A STORY WORTH TELLING
“Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school.”
— Albert Einstein
Mom talked fondly about her father, Arthur G. Johnson.
He died Feb. 15, 1951.
That I can remember my maternal grandfather at all seems incredible since I celebrated my third birthday a month before his death. Good memories include waiting at the bottom of the stairs leading to his secondf loor bedroom at his place on South Main Street in Winchester, Kentucky. He would call my name when he woke from his nap.
That was my signal to sneak up the stairs and hide under a bedroom dresser while he continued calling my name, pretending he couldn’t see me.
Called Pop or sometimes Poppa by Mom and her four siblings, Arthur Johnson was an educated man. Photos picture him as stoic in stature, exhibiting a state of calm and composure—someone most might expect to face life with education, practicality and wisdom.
He came from a long line of Kentucky stock documented back into the 1700s. A schoolteacher and a principal in both Kentucky and Tennessee, he also served as the educational director for the Civilian Conservation Corps, commonly referred to as the CCC.
Before the U.S. entered World War II in 1941, the CCC constructed public buildings, fences and state park facilities still in use today. They are recognized by their stone construction.
In addition to his educational and professional presence, however, I learned last week that Arthur Johnson also had a penchant for practical applications of education.
“Let me tell you one story,” my Uncle Bill said at the annual reunion of the descendants of Arthur G. and Bernice Conlee Johnson near Winchester.
Uncle Bill is my mother’s last surviving sibling. He celebrated his 90th birthday in May and has always been a great storyteller.
“Pop had a degree in psychology,” Mom’s little brother said.
“He was educated and intelligent, but he applied education with practicality.”
My uncle added, “There was a little boy in the neighborhood, also named Billy. And he was … well, he was bad. I mean, he was a really bad seed. His mother couldn’t control him. He got into more kinds of trouble, but she always defended him. He never did anything wrong, you know. It was always the other person.”
“At one point, I had a little dog,” Bill continued. “It got caught up in a wire fence around the backyard and couldn’t get out.
But this kid killed my dog rather than help it get loose. That’s the kind of evil bad he was.”
According to Uncle Bill, “One day, his mother comes down the road. I’d had a bunch of run-ins with her son. So, when she came flying down the road and turned in at our house, I thought, ‘Oh, my gosh, what have I done now?’ That woman was as bad as her son was.”
This time she was looking for my grandfather, my uncle told me.
“’Is Mr. Johnson here?’ she asked me,” said Uncle Bill. “People in the community often sought Pop’s advice since he was a respected teacher. I told her I’d check, that I didn’t know. So, I went up to his room that was his own world in that house. I told him, ‘Billy’s mom is down there and wants to talk to you.’ He sighed and said, ‘OK, let her in.’” “She went in, but the door stayed open just a little,” Uncle Bill continued. “I just stood there, you know, and listened. She started telling Pop about Billy.
‘I just can’t control him anymore,’ she said.
‘He’s mean, he’s out of control and I don’t know what to do with him.’” “Pop was quiet for a minute,” Uncle Bill said. “Then he gave Billy’s Mom some advice. ‘I’ll tell you what to do. You go down here to the local library, and you check out a book called ‘Elements of Psychology.’ Remember that title. It’s a big book. It’s a good book.
Check it out and take it home. When you get home, you take that book and you beat his butt with it. Two or three doses of that applied psychology will help straighten him out.”
I laughed. I had always heard the grandfather I barely got to know was a wise man who valued education. But little did I know just how well he understood the application of it.
Contact Aldridge at leonaldridge@gmail. com. Other Aldridge columns are archived at leonaldridge.com.
