1931 - PART II - A SEQUEL AND A POSTSCRIPT OF BARNS AND A FUNERAL  - 

As we concluded Part I, Grandpa Johnson and his casket had been lowered gently into the bosom of the earth in a cemetery at Tomah, Wisconsin.  Just a few short months later, in the full blush of spring, my young sister, Margie, and I would be combing the pasture and woodland slopes on the back side of the “bluff”, a glacial mound on the forty acres where we lived.  We would be searching for blooming wild flowers to be laced upon Grandpa’s grave on “Decoration Day”.  These slopes extended into the swamps and marshes so typical of that part of Monroe County.  It was not uncommon for open water to occur in various parts of these wetlands where the cattails would also grow in profusion and where the red-winged blackbirds would congregate.  I knew these wild birds by their song long before I discovered what they looked like!  “Mortal -e-e-e; More -ta - lee; Morta-ta-lee; Morta-lee-e-e-e-e.”  In these same wetlands willow brush also grew thicker than the hair on our dog’s back.  This willow seldom attained any degree of size or stature; what I remember was a diameter of a half-inch or less and rarely more than six or seven feet high.  It was a real challenge to any person to hike directly through it or straight across country.  It also provided excellent cover for native wildlife.  Incidentally, it also made for real neat wooden whistles, and both my parents agreed; (that in itself was most unusual!)  it was a wonderful source of “switches” - disciplinary!  That could possibly have been more of a threat than a reality: for I have but one memory of any such a “spanking device”.  That occasion had been at an earlier time and place, and on that particular day it was my mother who was in hot pursuit.  I had absolutely no business out in the yard that day; I was to “git” right back into that house”; and the “switch” she was wielding appeared to be at least ten feet long!  Glory be!  Was I ever making time; she never did get close enough for contact!

These wetlands had more or less resisted agricultural development; problems of drainage were discouraging, and because of lower elevation unseasonable frost put the damper on raising corn.  In the more open marshlands course, heavy grass grew in abundance, providing great pasture where our cattle and horses grew fat during the hot, humid summers.  Occasionally one of these beasts in a careless moment might venture too near to an open water area.  A more plausible explanation would be the violent thunder storms and heavy downpours of rain.  This could easily confuse the sensitivities of domestic animals.  Once an animal sank into the underlying muck, its chances of escape were minimal, to say the least.  Unless help arrived within a short time, the animal would first exhaust its energy in the struggle and then just drown itself.  Many local farmers, including us, harvested and stored vast amounts of this wild grass, sometimes stacks and stacks of it.  We called it “marsh hay”.

It will also be noted that the lengthy title has been shortened; that name, Elmer, has been eliminated.  In pursuing a rather sketchy outline I had prepared, probably in the 1960's, I discovered that Elmer’s name does not appear until spring, 1932.  This creates a conflict between my memory in the late 1990's opposed to what I remembered more than thirty years earlier; and it’s not at all unlikely that my memory in the 1960's was more nearly correct than it would be now, 1998.  Also, if I can leave Elmer out of Grandpa’s story, it will greatly simplify the many events in 1931 of which I am reasonably certain.  Then too, if Elmer did not appear until six months following the funeral, there would be no point of including him in 1931, as Grandpa never would have seen the man anyhow.  This is, first of all, the story of Joseph Johnson.  So much for Elmer Brewer.  He was a character in a class by himself, and the circumstances by which he entered my boyhood days will make a story for some other time.

Inadvertently appendages to Grandpa’s funeral will surface, and these postscripts ought to be included.  In part, they are details which I have forgotten over the years, but which my sister does remember.  Grandpa’s illness was not greatly prolonged, three weeks to be exact.  I have already credited my father with no end of trips to Grandpa’s place, perhaps two and a half miles, and on into town, another six or even eight miles by way of Highway 21.  All this was just to be of help in the crisis; that called for additional time and attention to details beyond the normal stress and routine of life.

To be of help during his illness, Aunt Olive came down from Merrill, maybe 150 miles to the north.  My mother related fairly well then with Aunt Olive, who was an older sister of hers; but when Aunt Alice, her youngest sister arrived from Madison, a hundred miles to the south; well, that made a difference!  Mother was definitely protective of her younger sister, and whenever Aunt Olive became overly aggressive toward her youngest sibling she could anticipate interference; our mother was, by reason of chronological age, the in-between!

It seems that Aunt Olive began singing about “Springtime in the Rockies” as Grandpa lay upon his death bed.  That was just too much for the younger sister to accept passively, and our mother never was one to back down, not even for a strategic withdrawal.  Open hostilities were preeminent, and there were three “angry Norwegians” in the ring. (All three were women!)  The music went ‘round and ‘round.  Grandpa was a Swede, but Grandma was from Norway and that was close enough.  When battle lines are drawn such details are only incidental; neutral parties can fully expect minor items like boundary lines and property rights to be violated and ignored.  When people become angered to that extent, reason and rationality seldom carry the weight they should; it becomes more of an exhibit of temporary insanity.  It’s too bad these unyielding and overbearing attitudes should ever raise their ugly heads; but so it continues, and I know from experience what it’s like.  This recurrent verbal combat cast a pall of gloom over me, my brothers and sister as we were growing up; and it came not only from my mother’s side of the genealogy; it came from my father’s side as well.

Either I had never been aware or else I had entirely forgotten that during Grandpa’s illness my father was also responsible for bathing the bedridden patient daily.  That in itself would have been an heroic accomplishment.  Not every man could or would have responded to such an assignment.  I have previously mentioned my mother’s devotion to her father, and she often recounted how she had bathed his dried and parched lips.  At some time I drove a horse and sleigh over so I could see Grandpa once more.  Clyde, my step-cousin, may have been with me, and he may have been in charge of the horse whose name would have been Lady.  Grandpa’s bed had been moved into the living room by then, and he must have been right near the end for his breathing was rapid and labored and at the time he was not talking.  Grandpa had always been kind to me, and I liked him even if he had occasionally spoken sharply.  I was thoroughly conditioned to reprimands from adults; I expected to be corrected, and I more or less assumed that I needed that.  And at some time near the end Grandpa addressed a rather standardized question to my father, “What did I ever do that I should suffer like this?”  This question becomes unique and original with each smitten or afflicted individual; and it’s never commonplace in that respect.  Grandpa was really hurting.  The question has been asked many, many times the world over.  It is very, very real and it’s also legitimate.  It is, in fact, among the most difficult for the human mind to understand.

And I cannot help but raise a second inquiry: Were his sensitivities violated or further irritated by the ongoing hostilities among his “adult” offspring?  That fiasco will forever leave a rough scar upon my own memories.  Easter Sunday has recently passed, 4-12-98.  I make no apology that my memory again turns to something I have read.  In modern parlance that would be described as instant replay.  “The Lord of Glory was dying (on the cross) --- . All was oppressive gloom. --- His suffering was from a sense of the malignity of sin. --- So great was this agony that His physical pain was hardly felt.

Psychologists declare that the mind tends to retain only the agreeable and happy experiences; but to entirely forget these negative quantities is something else.  I often wonder if the science of the mind is not a bit weak in this area?  It sometimes seems to simmer down into a more or less stereotyped doctrine known as “positive thinking”.  This is great, simply a great idea; but if positive thinking is all we have to carry us over the rough places and beyond the “dead centers”, it becomes inherently deficient.  We need help from outside and from another source than ourselves.

As a postscript this has grown rather lengthy.  I guess I may have just as well left Elmer in the story.  When Grandpa at length had died, Father personally gathered up the bedding where death had occurred.  He took it out beyond the barn and burned it.  At some time during the illness, Winnie Grovstien, a church lady from town and a long time acquaintance of Grandma, seemed determined to superimpose her help and expertise, to more or less “take charge” as many church people seem prone to do.  Uncle Johnny did not approve of the idea at all.  He told my dad, and I heard him myself when he declared “We don’t need her help.  No, we don’t need her out here!”  This was one of the few times I remember when Uncle Johnny asserted himself.  Generally he was quite easy going and tolerant.  And then I heard through my father, right after Grandpa died; Uncle Johnny told him point blank, “I am not going to any funeral; I am going to town and get drunk!”  As I recall, Dad “talked him out of it!”  I can’t really remember if he was at the service or not; Uncle Johnny was a favorite of mine, and as a boy I often thought that he represented real good common sense.  I know, too, that my father loved to convince and persuade people; and he often directed his efforts along these lines toward me.  It could be he was somewhat “choosy” of his subjects; he may have preferred some individuals over others!  Many, many times he became highly successful in his efforts with me.  I learned much from him about being sensible and reasonable, and of the difference between right and wrong; of what it means to be agreeable and cooperative, and of the negatives of being stubborn and headstrong.  As to my learning to make sound decisions of my own, well, that’s another story; and for now it’s best to put that on hold!

On November 9 in the fall of 1931 my infant brother Bill had just reached his first birthday.  This was only a short time before Grandpa was smitten.  In honor of the occasion our mother brought Bill over to see his grandma and grandpa.  With no apparent premonition of foreknowledge of the immediate future, Grandpa was perfectly delighted over his youngest grandson, and he repeatedly reminded others present that Billy was now a year old.  This treasure from the past was shared by my sister, and I am so glad she remembers the occasion.  In fact, she told me it is one of the few real memories she has of Grandpa while he was alive.

Grandpa had spawned and nurtured seven offspring.  Five were girls and only two were boys.  Number one, Amy, was born in 1890, and the youngest did not arrive until 1906; that was Aunt Alice.  I, my brothers and my sister were especially blessed in that both our mother and our father had a kid sister named Alice, and both kid sisters were right at the same age!  In 1931 but five living children remained to Joseph and Jessie Johnson.  There were also but five living grandchildren, and number five had not yet reached her first birthday.  Her name was Alice, in honor of her mother.  Alice had an older sister whom we called Jean who had not reached her fourth birthday.  This also means that we (myself, my sister and brother) had but two cousins.  As mentioned earlier, there were also three step-cousins.  Eighteen years later, 1949 there would be but seven grandchildren, the same number as were the sons and daughters Grandma and Grandpa bore.  In 1998 the number of grandchildren stands at eight and that total is no doubt now fixed for eternity.  As for my father’s two sisters, neither of them ever became a natural mother; although they each took on a motherless “daughter”, and both those girls entered adult life as worthy of the favor which had been granted them.  So life goes!

There is yet another memory of Grandma and Grandpa Johnson which fits as well right now as at any other time.  I think it was in the fall of 1929.  Grandma and Grandpa were in Madison, Wisconsin, where their youngest, our Aunt Alice lived.  Grandpa was having all kinds of fun in company with his youngest granddaughter who was right at that age of a year old; and baby Jeanette was laughing all over with joy.  A more detailed account of this trip to our state’s capital will fit well later on.  Do we wander off limits with the idea that Grandpa liked young children?  Most men are no exception in that area, in spite of their acquired tendencies toward the “macho”.  It is best that we now draw this “postscript” to a close.

End of Part II

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