embarrassed me once when I was a teenager, and it was traumatic for me. It really wasn't deserved, but I can now, having been a parent of three teens, understand that sometimes frustration can build and release itself explosively. Nevertheless, a parent should have the freedom to let a kid have it if it is necessary. Trust me when I say, I never repeated that mistake.

Another error in judgment that I never repeated was the day that I ran from my mother. Some may get away with such misguided action, but I am not one of them. If my mom had been a mother in today's society, she would have been jailed often, and perhaps the key to the cell disposed of. My mother was anything but mean, she was extremely kind and sweet-tempered. But she carefully tried to make sure that I obeyed when she spoke. Usually, her method included speaking firmly. When that didn't work, she yelled a lot. I think I inherited that trait from her, and I want to make sure that I give credit for that where it is due.

I could always tell when out at play if I had pushed my limit too far. She would call out the back door for me, "Shirley" to come in for supper. If she had to call the second or third time, it was "Shirley ANN!" Life would be over if I didn't respond to the third call.

The day in question is the day she must have called three times. That part I don't remember. What I do remember is that I must have been about 8 years old; old enough to know better, as they say. I remember turning around as I played with my friends, to see my mother walking briskly, and with purpose, down the sidewalk toward me. This wasn't a good thing.

Now, my mom was a large woman. At 5 feet and 11 inches, she at one time had had a very fine figure. But after bearing four children, and having me at age 41, she no longer was slim and trim. This tall frame carried some weight with her, and I was in deep trouble if she got hold of me when she was angry. Mom was seldom angry. She simply had so much to do each day that she didn't have time for my nonsense, and she would get very frustrated. I looked at the woman marching toward me. Yep. That woman was angry.

I guess I just didn't think. Reason wasn't an option in my mind. It seemed that I had only one hope, and that is unfortunately what I chose. I ran. I ran like a running back on a football team who had the ball and was being chased by five 300 pound linemen. Oh! If I could only go back and relive that moment! All 5'11" and 200 pounds of that woman too easily caught up with that 8-year-old, and my mother did not wait to get me home for my punishment.

She grabbed my arm, turned me around toward home, and ushered me quickly and painfully up the sidewalk. Without a word, mom took one step, and then she swung her right foot and planted it on the back of my right leg, one time on my back thigh, one time on the back of my calf.  And let's not forget my rear end. One step, kick. One step, plant. All. The. Way. Home. which was, thankfully, only one house away. I was sent to my room. I had no supper. Frankly, it's a wonder that I didn't get a spanking from my dad. But my punishment was harsh and memorable.

The neighbors saw what was happening. Did they call for police? Did they file a complaint of child endangerment? Of course not! The moms looking on were no doubt cheering my mom, and thinking, "bet she never does that again."

The next day my leg and my butt were covered from top to bottom with bruises. Today, my mom would surely have been in trouble, I would have been removed from my dear home, and my sweet mother would be behind bars, all because a little brat of an 8-year-old dared to disobey. It's a sick society that takes away the freedom to lovingly parent a child.

And you can bet your bank account that I never, ever, ran from my mother again.