My earliest memories of him are as indelible as carvings in stone, but far more vivid. Each time I look at one of the old, faded, Polaroid pictures he took of me when I was very small, I can still remember the moment it was taken. I remember the way he smelled, the thick white starched uniform shirts he used to wear, and the Old Spice. I remember the way he talked, and the no-nonsense answers he always seemed to have to my everyday problems. I remember his flat-top haircuts, his clip-on sunglasses, his sense of humor.
Clarence Kennith Johnson was born in 1932 to a widowed mother in the southwest Virginia mining town of Richlands. He looked, and even sounded, a lot like Andy Griffith, and the environment in which he grew up could in fact be closely compared to Mayberry. He shared the same fairness, the same easy-going southern personality, and the same innate wisdom that folks admire in Sheriff Taylor in endless reruns, every day.
He started out doing what all young men did in that area, working in the mines. It wasn’t easy for a man who stood 6’4″ by age 16. Too tall to work in the tunnels, he repaired mine motors (little locomotives) and other electrics, with which he seemed to have a talent.
Life dealt him a blow as we reached his twenties: Tuberculosis. At the time, there were special hospitals which dealt specifically with TB, where patients could be made comfortable and kept in isolation, and he was quickly sent to one near Roanoke, where he spent several years. Against the odds, he recovered fully. He also met a nice, friendly nurse with a big heart whom he would soon marry. Desperate for work after his convalescence, he heard that retail giant Sears, Roebuck and Co. was hiring electronics technicians, and would offer paid training. He jumped at the chance, and after training was sent to a city where new facilities were being built. In Charlottesville, Virginia, he married, worked, built a new life, and in 1963, started a family.
He was perhaps the most admirable man I have ever known. People often say that, but when I say it, I mean that I never once, during my first nineteen years, saw him step out of line, break a promise, or treat anyone badly. Every good thing that I see in myself, I owe to him. He taught me what it is to be a father, which is a tall order for a man who’d never had one. Perhaps he redefined the role. He didn’t make a man out of me, but through gentle guidance and a few kicks in the pants, he made sure I became one. He didn’t stop me from making mistakes, but he picked me up, dusted me off, and ensured that I learned something from each one. We had a million long talks, about electronics, about computers at a time when they still filled rooms, about work and life and death and honesty and values, and women, and education, and anything else that was on my mind.
When I was 19 years old, I stood beside a bed in a hospital ICU, having been told that I was probably speaking to my father for the last time. His body had been ravaged, and his major blood vessels weakened over the years, by a hereditary disorder known as Marfan Syndrome. Now, a huge bulge in his aorta threatened to burst and take his life. I can remember the frailty of his body, lying there, pale and wan in the harsh light. My composure was like thin, cracked ice, and I was going to have to walk across that ice to get through this visit.
I remember struggling with what to say. Which words would be right … which words should I say, what did I want to hear from my father the last time I talked to him? As I entered the room, he spoke in a weak voice … just a thin remnant of his former booming tone. I couldn’t hear what he’d said, so I moved closer, hoping he couldn’t see the tears I was struggling to hold back. He was asking to have his feet rubbed.
That’s when I realized that over the years, my father and I had shared endless conversations. He knew, better than I did, that I didn’t need one more, to take away as a parting gift, nor did he need that. I rubbed his feet. He mumbled something about not getting all emotional, and then he drifted off. Walking out of that room was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.
A few hours later, the surgeon reappeared in the waiting room with the news that no one wanted.
Every year, about this time, the thoughts come flooding back, and I am filled with uncertainty. I am not the world’s most devout Christian, but I do believe that the soul endures long after the body has turned to dust. I wonder if he is looking down on me, seeing what I’ve made of my life. I know he’d be disappointed in a lot of my decisions, but I hope there are a few things I’ve done that would make him smile and be proud of the way he gave me my start. Mostly I hope he can see how much I still love and miss him.
Happy birthday, dad.