Dubious Quality

There are memories that suddenly become sharper when someone passes, and they come back like a flood. That's what happened with Johnny, and I've been trying to sort through all the memories. 

Good memories.

When you're a child, your parents give you a sense of belonging. My Mom certainly did. Children need more than that, though--they need to meet people outside their home who give them the same sense of belonging, so that they feel comfortable in the world. 

Johnny did that for me. 

We moved down Austin Street, into our own house, in 1965 or 1966. Johnny and his wife Marilyn lived two doors down. They seemed old when I met them, but now I realize how impossibly young they were, so much younger than I am now. 

People were drawn to Marilyn because she was so quick-witted and had a big smile. She said twenty words for every one that Johnny said. 

As it turned out, though, Johnny was the one I was drawn to. 

He ran a concrete business in Corpus Christi, and he loved fishing and football and boxing. I learned later that he was a craftsman, too, watching him build a wooden skiff over the course of a few years that was unbelievably beautiful. Later he would start carving animals out of wood, and they were amazing.

Something else about Johnny: he was never in a hurry. 

In all the years that I knew him, I never saw him rush. I was the opposite as a boy, because I wanted to go everywhere and do everything and answer every question simultaneously. Johnny answered every question with a slow, calm voice that was never in a hurry, just like him. 

I didn't understand this until many years later, but without a father I was missing out on some things. Johnny knew that, though, and he quietly arranged for me to have some of those experiences. He took me fishing. He took me to high school football games, and we watched pro games together in his den. He let me hang out with him in the garage, whenever I wanted. 

It was this slow accumulation of certainty that made me have that sense of belonging. 

When I started playing golf (his brother played and took me once, and I was hooked), Johnny dropped me off at the course in the summer on the way to work. I'd walk 36 holes, then practice, and I'd be waiting for him at 4:30 to go home. I think I was only around twelve then, but I'd go with him and his daughter a few days a week. 

Mom scrimped so that I could play and have a cheeseburger out of the vending machine for lunch. 

I wasn't always comfortable when I was a kid, because even though I didn't know it, I was already pretty introverted. Around Johnny, though, I never had a single moment where I didn't feel okay. 

I never saw Johnny get angry. Annoyed, a few times, but it never lasted long. That was another reason I never felt uneasy, because I knew he wasn't going to get angry about anything. 

It was a far simpler time, and for Johnny, that fit him perfectly, because to describe him was simple: he was a good man. 

Tomorrow: the story of the basketball goal.