Posts Tagged ‘Lonnie Johnson’

Reflections of My Father on Father’s Day 2021

June 20, 2021

Each morning, I arise with a heart overflowing with gratitude to God for being alive to see another day. On Father’s Day, I am especially thankful that I am a father with a loving wife and two beautiful daughters, Melissa and Angela,  and two great sons-in-law, William and Shajuan, and a grandson, Kingston Edward, all of whom have been blessings beyond words. This Father’s Day is special because of one of the special gifts that I received inspired this poetic response, as I thought of my father:

A Good-looking Hat

When my son-in-law asked what I wanted for Father’s Day,

He was wearing one of his signature hats that he wears with

Style and class, and I said, “I want a hat like that.”

And quicker than I could say “Jackie Robinson,” he took note

And made sure I received my request in time for Father’s Day.

As I look into the mirror and try on the Father’s Day gift,

I smile as I remembered my dapper Dad,

Styling and profiling, getting ready for church and other special occasions.

As far as I can remember,  whether summer or winter, Dad always wore a hat,

But Dad didn’t just put a hat on his head. Back in the day, as they would  say,

“He was wearing that hat!”

And so today, as I get ready for church,  I put on my beau chapeau nouveau,

And wear it proudly,  remembering my father, Lonnie Johnson, and I know he would

Have liked it, and I can hear him say, “That’s a good-looking hat. . .

You’re looking good, my son.”

This Father’s Day post also brings to mind another blog entry where I recall something that my father said. Although my father was a man of few words,  on a couple of memorable occasions, he told me, “Son, I’m proud of you.” Every man since Adam has sensed a deep yearning to hear these words or some variation thereof from his father. On one specific occasion occurring around Father’s Day, my dad made a similar comment that inspired this work:

The Perfect Father’s Day Gift

There was a time when I would stretch my mind,

Make a list and try to think of the perfect gift,

As we approached Father’s Day, the third Sunday in June.

Now let me see what will it be?

I know. . . a portable radio. . .

What about a shirt—extra-large—to fit?

Pajamas, house shoes, another Dopp kit?

Each year I would really try, as I resolved:

No more cologne—not another tie!

One year I ran out of ideas, and so I asked,

“Dad, what do you want for Father’s Day?”

He thought awhile and in his own quiet way,

He smiled and had this to say:

“Just between me and you,

Here’s what you can do.

Just keep me proud of you.

Son, just keep me proud of you.”

Now when my daughters ask,

What can they get me for Father’s Day,

I fondly remember, and I smile and say,

“The words of your Grandpa are still true.

As he said to me, so I say to you:

‘Just between me and you,

Here’s what you can do.

Just keep me proud of you.

Girls, just keep me proud of you.”

I continue to thank God for my father and all that he contributed to my success in all areas of my life. I have so many fond memories of my father, and so often this

I continue to thank God for my father and all that he contributed to my success in all areas of my life. I have so many fond memories of my father, and so often this song by Chris Tomlin comes to mind:

Remembering my father on his birthday

December 2, 2017

Lonnie Johnson

As I progressed through the day, my thoughts flowed in streams that seem to converge into this blog post, a revision and expansion of an entry posted a few years ago. At the time, I also read inspiring and thought-provoking comments posted on ponderosapapa’s blog, focusing on the Word for the Day, which in this case was “Posterity.” The remarks were especially meaningful, as I have been thinking about my father. I also thought of my  4-year old grandson who has enriched my life in so many ways. In light of all that has recently transpired, I decided to revise and re-post the following entry:

This morning as I began my morning reflections and time of meditation, I recall December 2 is the birthday of my father, Lonnie Johnson, who would have been 98. Born in rural Arkansas in 1922, my father migrated as a youngster with his mother to Gary, Indiana where I was born and reared. Recently my father had been very much in my thoughts, as my wife and I have relocated to be near our daughter and son-in-law and our first grandson who live in Ashburn, Virginia. During the Thanksgiving holiday, as I thought about all that I am grateful for, I thought of my parents with a comforting assurance that they would have been so proud of their great grandson.

As I reflect upon my father, I recall something that he said a number of times, but I remember one specific occasion when he told me, “Son, I’m proud of you.” We were living in Arlington, Virginia in the first year of our marriage, and most remarkably we have returned to that general area to live.

Every man since Adam has sensed a deep yearning to hear these words or some variation thereof from his father. I also recall another specific occasion occurring around Father’s Day, when I asked my dad what he wanted for Father’s Day, and he made a similar comment, “Son, just keep me proud of you.” I have since endeavored to live up to that admonition.

Since moving back to the Washington, DC area, I have made connections with the VA hospital in the District, a place where I formerly worked as a staff pharmacist. Now, as an oncology patient, I travel into DC every three months for treatment and travel near the place where my wife and I first met. Being back in this area also brings to mind another unforgettable incident that occurred when my parents visited me for the first time when I lived in DC from 1969-71. During that visit I learned something about my father who inspired this poem:

Quiet as it’s kept

Quiet as it’s kept, Daddy loved the blues.

I remember the time back in the day when Dad could still drive,

and drive he did most of the way, not the whole way, but divided in half,

stopping to spend the night in a motel in Pennsylvania

somewhere about halfway between Gary, Indiana and DC

“Madear and Daddy” drove down to visit me one weekend over the 4th

and we went down to festivities off Constitution Avenue

in that “grassy as if it wanted wear” area near the Smithsonian.

Strolling like nomads in and out of blue and white striped tents,

seeking relief from the relentless blazing summer sun,

we sampled the chicken and rib tips and fresh squeezed lemonade

and finished off the feasting with a taste of the blues:

a folk festival of sorts, featuring local blues singers

and a quartet from Dad’s home state of Arkansas.

We followed the crowd into this one wide tan canvas expanse,

flaps raised and rolled up, wrapped all around the sides,

like a revival tent without the sawdust.

On the plywood stage covered with carpet remnants

in a rickety wooden folding chair sat old Flora.

She wasn’t blind but thick wire-rimmed glasses

magnified her dark orbs that closed like doll’s eyes

when she reared back her head and hollered.

Flora was good, but she wasn’t quite like Robert,

old Blind Robert that sang down in front of the Riggs Bank.

He was blind for sure (think he was born that way),

strumming and humming, and sliding that metal bar up and down the guitar strings

to lure folk into the tent to taste that thick authentic down home sound.

Blind Robert show could sing. . . .

Wonder why so many good blues singers be blind?

Brother Ray and Stevie. . . Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie McTell,

Blind Willie Johnson, Blind Blake n’nem;

All the Blind Boys, from Mississippi and Alabama,

All yall, I know yall see what it takes to show nuff sing the blues.

Of course, my Daddy got the same name as a famous blues singer,

Lonnie Johnson. I wonder what all that means, if anything.

While the brothers from Arkansas was playing and singing,

I’d glance over and catch Daddy nodding his head in agreement

or see him smiling or simply breathing a sigh,

like a tacit Amen or inner response that seemed to say,

“You got that right.”

We stood and watched and listened a good while

before we left and continued to stroll from tent to tent.

After a while, Daddy wanted to go back just one more time.

My Daddy show did love him some blues that time in DC.

Some say the blues is an acquired taste that you appreciate as you age.

As I have mellowed in the autumn of the years, I have come to enjoy the blues too.

I just wish I could have shared this newfound fondness for blueness

with my father back in the day, in my younger boppin doowop days,

but I just couldn’t get into them down in the alley sad songs back then.

I just didn’t know why the blues always be so sad.

What did I know? What did I know?

Now I know it takes a whole lot of living and

a lot more loving and losing to appreciate the blues.

Like the Lady say,

You don’t know what love is
Until you’ve learned the meaning of the blues
Until you’ve loved a love you’ve had to lose
You don’t know what love is

Now I know just what Daddy meant when he nodded his head

and sighed and wanted to go back just one more time.

Quiet as it’s kept, my Daddy loved him some blues.

In all things I seek to find a spiritual application, and I came to the conclusion long ago that in a similar manner, God, my heavenly Father, sometimes affectionately called Abba, Father, my Daddy, also appreciates the blues which attempt to articulate a response to loss. As Ralph Ellison, notes,

“The blues is an impulse to keep the painful details and episodes of a brutal experience alive in one’s aching consciousness, to finger the jagged grain, and to transcend it, not by consolations of philosophy but by squeezing from it a near-tragic, near-comic lyricism.  As a form, the blues is an autobiographical chronicle of personal catastrophe expressed lyrically.”

Recently I came across a magnificent musical illustration of what I am trying to say about Abba, Father’s sense of identification with those who sing the blues. Listen to Kevin Levar along with One Voice singing “Jesus Blues.”

Reflections of my father on his birthday

December 2, 2016

Lonnie Johnson

This morning as I began my morning reflections and time of meditation, I recall that today, December 2, 2016 is my father, Lonnie Johnson’s, birthday. Born in rural Arkansas in 1922, my father migrated as a youngster with his mother to Gary, Indiana where I was born and reared. Recently my father had been very much in my thoughts, as my wife and I visited our daughter and son-in-law and our new grandson who live in Reston, Virginia. During the Thanksgiving holiday, as I held my grandson, I thought of my parents with a comforting assurance that they would have been so proud of their great grandson.

 

Upon returning home to Fayetteville, NC, I recall something that my father said a number of times, but I remember one specific occasion when he told me, “Son, I’m proud of you.” We were living in Arlington, Virginia in the first year of our marriage, and most remarkably I had returned to that general area a couple of weeks ago.

 

Every man since Adam has sensed a deep yearning to hear these words or some variation thereof from his father. I also recall another specific occasion occurring around Father’s Day, when I asked my dad what he wanted for Father’s Day, and he made a similar comment, “Son, just keep me proud of you.” I have since endeavored to live up to that admonition.

 

As my wife and I departed on the Megabus, we rode through the heart of Washington, DC, the place where we first met and later returned to live after we were married. I recall another unforgettable incident that occurred when my parents visited me for the first time when I lived in DC from 1969-71. During that visit I learned something about my father who inspired this poem:

 

Quiet as it’s kept

Quiet as it’s kept, Daddy loved the blues.

I remember the time back in the day when Dad could still drive,

and drive he did most of the way, not the whole way, but divided in half,

stopping to spend the night in a motel in Pennsylvania

somewhere about halfway between Gary, Indiana and DC

“Madear and Daddy” drove down to visit me one weekend over the 4th

and we went down to festivities off Constitution Avenue

in that “grassy as if it wanted wear” area near the Smithsonian.

Strolling like nomads in and out of blue and white striped tents,

seeking relief from the relentless blazing summer sun,

we sampled the chicken and rib tips and fresh squeezed lemonade

and finished off the feasting with a taste of the blues:

a folk festival of sorts, featuring local blues singers

and a quartet from Dad’s home state of Arkansas.

We followed the crowd into this one wide tan canvas expanse,

flaps raised and rolled up, wrapped all around the sides,

like a revival tent without the sawdust.

On the plywood stage covered with carpet remnants

in a rickety wooden folding chair sat old Flora.

She wasn’t blind but thick wire-rimmed glasses

magnified her dark orbs that closed like doll’s eyes

when she reared back her head and hollered.

Flora was good, but she wasn’t quite like Robert,

old Blind Robert that sang down in front of the Riggs Bank.

He was blind for sure (think he was born that way),

strumming and humming, and sliding that metal bar up and down the guitar strings

to lure folk into the tent to taste that thick authentic down home sound.

Blind Robert show could sing. . . .

 

Wonder why so many good blues singers be blind?

Brother Ray and Stevie. . . Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie McTell,

Blind Willie Johnson, Blind Blake n’nem;

All the Blind Boys, from Mississippi and Alabama,

All yall, I know yall see what it takes to show nuff sing the blues.

Of course, my Daddy got the same name as a famous blues singer,

Lonnie Johnson. I wonder what all that means, if anything.

 

While the brothers from Arkansas was playing and singing,

I’d glance over and catch Daddy nodding his head in agreement

or see him smiling or simply breathing a sigh,

like a tacit Amen or inner response that seemed to say,

“You got that right.”

We stood and watched and listened a good while

before we left and continued to stroll from tent to tent.

After a while, Daddy wanted to go back just one more time.

My Daddy show did love him some blues that time in DC.

 

Some say the blues is an acquired taste that you appreciate as you age.

As I have mellowed in the autumn of the years, I have come to enjoy the blues too.

I just wish I could have shared this newfound fondness for blueness

with my father back in the day, in my younger boppin doowop days,

but I just couldn’t get into them down in the alley sad songs back then.

I just didn’t know why the blues always be so sad.

What did I know? What did I know?

 

Now I know it takes a whole lot of living and

a lot more loving and losing to appreciate the blues.

Like the Lady say,

You don’t know what love is
        Until you’ve learned the meaning of the blues
        Until you’ve loved a love you’ve had to lose
        You don’t know what love is

Now I know just what Daddy meant when he nodded his head

and sighed and wanted to go back just one more time.

Quiet as it’s kept, my Daddy loved him some blues.

 

 

In all things I seek to find a spiritual application, and I came to the conclusion long ago that in a similar manner, God, my heavenly Father, sometimes affectionately called Abba, Father, my Daddy, also appreciates the blues which attempt to articulate a response to loss. As Ralph Ellison, notes,

 

“The blues is an impulse to keep the painful details and episodes of a brutal experience alive in one’s aching consciousness, to finger the jagged grain, and to transcend it, not by consolations of philosophy but by squeezing from it a near-tragic, near-comic lyricism.  As a form, the blues is an autobiographical chronicle of personal catastrophe expressed lyrically.”

 

 

Recently I came across a magnificent musical illustration of what I am trying to say about Abba, Father’s sense of identification with those who sing the blues. Listen to Kevin Levar along with One Voice singing “Jesus Blues.”

Indeed, both my Daddy and Abba, Father, loved them some blues.