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
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.
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