Dubious Quality

He didn't need to. All he needed to do was be himself, and all I needed to do was watch him, because the way Johnny did things was the whole philosophy of his life. 

When he collected shells (from all the time he spent fishing on Padre Island), he built display cabinets and had a stunning collection.

When he built a skiff, he worked on it for years. I would ask him if it was ever going to be done, but he was never in a hurry. The whole process was so methodical and complete, and he never skipped a single step. 

I don't think Johnny would have necessarily described it this way, but what he demonstrated every day was that life was a process, not an outcome. 

That sounds simple, but it's not. 

It wasn't really the shells in display cases that gave him pleasure. It was the process of collecting the shells that filled the display cases that mattered to him. 

It wasn't having a new skiff. It was the process of building the skiff. 

I desperately wanted a basketball goal around the time I was nine. It wasn't like it is now, though--you couldn't just go to a sporting goods store and buy a basketball goal and support that you could wheel around. Even if it had been possible, we couldn't have afforded it. 

My Mom bought the backboard and rim, and then Johnny just showed up one day and started working. He attached the backboard to a wooden pole, a big one. He dug a hole at the end of the driveway. Poured concrete. Put the sturdy wooden pole into the hole as the concrete set. When the concrete dried, I had a basketball goal. 

It took him all afternoon. 

Of course, after I thanked him and he went back home, the first thing I did was climb up on a ladder and measure how high it was. 10'0". Exactly. 

It would have been easier for it just to be close to ten feet, but that's not how he did things. 

Like I said, he lived two doors down, and the lots were small, so there couldn't have been more than thirty yards or so between the basket and his garage. I'm sure he could hear me every time I shot baskets, which was constantly. My poor Mom missed out on naps because I was out there for hours, shooting, and I'm sure he missed out on peace and quiet, too.

He never said a word. 

I wish I'd thanked him again before he passed away.