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.