Dad

Today would have been my father’s 90^th birthday.  He died just a couple of weeks after his 70^th birthday, 20 years ago.  His July 3^rd birthday is inextricably entwined with the 4^th of July; in the small town where I spent my first nine years, the entire town turned out for the celebration,  which included a horse show, a big picnic and fireworks, and I remember him being “Happy Birthday-ed” all day long.

Jay Sharp Johns, Jr., was definitely one of “The Greatest Generation.”  He served in WWII and was stationed in New Guinea and Australia.  He only talked about pranks and the crazy things he and his buddies did in the war; never about the bad stuff.  Never.  The only sick days I can remember him taking in his life were when he had gall bladder surgery.  He was a farm kid, the youngest of six, raised by very strict, maybe even harsh parents. I think Pap had an 8^th grade education, and Grandma Johns graduated high school.  Still, all of those kids spoke perfect, almost formal English.  No one dropped their g’s or, God forbid, ever said “ain’t,” and somehow not one of them picked up the dreaded Pittsburgh accent. (Listen to former Steelers coach Bill Cowan if you want to know what that sounds like). After he married my mother, Dad went to night school on the GI Bill, and earned a business degree, from Geneva College.  All four of us learned our work ethic from him. 

Oh, he was handsome.  I love the picture below – he reminds me of a young Johnny Carson. He had one of those faces that was appealing not just for the physicality of it, but because of what shown from within – confidence, humor, smarts. Women loved him.  In our small town, the Calgon plant was one of the biggest employers in the area, and Dad rose to be boss of the whole place.  After that, they moved him into Pittsburgh for an executive position, and that’s when we left Ellwood City.  At his funeral, I lost count of how many people came up to us and said "Your dad was the best boss I ever had."

The wonderful thing about Dad’s sense of humor was that it could be incredibly silly and juvenile – as when poor Amy Vanderbilt, the etiquette expert, apparently plunged to her death from her New York apartment, and he went on a riff about the suicide note she probably left behind, instructing the street cleaners in the proper way to hold the shovel and dispose of her remains (forgive me) – but he could also deliver a line as drily and wittily as Noel Coward.  I remember years ago, listening to a loud, bombastic friend of mine ranting about how much she hated her job, and her boss, and that from here on out, she was going to say whatever was on her mind, consequences be damned.  I gave her a cool look and remarked “Up until now, you’ve been a model of restraint.” That wasn’t me, that was Dad speaking through me.

Like everyone else, Dad changed and mellowed over the years, and at the end of his life, expressed doubts about whether he’d been a good father.  You were, Dad.  Did I ever say thanks for the summer vacations, or “snack nights?” For the countless nights at Three Rivers Stadium, watching the Pirates? For the college education?  For the fleeting but beautiful moments I witnessed between you and your grandchildren? 

Happy birthday, Dad.  Thanks for everything.  I love you.

I love the feeling I get when I decide to go for it.  Today I feel like forgoing the relative comfort of the gym, and walk five miles in the heat.  I don't know why, but there it is.  I just went out and bought myself a big cold bottle of water. At 5:00, I'm heading out the door, but in another direction.  Maybe to the UT campus.  Hey, maybe the UT track is still open.  Maybe that's what it is!  Watching those incredible Olympic athletes makes me want to push myself. Looking forward to the 4th tomorrow, when I'm going to learn whether or not Banks can handle fireworks.....