My father was a quality man and an engaged father. I often knew, as we did things together that I wanted to do, that he was doing them for me, and to provide time for us to be together. I valued those times and have always valued those memories. I have three particular memories of the ethical and moral character of my father, that often influence my life and my decisions, even at this point in my life.
1. "Don't Pay Too Much for your Whistle": It must have been a time when I wanted something that I really didn't need, or couldn't afford. I don't remember what, but I remember Dad told me the story of Benjamin Franklin when he was a child. He had seen a whistle in the local general store that he really wanted and he had collected all the money he could find and gave it all to the clerk for the whistle. Benjamin went out of the store blowing his whistle and continued to blow the whistle when he arrived at his home. He managed to irritate his mother and father in his home and eventually became bored with his expensive whistle. Benjamin learned from this experience and advice from his mother that he had, "Paid Too Much for his Whistle".
I googled the whistle story and Ben Franklin and found it almost as Dad had told me. Without any other persuasion from my Dad, I chose to not buy the item at that point, and have often thought of the message of the story when I was about to "Pay Too Much ---for my 'Whistle'".
2. Selling my used Comic Books: Dad and I had walked down town in the little Eastern Oregon community where we lived and where I grew up - Ontario, Oregon. I was a lover of comic books and had brought several with me to sell to a street vendor who would pay me 5 cents each for my used 10 cent comic books. Dad waited across the street as I completed my transaction. As I crossed the street, I looked at the money and said, "Dad, the man made a mistake. He paid me too much for my comic books." Dad made some comment asking what I thought I should do about that. I walked back across the street and told the man what had happened and gave him the money he over paid me. Wow, how many times have events like that happened in my life. I walked out of a grocery store the other day with an item in my pocket that I had put there out of carrying convenience and then forgot to pay for it. As I reached for my keys I found the item. There was no question in my mind as to what I should do. Thanks, Dad.
3. The Money Owed on the Cow: We lived on a small acreage when I was in my teens and had cows. My responsibility was to milk the cows morning and evening. Dad had bought one of his cows from an older man whom we knew from our church. A few months later, the man, in a move of desperation, had taken his life. Dad still owed him about half the purchase price of the Cow and only the man knew that. I watch my father struggle with that fact and then go to the man's surviving spouse to pay her what was owed.
Dad and Mom were school teachers, having met at Albion Normal Teachers College in Idaho. In the early years of my life, Dad had left teaching and was transitioning into a position as a fieldman for the Amalgamated Sugar Company. During a year of transition he managed a Mexican labor camp on the banks of the Snake River in Weiser, Idaho. We lived in a tent for most of a year. It was an exciting adventure for my sister Donna and I. Dad had arranged for a horse that we could ride, and the mexican laborers were always giving us candy and bringing stolen chickens to my mother. I think my mother's memories of that partial year were probably not quite as positive as mine.
I was five years old and started my first year of school while we lived in the camp.
The picture above is of Donna and me on that first day. Not sure what happened to me on my horse. Dad wrote a poem that day, as he often did around the events of our lives.
OUR TASK
We tucked him in his bed last night, and found his dolly there
Beside him on the pillow, both asleep without a care.
These two have been together as good buddies ought to be
As shipmates to the Land of Nod, upon the dewy sea.
Full many a night they've steered their course, in fair and stormy weather,
And, though their ship has been near wrecked, they've sailed it home together.
Today, we sense a change in him; he's spent a day at school.
He's lost a bit of babyhood; he's learned his first hard rule.
It's difficult to see him start to change from babe to boy,
To place a task within the hand that's always held a toy.
But still, we will not change him course, not even if we can.
Instead, we'll pray, "Dear Father, help our boy become a man."
Bernard H. (Bud) Johnson - my father
September 1943
One day, about 17 years ago, Sharen had gone to Los Angeles to participate in
a Special Olympics Basketball State of California event at the UCLA Basketball Center,
that Jody,our oldest daughter was playing in as she began a long and continuing involve-
ment in Special Olympics in California.
I was home alone, so for me, that always means that my musical instruments are
out and I play, sing, and write more -- without intruding on the space of another.
I was playing my guitar and singing - probably singing one of the old songs that
Dad used to play on his old National Guitar. I had this strange sense, this sensation that someone else was with me -- and ended up writing the poem below.
A FAMILIAR VOICE
Listen, there's that voice again, And there it is -- again
And --------- ah, ah, --- again.
It sounds so familiar - particularly when it's singing.
I know -- It's Dad's voice! Dad? Dad? Is that you?
But you've been gone from this earth -- for -- 26 years
I've missed you -- so much
I've wanted to share my adult life -- with you.
I've wanted -- to talk to you -- about Mom and -- the two of you.
I've wanted you to help me -- help me understand my relationships.
Help me know God.
I've wanted to sing with you -- to play guitars with you --
For my children to know you -- and love you -- Like I did -- and do!
So -- why are you back -- now? Why is your voice here?
Where is it coming from?
Oh Wow! -- It's not your voice, is it? Well, I mean -- it's not really your voice.
It's mine! The singing is coming out of my mouth.
It's my voice -------- but it's yours!
I was thirty one when you left. Now I'm fifty eight - and you're back.
Now I can sing with you. Now I can play guitar with you.
Now I can harmonize with you.
What a great gift -- for your voice to be mine.
What a pleasant way to be alone with you.
Thank you, Dad. I will visit you regularly until we live together - forever.
I love you Dad.
R. Bernie Johnson (Bob)
December 9, 1995
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