Mr. Johnson, the grandfather of my friend Len, and his wife moved to their daughter’s home on Euclid Avenue in August 1951, and that is when I met him. The Johnsons had owned a farm west of Springfield. Mr. Johnson told me that one day he decided, at the age of 73, that he had had enough of planting, milking and harvesting, and he vowed that the rest of his days would be spent on more leisurely pursuits.
The day after the Johnsons moved to Oak Park, Mr. Johnson went into the living room, selected the strongest chair, and moved it to the front porch. He then settled his large frame into the chair and watched the world go past. Not having gone beyond the eighth grade, he had no interest in books or newspapers, but his Bible was on a table next to his chair as was his pipe and sweet-smelling tobacco.
I realized, as did everyone else who knew him, that he planned to spend the rest of his life seated contentedly on the porch from early morning until sundown, and as the seasons changed, he did not deviate from his plan.
On some evenings when I was visiting Len, I sat on the porch and listened to Mr. Johnson’s stories of his younger days on the farm, and I was awed hearing tales of wild animals and terrible storms and tornadoes.
He told us that, when he was 20, he enlisted in the Army, was shipped to Cuba and fought at El Canay. He was unhappy, though, that he wasn’t at San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.
Because he spent many hours outside, he became a keen observer of nature. He learned the habits of many birds, and was delighted by the scents coming from his daughter’s flower garden. When fall came, he counted flocks of southbound geese, and on October nights when the harvest moon was low in the sky, he hated to give up his chair and go to bed.
Winter did not deter Mr. Johnson; he simply donned long underwear, a heavy coat, a felt hat and earmuffs. He held the bowl of his pipe and drank hot coffee, and told everyone that he was quite happy and comfortably warm.
Over the years, his beard grew long and very white and with his soft chuckle, he reminded me of Santa Claus.
Meanwhile, his chair aged along with him, and one day it collapsed leaving Mr. Johnson sprawled on the porch floor. His son-in-law helped him to his feet, and Mr. Johnson vowed that he would from that day forth stay in the house unless a stronger chair could be purchased for him. He did get the chair, but his wife and daughter restricted his visits to the porch.
Mr. Johnson was a second grandfather to me, and his stories and friendship remain happy memories.
