Steven Reed Johnson Prepared for William Stafford Workshop ....Then again, William Stafford, and his friends often talked about and wrote about the end of the journey. Bill wrote an Informal Will in 1964, almost 30 years before he died. He also wrote commemorative retirement pieces years before he, or others, retired. They rehearsed and planned their exit. Kenny Johnson and Bill, friends for 45 years, wanted to just walk away into the woods like animals. In some ways they did. Kenny died in his den of books at the family homestead. Bill died quickly and rather mundanely doing a household project. When William Stafford took a position at Lewis and Clark Collage in 1948 he became friends with a small core on professors, initially the few instructors in the English Department. The core group was John and Cleo Gross, Robert and Bea Dusenbery, and my father Kenneth Johnson and mother Jean Johnson. I kid Kim that I knew his father longer than he did. (I was born in 1945). I recently reviewed 50 years of correspondence between my father and Bill, my father's diaries, and other documents in the Stafford Archives. I was astounded by the consistency and persistence of their friendship. My father was a private man. His work of art was the homestead he inherited along Johnson Creek in southeast Portland. He rarely published. he shunted fame and notoriety. Bills life-- and the Stafford families--shot off in another trajectory with the publication of Traveling Through the Dark and a national Book Award. After that--as witness by his photographs of people-- he had a wide choice of writers and intellectuals from around the world. And yet, he remained constantly my father's friend. When Bill was teaching at Lewis and Clark--when not on an assignment like U.S. Congress--he and my father talked every day. At one time they shared an intimate office space, the engineering shed. It was more like a cottage then an office space. They had a ritual of sending each other off to class with encouragement or apt quotes about teaching. When they retired in the 1970s Bill wrote a poem he left on my father's desk. (*attached). My father was very moved by the poem. he rushed home and read it to my mother. He confesses in a letter that he had to choke back tears when he read it. It was OK to confess such emotion as long as it was clear that one had overcome "the spontaneous overflow of intensity." The right way to live was a constant theme in their correspondence; overflows of emotion were to be avoided, but that did not mean one didn't embrace feeling, just the overflow of intense feelings. In the 1980s, their correspondence is more frequent and the letters longer, making up for their easier regular face to face exchanges at the college. My father begins one letter in the 1980s, noting how it seems odd they choose to write letters so often even though they are only 5 miles apart. Introduction Steven Reed Johnson as Hippie with Morgan his favorite dog, 1970. Homesteading in the Cascade Mountains, Santiam Watershed, waiting for the federal Marshals to take him to prison for refusing induction in to the armed services. A war resister thanks to Bill, Cleo Gross, Hideo Hashimoto, and Communal Office Space Bill and Kenny, along with others in the small English department, shared intimate office space. The first office was a cottage in the woods on campus. During the school year, at least when Bill was not traveling or had other academic posts, they had rituals including pep talks before facing students for the day. Kenny's Office At noon under the eighteenth century shelf a prof unwinds an orange into the wastebasket while he tells a sweet story: "so we danced on the books after the bookcase fell." Pipe smoke is a fragile barrier, and talk: they all feel winter coming and work to do and student's hovering the hall Rain taps on the window, dirty, under a dirty sky, but propped jauntily partway open by Wittgenstein William Stafford Poem in letter to Kenny, 10/24/1973 I explored the relation of Kenny and Bill as central to the story, but it also the story about a core group of colleagues and friends that emerged after World War II on the Lewis and Clark campus. Friends who exemplified values of friendship and fellowship for over 50 years. They created a community founded on intellectual and creative endeavors and an underlying promise to live examined lives and a belief in the pursuit of the good life through pleasures and progressive values. When the story begins Portland is an outpost; from the point of view of the eastern establishment, it is only a step or two above Oregon territory days. The group also supports each other through trying times when their academic and job prospects are dim. One colleague with a Ph.D. ending up selling World Book Encyclopedias while Bill made extra money at Iowa washing windows. They looked in, both askance and envious of the established academic elite; and eventually challenged each others acceptance of their eventual role as ascendent academic positions. William Stafford in particular ascended to renown as a writer, and yet, and this is very important to understand, he never left his Portland home or the core of friends behind. Only Bill and Dorothy consistently called my father Kenny. I think Dorothy started it. She could say Kenny in so many ways--to kid The Ofce Cottages Bill in his Ofce at Lewis and Clark College In the late 1940s and 1950s the core group of English department instructors, and then others, made their way through a mine field of obstacles to the promised land of high brow academic life. Their friendships grew through in a period marked by the end of World War II, followed by the Korean War, the threats to democracy and academic freedom from McCarthy witch hunts, and the Cold War. While the letters between my father and Bill in the 1980s are intellectually expansive, those in the 1950s--such as ones from the Stafford's when they were at Iowa State--are dominated by campus politics, job insecurity, and impoverishment. So the friendships were created in the fire of insecurities and poverty. For most of them Lewis and Clark was their first "real" academic job. It is important also to understand the cultural context of Lewis and Clark College and Portland during that period. Portland was an outpost, only a couple of steps above Oregon Territory days, far away from the east coast academic epicenter. There were about 75 faculty in total when Bill arrived at Lewis and Clark, and that was probably nearly half the total academics in the entire Portland area. Keep in mind Portland State University was still an extension college for returning veterans leaving Reed, Lewis and Clark (itself not that far away from bing Albany college), the small Catholic University of Portland. As way of emphasizing how small the academic world was, I knew 50 of the 75 faculty members in the mid-1950s, when I would have been 10-12 years old. Bill believed in friendship loyalty so that was a factor and I think the friendship with my father, and a handful of others including Balmer, Pauleys, Dusenberys, kept Bill grounded. As he spun out into a world of poetry circuits, to exotic places representing America. he could come back to Portland and many things remained steadfast, comforting. Maybe my father also kept Stafford grounded. Spinning in a world that he was victim to in the 1950s when he viewed all the ostentatious The Core Group and Friendship Principles The Original Core group. Lewis and Clark English Department hired after World War II. L to R. Dorothy Stafford, Bill Stafford, Cleo Gross, Bea Dusenbery, John Gross, Bob Dusenbery, The extended core group. L to R. Connie Pauly, Bob Dusenbery, Dorothy Stafford, Bea Dusenbery, Jean Johnson, Kenny Johnson, Bill had mixed feelings about being a poet on demand--his poet laureate roles. But for his close friends he wrote commemorative poems, even doggerel. (the groups term for it). Here Dorothy and Bill and Rinehart and Connie Pauly sing their praises at Kenneth and Jean Johnsons 50th Wedding The Core Group and Friendship Principles, Cont. behavior of tenure and entrenched academics at Iowa, U of Berkeley and other place, and now here he was part of that world. When he walked into social gatherings in the 1950s he as shy, an outsider, unproven, questioning whether he belonged. Then he was swept into a social world where he was the center of attention or near it. My mother was the only one in the core group without a college degree. My father institutionalized a rigorous reading of the classics during their early years so she would be prepared for academic gatherings. It worked to a degree but the group could also be cruel in that competitive academic way. Misquote a famous writer, reference a plebeian novel, lay down unfounded principles, and you might be shot down. But, the gun fire was not likely to come from Bill, at least any blazing fire. When my mother began to write columns for local papers--Oregon Journal, Oregonian, and the Fish Wrapper--a Northern coastal newspaper--members of the group either shied away from comment on her writing or provided thinly hide condescension. It was maybe cute or clever but hardly academically substantive. Bill, on the other hand, consistent with his teaching philosophy, referenced her articles during potluck dinners; or general encouragement, "Its sounds like you enjoy it Jean. That's what's important." My mother did have a power in the group. She was bookkeeper for the Portland Teacher's Credit Union. It was started by Hugh Stout--who also attended 4th of July picnics Talk about a sign of changing times. I can remember being at the Credit Union when my mother or Mr. Stout casually walked over to the Till and handed a teacher--including lewis and Clark colleague, $500. Don't worry we'll do the paper work later." My mother also knew everyone's primary bank accounts--not that she ever One of the principles of the group was book sharing. Between them they probably had 15,000 books (Kenneth Johnson alone had 5,000). In a note from Bill, December 18, 1984, he lists the people he found on the inside cover of The Old Curiosity Shop; friends and colleagues who had read the book and passed it on. Sid phillips, bob dusenbery, William erasmus hill, john Harrington, Kenny johnson, R.K. allen, cliff Hamer, prof john James, Esq., John Anderson, Arthur Throckmorton, Don Balmer, Walter Mead. With Bill and Dorothy in Iowa, Kenny and Jean go to great lengths to send them a radio/record player (Music machine) they left behind in Portland. Just wanted to assure you that the music machine arrived ok, in a beautiful crate and with nothing broken--even the records in the album are all intact....its great to have music again and we are even teaching the boys to respect the radio. Kim likes to stump around the room, clapping his hand to the music and gives pitiful little hops which he apparently believes to be great bounds of grace; Bret is more serious in his music appreciation but sometimes condescends to whirl around with a big noise and whooping rush into the belly of anyone who is incautious enough to be relaxing in the same room..." Letter from Bill and Dorothy to Kenny and Jean,10/26/51 Or when the Staffords are ready to move back to Portland from Iowa in the Summer of 1952, Kenny and Jean found them their home on Taylors Ferry Road, walking distance to the Lewis and Clark campus. Soon after the Staffords moved to Washington, D.C. for Bills position with the Library of Congress, he does what any good friend would do. He pokes around in the vast Library of Congress to find Wittgenstein manuscripts. Kenny, there are 150. I will tell you what I find. The Friends Looked out for Each Other Yearning for Community One of the touchstone periods in literature for the Core group was the Transcendentalists. They all taught the core books of that period such as Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne. But it was more than intellectual pursuit. Bills time in CO camps was instrumental in his intellectual and spiritual development. When life looked difficult they all fantasized about dropping out, creating their own communes or collectives. While dealing with difficulties at Iowa State Dorothy suggests that maybe, in response to president Odell denying staffords a renewed position at L&C, staffords suggest they all move to Stanford and have apartments in same complex "on a grassy slope. I (Dorothy) will teach, Jean can take care of the kids...march 51 Sometimes the fantasizing about utopian communities was a way of feeling power over situations they had little control over in the academic world of the 1950s. But it was more concrete than that. In the mid 1950s the Johnsons Dusenberys and Johnsons went so far as to examine parcels of land in the Estacada area where they might all move. Considering the Estacada was at least in part due to their mutual friend, Glen Caufield. Kenny Johnsons Thoreau hut Nestled deep in primeval forest at the Johnson homestead whenever possible my father went here, often with a fire, to read. If you wanted an intellectual dialogue you dropped in but remembered Thoreaus dictum: I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society Its a rather tawdry affair but may be worthwhile bringing to light because it illustrates Stafford's loyalties. Also, all the parties have passed, except perhaps the unnamed co-ed. And its not Lewinsky. John Gross was, as the core called him, a ladies man. My father and John Gross had that in common more than Bill. Although most of my father's illicit affairs were only in his mind. He might note how an attractive student lingered or another who brushed his arm as she reached for a book. He cut loose in japan but that is another story. There was a young woman who I knew about because I had listened in from my stair well listening post, who had an affair with John and was a Stag magazine "center fold." They didn't really have a centerfold but its equivalent. My father had a copy of that magazine I discovered by chance when looking for some work gloves. So one morning Bill got a call from John. He was on a beach along the Willamette River and needed help. This part a little fuzzy. Either they had lost their clothes or the car wouldn't stop. A dutiful but presumably shocked Bill drove to the beach and helped them out of their pickle. Although the damage had been done. The administration found out about his affair. To Kenny and Jean johnson on hearing of john gross's death the book fell from his hand. His life began to unreeled, jammed, broke--it was gone before the book hit. So our old friend John met his old friend. Death, so long a friend, ran quietly of late, but near. No man read half so well the fine printed hinted on the years' prescriptions: he knew. now it's done. If anyone can say his reset, we can: Master or teaching, glimpser of bawdy truth singer when the bottle passed--"fox went out on the town one night"--his whole life meant to many readings. He saw couth and uncouth, quickly, anywhere, and said it. Defend him, angels! in death. So long, A friend. Loyalties Tested I tell the story from Wind Sand and Stars (Antonie de Saint Expert) when I am trying to remind myself or others why the ordinary is important. It is near the other life equation I often wrestle with: is life mostly pain with occasional stabs of beauty or is it mostly beauty with occasional stabs of pain. The book is an account of Saint Exuperys adventures flying mail routes across the Sahara and Andes. On one harrowing flight off the coast of Spain, he becomes lost in thick clouds. He has no sense of direction. For all he knows he may be going away from the continent out over the vast Atlantic ocean. At one point he is so disoriented that he has the sensation he is flying away from the earth, into outer space. With only the drone of the engine surrounded by clouds he looses sense of time and experiences a complete sense of calm. It doesnt matter. He will fly until he runs out of fuel and descend into oblivion. Then miraculously he sees lights and the coastline. Still with a sense of sublime indifference he realizes it is the town he was headed for. His radio, which had stopped working, comes on and he is able to obtain instructions for landing. He lands the plane, and then walks a short distance to the caf he often frequented. He wonders briefly why he is not more thankful or even exuberant about landing safely. He orders coffee. He takes a sip of the very hot and bitter coffee and burns his tongue. With the taste of bitter coffee and the burning sensation on his tongue he suddenly begins to weep, thankful to be alive. Maybe one reason why Bill remained close friends with my father was it grounded him in the richness of the ordinary. Maybe it was the importance of the ordinary. As his life spun into an orbit of poetry circuits and prestigious awards he could count on Johnson to stay the same. No matter where fame took him he could return to Portland and the Johnson's would still be at their family homestead. My father would be in Through hut reading Henry James, Emerson, Santayana, The Importance of the Ordinary Stone Soup Days: Goodwill Clothes and Haunted The end of World War II and then the beginning of the Korean conflict, and its conclusion three years later impacted their academic careers and security. They were hired on to accommodate returning veterans; then as Korean war took new young people to war, the number of faculty was reduced and then when it ended, faculty was increased. Lewis and Clark administrators used the conflict and changing role to require Phd's for its instructors--sending Stafford off to Iowa State; my father to University of Washington. My father was at University of Nebraska in 1936 when he asked my mother to merry him. Although the letter is missing, it would seem he proposed but also expressed concerns of unworthiness, that is that he was an unemployed graduate student. and the depression was still close memory, and war was surrounding them. She said back that he needed to trust her. That she is willing and able to love him through anything. He says in a diary entry that he is amazed that this wonderful and beautiful woman is willing to throw in with him even tough all he has is handful of pipes and 100 books. Almost every letter between the Johnsons and Staffords in the 1950s and early 1960s references the state of impoverishment. Car trips and holidays were parsed out, dependent on the state of automobiles. When the staffords are about to come back to Portland in the summer of 1951, they indicate they may squeeze in side trips if the dar survives. "we will zigzag through Kansas to the extend that the weakness of the car and temper of the kids will allow (6/5/51). The state of automobiles was even a competition. Bill says , I can overawe john with my tales of horror--a real gothic account of haunted garages, ghoulish mechanics, bewitched carburetor brews etc. 6/28/51. At another point he apologizes for handwriting a letter, but of course that is just because he is at home. Of course they all only had typewriters at the office. In contrast Bill often notes the academic upperclass at Iowa and later at University of California at Berkeley. When they go to an party of the high brows at Iowa he notes that it was with the "lordly ones and their T bones." At Berkeley it was the same upper class academics who who showed off by having fancy wine in decanters. The Academic Hinterlands: Long long ago in the land now known as Portlandia The core group was effected by cultural and political events of the period, but much of it was at arm's length. Civil rights was abhorrent to the progressive academics, but the events were thousands of miles away and Portland was mostly white.. The Johnson family first got a black and white television with 4 channels in 1955. Our watching behavior was rigorously monitored. We had a TV night (Friday) when we all watched TV together, with popcorn served in large bowl. The only other common viewing was the TV news watched as we ate dinner on TV trays. There were TV images etched into my consciousness, including Black women and children being chased by dogs and pushed to the ground by fire hoses. Academic news was scare as well, at least as considered by today's standards. The professorial circle shared their books and journals. Subscriptions were a luxury and most books were bought at used book stores such as Camerons in downtown Portland. They attended some conferences such as the PMLA but personal as well as college travel funds were scant or nonexistent. They taught courses on American and English literature and might keep track of some academic developments through PMLA journal but they spent most of their academic time reading and re-reading the classics from their field. How to separate yourself from middle class and Plebeian Portlanders? High brow entertainment was scarce. The Civic theater the only functioning theater. Most cultural events were on the Lewis and Clark or Reed college campus. "We saw Death of a Salesman at Reed with Harmons, Staffords and Dusenberys. Then back to our place for Coffee (Kenny johnson, diary, Feb. 1959). There was no Powell's books, one reason my father traveled to San Francisco, to haunt used bookstores. In Portland there was Cameron's books--a gathering Stafford Christmas Letter photo. 1958. Too good to be true? But, remember TV was scarce. Our families really did read to each other. Dorothy, as a school teacher, often found priceless educational books and records. My mother would trust her taste so I would often read what the Stafford kids read. That included 78rpm records. One I still remember is the story of how the earth went silent, music died and a tiny bird rode on the back of a magnificent eagle to bring place for socialists in the 1930s, the Beaver and Old Oregon bookstores. There was also Riche's Cigar store, where my father sent for pipes and cigars; but the most critical inventory were magazines and journals, including some academic ones. There was only one city on the west coast in that period, San Francisco. You could say you were going to the city and everyone knew you meant San Francisco. There was no culture in Seattle, Vancouver and Portland, and Los Angeles was just Hollywood and smog. The professors traveled to the Bay area when ever they had a chance. There were beatniks, bookstores, strong coffee, and theater and dance. The guys from Lewis and Clark took trips south, most of the time stopping at Ashland along the way--another small piece of culture, the Shakespeare Theater. Bill, Kenny and Bill Lucht, my father reports saw Becketts's Mr. Kraps last tape, and Albee's Zoo Story, and also went to ballet. (*date) All the outsiders in the core group eventually become the elite, but none in the group quite to Bill's level. The conversations between Kenny and Bill in the 1980s reflects ill-at-ease with arrival at the top. Kenny chides him about honorary degrees; Bill tries to pass off moments in the spotlight like he is an Indian chief on display; just a poet from the Oregon outpost. There were some important texts of the period that influenced their culture and they discussed. C.P. Snow defined the cultural schism between the scientific and humanistic views of the world. The Organization Man defined the corporate world they knew or wanted to believe they were not a part of. The Lonely Crowd and Affluent Society defined their own general assessment of society, although the later created some conflicts. Some academics desired an affluent life, but one defined by high brow tastes, so therefore not "conspicuous consumption." Academic Life--Lewis and Clark and other Campuses It is not always clear what the young professors would consider success, as in successfully arrived. Bill casts many disparaging remarks toward the academic elite. From University of California at Berkeley Bill says, "the teachers there have a kind of lordly swaggering attitude. They serve wine in pitchers at the faculty club. (letter, may 5 1957) "the university is big--to me--and gives me that familiar chill of getting entangled agin with an institution with big walls, impersonal offices, and people with pursed lips and frightening knowledge." letter 7/27/50 it was significant that when I stood with John (Gross) out in the hall one of the profs of the department cam in his lordly way by us, from his booked lined comfortable office going toward one of thee T-Bone lunches that the rich can afford,, and when this prince of our world designed us a cool balance John and I hardly cringed--we have become so used to it. yes, the mighty have fallen; and you need not bother your fancy with picturing us back here drinking and joshing with men whose names appear in the books and journals. Far from it; we are the scum of the earth the dregs of society. Engle (Paul) and i are not buddies; i try to get into vivid talk when we meet, trying successive topics: it's like striking wet matches in the rain....(Im proud of that simile)." The dominate theme of many Kenny and Bill letters during the 1950s and early 1960s reflect the tumultuous state of academic security. Returning soldiers from World War II and Korean war had large impact on college administrative policy and enrollment. McCarthy "witch hunts" during the fifties added to the cloud of uncertainty. Stafford faced allegiance in several academic positions and applications for positions. He refused a job with University of Colorado because the oath required patriotic content to be taught in classes (letter, 7/17/51). As he said in a letter, after being rehired at Iowa, he wonders of college teaching is viable, ""with loyalty oaths springing up here and there and with courses more and more liable to involve military training. 3.51 The conservative Lewis and Clark campus presented additional challenges. President of the college, O'Dell apparently requested the English department to find some authors for the 19th century literature courses that were more friendly to religion. Kenny writes back, in a cordial Christmas card, "I have never forgotten your perspective." Nice side stepping. A posed photos and Kenneth and Jean Johnsons home. Kenneth Johnsons library at one time had over 4,000 volumes. Many hard bound and first edition or complete works of English and American writers. Books set them apart from plebeian Portland. Like the other posed photo. Kenneth Johnson on Lewis and Clark campus near reflection pool, stones throw from the small english department cottage-office. Always with books in hand, worn briefcases. Tools of the trade, like a Kenneth Johnson on one of his frequent trips to San Francisco. Once again with books in hand-- A days activity in San Francisco included multiple trips to Ferlinghettis bookstore--and that other one? You want culture you had to go to San Francisco where other people might dress like you and talk about ideas. Intellectuals: Living the Examined Life They shared the world of ideas. That was the common thread. the One for them that Stafford illuminates in his poem (*). They didnt talk often about the craft of writing. Of course they talked about writers, who they taught courses on. But it was a world of the big questions of life that dominated their conversations. They might talk about Hawthorne or Salinger but as likely Santanya Wittgenstein was a constant theme in Kenny and Bills intellectual dialogue. While known as a positivist it was the edges of Wittgenstins thinking that fascinated them. He espoused limits to scientific thinking that left the door open to more poetic and spiritual methods of understanding. Kenny was mentored by O.K. Bausma, at the University of Nebraska, who was known as an influential disciple of Wittgenstein and a beloved teacher. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ OK Bausma at Johnson home ' ] { lz. *e rr / ?6 I 11 Sept 86 l3'l Dear Kenny, I got my copy of t he new Bouwsma book- - f asci n' at i ng. Some i deas come t o me. One i s about why Wi t t genst ei n l i ked t o be wi t h Bouwsma- - he i s so di r ect and so l ocked wi t h i nt er est on under st andi ng i suues t hat many peopl e woul dn' t even gl i mpse as i ssues. And her e ar e some i deas about why t r ' I i t t genst ei n appeal s onl y t o some peopl e: Cer t ai n adj ust ment s a i n most peopl e' s way of t hi nki ng ar e neeessar y i f t hey ar e t o under st and t he mai n at t r act i on of Wi t t genst ei t ' r : 1) Essent i al l y, we ar e sur r ounded by so gr eat a myst er y t hat appar ent l y t r i vi al phenomena ar e al ways l oaded wi t h possi bl e i mpl i cat i ons. 2) Essent i al l y, we do not per cei ve f undament al t r ut hs ( of cour se) ; so t he usual human "cer t ai nt i es" ar e pat het i e at besL. 3) "I {uman val ues" or r el i gi ons or gr eat cer t ai nt i es r el at ed t o psychol ogy et c. ar e so shaky t hat we do not need t o t ake doct r i nes ar ound us ser i ousl y3 _but t he ways FTF* peopl e mai nt ai n t hei r l oyal t i es and al l egi ances- ai e of t en i nt er est i ng, and i n f act t hose manner s deser ve our consi der a- t i on even when t he cont ent of t he doct r i nex does not . 4) Gi ven t he f r agi l i t y of hmman h under st andi ng, i t s asst r r npt i ons must be r el ent l essl y anal yzed, and t hose as- sumpt i ons are hi dden i n ordi nary t al k and rout i ne t hi nki ng. We must be ready t o por. nce as t he l sx l oose connect i ons reveal t hemsel ves when we are at our most casual and serene. So l . t r i t t genst ei n pounces, and t hose enough l i ke hi m- t o r eal i ze t he i mpor t ance of what he i s doi ng ar e f asei nat ed. I ' m f asci nat ed. You' r e f asci nat ed. And I am gl eef ul about bei ng l ed t o t he book. Adi os - - The World of Ideas Social Gatherings Introduction Most of the gatherings were potluck. I remember hearing the word casseroles a lot. I doubt I could have defined it as a child. It was just what everyone brought to potlucks and it came in a serving bowl (another frequently heard word). Betty Crocker, Sunset magazine, and Better Homes and Gardens were mainstays of recipes. There were some dishes you could count on--at least when the potlucks included kids: tuna noodle casserole (often with bread crumbs), lasagna, something made with campbell soups, e.g., mushroom soup, onion soup, potato salad, spaghetti (my father was famous for recipe he got from our Italian tenant farmers in the 1940s). The Core group. Connie Pauly, Bob Dusenbery, Dorothy Stafford, Bea Dusenbery, Jean Johnson, Kenny Johnson, Rinehart Pauly And there was some international fair like chicken a la king, Kenny raised the bar high with a large productive vegetable garden. The Oregon natural bounty was also part of the venue--wild blackberries Others in the Core Group Jean and Kenny Johnson, Bill and Dorothy. Staffords 25th Wedding Anniversary Visited the staffords at noon. Bill working on his literature statement by a light fire in the den. Dorothy had baked fresh bread. (Kenny diary, 7/1966) wasnt saturday a cozy, friendly, satisfying occasion. We thought so. lets do more such spontaneous parties. Letter, Dorothy Stafford12/19/84 There were many formal social activities but they sometimes just dropped by. The social more was established from the beginning and was never revoked, except for one period, toward the end of the life journey. A note Bill and Dorothy left behind when they dropped by but my parents were out. They left behind a gold pen. Its on knock on your door tonight, friends. Its Goldpen, come to announce words abounding. Goldpen can bring anything out of this ink-- letters, Christmas trees, truth... My father obtained this recipe from the extended Italian family who lease some of our family homestead in the 1940s-early 1950s, along Johnson Creek. When my father went to collect rent I went with him once. A strange experience for a five year old boy. Their house was dark. No electricity only candles. They served my father home made wine in mason jars, and paid the rent in gold coins. It was a traditional Johnson contribution to Lewis and Clark potlucks. Try it. It really is good. Ken's Truck Gardner's Spaghetti From: Oregon Episcopal School Cookbook Editors: Jean Johnson and Steve Johnson 2 lbs lean, cubed stew meat (no hamburger, please) Olive oil Large handful fresh parsley, chopped 5 cloves garlic, minced 1 medium onion, sliced Sprig of rosemary, dry (1/2 teaspoon) 2 bay leaves if available 1 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced 1 can tomato paste 12 ounces spaghetti Cover bottom of Dutch oven with olive oil and heat until hot. Add beef cubes and brown slightly, turning and stirring. Add parsley, garlic, onion, mushrooms, rosemary and bay leaves, and continue stirring until meat is brown on all sides, and onions are limp and yellow. Sprinkle with Information You Can Use Shepard's pie Meat loaf--a leftover from Depression days. For example, ground beef, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and bread crumbs Canned food--fruit cocktail Deviled eggs Chex mix snack Celery sticks with soft cheese 3 Bean salad Hot dogs and burgers Green peas with pearl onions Sweet and soar sauce over crispy noodles Deserts Yuban instant coffee--if you wanted to show off Chiffon pie Angel food cake Marshmallow bars Strawberry shortcake German chocolate cake Can-0-pop--early version of soda pop in a can Ice Creme. The Staffords invested Potluck Food Alcohol and tobacco in the 1950s smoking was permitted in households. Smokers expected to be allowed to smoke. Pipe smoking was the preferred venue. Lighting up a pipe after dinner could mark the beginning of serious academic conversations More people in the group drank then did not. Most likely a cocktail before dinner and wine in decanters for dinner and occasionally an after dinner drink (*such as) Beer was more like drunk while camping or when the group was at the Oregon coast. There were some typical drinks of that period: highball, punch, gin and tonic, mint julep, tom collins, screwdriver, The cars flowed in from a meandering dirt road and parked in a field. The kids jumped out, ran into the forest or down to the creek where there might be a log raft to cross the creek. In the 1960s Kenny dug out one of the fields for a swimming hole. Before that it was a field used for badminton and croquet and horseshoe matches. The picnics usually started around 4pm and went at least until dark so that kids could run nilly willing with sparklers. Occasionally larger fireworks were set off. A form of patriotism. The Bishop family took charge of reading The Bill of Rights every year. In the 1960s I tried to replace an American flag with a Peace sign and was sharply criticized by Rhinehart Pauly's 4th of July Picnics 4th of July picnics at the Johnson homestead date back to at least the 1920s. The early gatherings were hosted by Kennys ancestors, and were open to the public. Hundreds came to the land, including an area the family donated to the City of Portland in the 1940s, Tideman Johnson Nature Park. The Lewis and clark picnics were initiated in 1955. At one time 50 out of 75 faculty members, with their families, attended. The gatherings continued until the early 4th of July Picnic, Johnson homestead circa 1956 A letter to the editor in the Oregon Journal, January 1, 1931 gives a good picture of how the canyon was used by the public: I wish to ask if it is fair to Eastmoreland, Berkeley and West Errol Heights communities to have no park for the children, since traffic is so heavy that they can no longer play on the street and thee is no park nearer than Sellwood and it is not safe to cross at Bybee Avenue. We should have the Johnson park tract before it is taken by some private amusement company. We have appealed a number of times to our city commissioners to buy this tract but with no results so far. This is the only parkground near this district and it is certainly a beautiful place, with a running stream for fishing and swimming and with lovely beaches and an ice-cold spring of pure water, a cool shady place for a hot day. All these years Mr. Johnson has let us enjoy this place, to come and stay as long as we wished. I don't believe there is another man in the city who would have been as considerate of the Bill Stafford, Kenny Johnson, Barbara Stafford, Dorothy Stafford.4th of July Picnic. Steve Johnson on raft, Johnson creek. circa 1955. mother visiting america from Austria. To her, with World War II still a sound memory, the peace sign was a symbol of placation that had provided the Nazi party with a way into her homeland. But, I also knew I had other pacifists like Bill on my side. Kit Stafford swears I showed everyone how I could eat spaghetti with my feet. How undignified. These were the same feet that were so calloused I could walk on embers, taking off my shoes in June and rarely putting them on until school started up in the fall. there were some organized activities like sack races for kids with old fashion candy for prizes, but the kids rarely needed organizing. The forest and streams were entertainment enough. There was also a rope swing in the forest some years. A little dangerous, sweeping people over 100 feet and 30feet off the ground coming close to nearby trees. It was taken down when a The fire pit. 4th of July picnic. Johnson estate. Stories, hot dogs, and marshmallows. I felt at peace watching the flames, eventually the embers. A safe Spirit of Place: The Great Blue Heron by William Stafford Out of their loneliness for each other two reeds, or maybe two shadows, lurch forward and become suddenly a life lifted from dawn or the rain. It is the wilderness come back again, a lagoon with our city reflected in its eye. We live by faith in such presences. It is a test for us, that thin but real, undulating figure that promises, If you keep faith I will exist at the edge, where your vision joins the sunlight and the rain: heads in the light, feet that go down in the mud where the truth is. Mike Houck had a scheme to have the great Blue Heron become Portlands Bird. He asked me if I thought Bill would write a poem about the Heron. Not too long before that Stafford had told me how sometimes on-demand poet for the state could be The Importance of Place A common element to probably all of the children of the core of Lewis and Clark colleagues and friends was the residing value of knowing a place like the back of ones Places with Meaning It was our picnic on the Fourth of July and all those usual at the end of the day were there. while we looked at each other we had become old and from the dark wood of evening a Heron rowed forward across the path of sky left in the west, through the still air. all my life I have noticed these appropriate landscapes where events friend their equivalent forms: oftentimes I see trees hunching their shoulders, leaning toward me, because in the past I have neglected what I should have done; or a dog hurries forward to lick my hands, and all at once I see that they are frightening. There are people who always belong where earth has brought them and given them over to the practices of the wind more slowly, but caught in the same pressure, the rest of us too, by the end our our days, learn to lean forward out of our lives to find that what passes has molded everything we touch or see, outside or in. William Stafford, 7/5/1978 Just What did they Talk about for 50 years and Sometimes when there social gatherings at our house I would sneak down the stairs to a point where I could hear part of the conversations. I was 10-12 years old. I doubt I understood much of the content. I was curious what they talked about. How could they go on and on for hours. I could discern somethings. I could tell by the tone and dominance of the males when it was an academic, heavily intellectual or political subject. Their voices often got softer when they shared academic gossip or had critical statements to make about colleagues who weren't present. When I first noted this I thought maybe they knew i was listening. But realized that didn't make sense and it was just an outcome of the kind of topic. I also knew at times when my mother was shut out of the conversations. She would voice an opinion and maybe only get half way through it, interrupted by my father, or others might ignore her comments, most of the time politely but clearly. It must have taken great fortitude for my mother to stand up to the group, the only one without a college degree. Keep in mind that conversations that had at potluck gatherings were part of a continuum, Conversations that might start in the offices and Lewis and Clark, might continue in notes or letter writing, diaries, poems. Another thing about the dialogue, Clear expression of your opinion was expected but as expected anything longer then a sentence should be footnoted--favorite and respected authors and fundamental works on the cannon, approved journals. There were some conversations that one could predict contentious outcomes. My father often challenged Bill about his lack of "Dante," or fire and passion. He would tell me something was another example of Bill feeling he was just the secretary for man kind. I remember one incident in particular. My mother, father and myself lived in Japan in 1962 for several months. During this time Oregon suffered one of the most destructive wind storms in recorded history, the Columbus Day Storm. We only had scant information about what had happened. The poet Donald Justice stayed at our home while we were in japan. It was difficult to get current !"#$%& ($) *+,"- !"./0$1, 2314/0- 5"#63- 7/%$89- 7/%$89- Social Gatherings: Conversation Wheel At the social gatherings Bill was often the moderate in tone and stance. he was more likely to express himself in aphorisms the footnoted academic-speak. My father was most likely to reach a boiling place. He liked to defend positions and argue. In our family, some who turned far right from his decidedly liberal political perspective, he stood his ground with such vigor that the family shied away from politics. I only was aware of this after he died when suppressed right wing opinions surfaced with a vengeance. Dusenbery was slow, deliberate and the most academic. His contribution might 80% quotes and footnotes from the cannon, sprinkled with popular culture references, in particular western movies and books. he was proud of his Montana heritage. Some members--in the outer circle of the core might argue openly with Bill, after he became well known. My mother begin to fear inviting some people to the same potluck. Samuel Yorks for example, who taught briefly at Lewis and Clark, then most of his teaching years at Portland state University seemed to spend evenings watching from a smirching position for Stafford to say something he could ambush. I don't think I ever saw him achieve the goal. Most of the time it provoked an even more easy tone, but if information across the ocean in those days. We made one call to find out the state of things. A 3 minute call cost us $25.00 (well over $150 by today standards). We lost 500 trees. I returned earlier then my parents. When I arrived back home it was unfamiliar. There were open meadows where there had been forests. There were vistas where you could see downtown lights 6 miles away. When my father returned he was furious that the Justices hadnt lifted a finger. Not that he expected them to clean up fallen trees, but even smaller ones and branches close to house were left right where they fell. Bill wrote a letter to us about his experiences, which like the Justices, to my father, reflected such detachment. Bill and Kim hid out and watched the storms destruction in lake Oswego, awestruck by the beauty and destruction. All my father could see was all the poetry of his land destroyed. It was part of that detached secretary like presence Stafford had in the world. Portland just before the Storm hit. 1962 Yorks persisted then Bill went silent. Nature was a key topic. There was the experiential component also expressed through expeditions to Pacific Nw wilderness and trips to the "sublime" pacific coast line. But it was Nature with a big N from the Romantic poets and American transcendentalists. They would not want to be labeled but they were pantheists. The common reading was from those periods; literary giants like: Emerson, Thoreau, Melville, Hawthorne. I'm not sure if they all did, but I know my father read some of the works of these authors, several times a year for 30 years. And there were some topics that were guaranteed to launch particular soliloquies. Get Dusenbery started about Moby Dick and at some point he would tell you the ultimate sublime moment was when Ponce De Leon traveling from the Caribbean ocean across panama stood on a hill and view the grand pacific ocean. this glorified period was also the source of some of the sense of community they all held high while the communal attempts of Brook farm might seem like a failure a hundred years later in some other ways it make sense to the group. they could imagine the ideas, living closer to nature and when ever they wanted intellectual stimulation just wonder down a trail to a comrades self sufficient cabin. The conversations between them continued for months and years, and through letters and poems. For example one night you posed a tough question at our house. You took a stand that said one should accept his nature or preferences or principles, and do his thinking in terms of some kind of stand or commitment. Bill responds with a poem. (aug. 70. typical of my father, "how good it is to have a friend who listens and responds with What They Read In the early years communication with the "outside" world was limited. Lewis and Clark only provided pittance for travel to academic conferences. To keep up in the academic world the group read the New Yorker, Paris Review, New Republic, The Nation. In the sixties my father in particular begin to read the more radical journals such as Ramparts and Mother Jones....MLA journal, NY Review of Books, Deadelus , M ' p T r o M a q l ' u l o r J [ e n e E u l u r n l u o T s s a ' r d x e I e u T J ' a r . l a 1 ; e r l l T r ' l q s e e o s u o l l e l n B e r 3 u 1 1 n o 1 3 : ' s . r a p r o q r e l o . r e e d d e s t p d a q l - - l u e q d u r n l r l d l t e t n b - - a u o ( q e u o p u ! l e . r e q m d r e n a f , T s e q s T ' p e B p e l r ' r o u { f , e r e A e u q 8 n o q l ( u o p a e r 3 : J T e q J . s u o r T T T u I e q l d q l I a S A p S a T I I I I e I r o q l d r l u n o c d . r e n e . u 1 ' 3 u o 1 e S u l r u o e l o u e r ! p T o e q l l e q } s n o T r o l . o u a q 0 1 s u r S e q 1 I ' u o q t r p u n o r B s o l u r l a r { l J o a l . s e } a q } q l T ^ t s { l n o u r T e q l ' l S T r ' 1 1 r o u r ' r o r J s r s r { 1 o l 1 s n 8 s 1 p J o s { s e u l u e u e u r a C u T s e 3 e J r l e i { l p T o r l u e q l J o o u o s ' ? ' u e u r u r o l o E r r e l { l p r e 8 e r s t p s l T q e - q r T e r { I ' E u n o d u o t y v l e r a m d a q f d e i ' r a q l " " o r r o u ' : o l r o : : : 1 . : , ; r : ; : T ; 1 " : : l : : : T i ' i l : l l s e u o q s e m d r l u n o c r T a q l u a q m r e q u e u a r u a r i 1 . J o d u e y t r ' o u d e e o l . u r 8 a q d e t { 1 o s ! p a r r l n r n s e n e q d e q t m o q s ' } e r l l ' e r o 3 i a q o u l o f , o l ! q s { s ! 1 . d " r e s s o f , a u l n g ' { J e q o E o l r e e J d a i { r l u e q l s o r e 3 s e u r T ? - - e t ! t r s e q a l d o e d p 1 c e q t l s r T i l V s r a l . r a s a [ I * t l * l , f t h Bills Poem being read at Johnson beach cottage Ivan and Eleanor Kafoury dropped by for the evening. one of their sons and daughter in laws have a cabin at cannon beach. I showed them the poems you sent me. Eleanor asked to pass it to her which she read slowly and ad-libbing as she moved along. I could see she was trying to apply the words to herself. and have a hard time seeing herself as a deserter--she who has a waffle lunch for her kits every Sunday, and who is organizing a voting party for Camping in the Forests and Cabins at the Coast Jean Johnson, on the road with a Packard and Higgins Jim Stauffer, Kenny Johnson, Bill Stafford on Several families might get together and rent one or two adjoining cabins at a coastal town like Manzanita or Neskowin, Rockaway. As kids we might skirt the cold waves of the Pacific, dig holes and tunnels in sand dunes or if we were near towns go the Natatorium or small Honky tonk venues. These might be chaotic affairs. One I remember included the large Meed Family with 6 variously aged boys, along with 3 stafford kids, myself, 2 Dusenberys (* so 12-15 kids) Ah the food! The men would catch crab in nearby bays or if failing that buy fresh ones. The tastes I remember is the crab along with rich garlic bread. And then of course marshmallow or samores at the beach. the adults would add beer and wine in decanters. Probably Gallo, maybe Almadine if you wanted to show off The Trip to Jefferson Meadows The trip was suppose to be a father and son excursion. But, Kit Stafford would have none of that. She persisted, and she kept of the same pace as the boys. The professors brought books as well as chocolate. These trips had a lasting effect on the children. Bret worked for Forestry agencies. Kit moved to Sisters to be in the high desert landscape. And Steve became lifelong environmentalist. And Kim became celebrated poet of There was no REI or other high end camping gear store in Portland when we went to Mt. Jefferson. There was Andy and Bax army surplus store. In my case I also had Boy Scout camping gear. A canvas pack with straps that left red marks on my shoulders. The men carried a canvas tent for themselves. Bill made a bow for me from Native Yew. I was about 12 years old. I was speechless. I knew it was a special gift. I fancied myself as part Indian at the time. My father read me the Leatherstocking tales late at night when we slept over night in his Thoreau Hut. I took the bow to school one day for Show and Tell. The school bully, Edward Bruen grabbed it from me and pulled the bow string with the full extend of his long and meaty arms and it snapped. he handed it Trip to Jefferson Meadows Preparation Imagine that, Bill Said. I knew he Knew. He Knew I Knew My family, and our family friends, often went car camping. But, backpacking into wilderness was rarer. The first wilderness experience I remember was a trip instigated by William Stafford, to what was then called Jefferson Park, now known as the Mt. Jefferson Wilderness. It was going to be a father and son experience, three fathers and their four sons, that is until Kit Stafford, a natural born feminist at age 8, insisted that she go too. To prepare for the trip we went to the REI of that period, Andy and Baxs army surplus store. While the men picked out what we really needed I wandered the store trying to figure out what I could buy with my two dollars. I was obsessed with flashlights, a techno-fetish I inherited from one of my uncles who always had the biggest and brightest ones. And there it was. A gigantic green flashlight powered by a six volt battery. I just had to have it. But, it was $4.95. Now keep in mind there were no bar codes. The price was drawn on the lens with an easily erasable pen. I realized that if I removed a part of the 4, it would became a 1. Heart beating I carried it to the cashier. Bill was cashing out at the same time. What you got there, Steve? he said pulling it from my hand and shinning it to the ceiling. What a beam! he exclaimed. And its under $2. Isnt that good luck. The cashier rang it up and I was out to the door. Never mind that I now had several pounds more to carry into the wilderness. It was a fairly arduous trek into the wilderness. Backpacking equipment was primitive. I used a Boy Scout pack whose straps scored my shoulders with red marks, and boots that produced open sores. But there were also magic moments along the way. The water from cold springs in silver cups. And the chocolate! To this day I always take a giant chocolate Boy scout backpack from that bar with me when backpacking. Bill was the chocolate custodian. At each stop for water he would dole out two squares for each of us. And, he could never be talked into three. We set up camp in the wilderness park. Us boys had a camp site a few hundred feet from the men and Kit. I could hardly wait for dark so I could use my magic flashlight. I was able to shine it all the way to top of giant fir trees. At one point Bill came over to our camp. So Steve, he said, let me see that flashlight. I proudly handed it to him. He shined it to the top of a tree. Well Ill bet, he said, in a secretive and unmistakably coded fashion, you could almost shine it all the I have always been drawn to the Clackamas River (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Clackamas_River) watershed. My first recollection is standing in a meadow, between the town of Sandy and Estacada, with my father, William Stafford, (http://www.williamstafford.org/) and Kim Stafford. (http://legacy.lclark.edu/~krs/) We were there scouting land that we might buy together. I was 10 years old. I had already heard the word commune although I doubt I understood what it meant. My father had told me about Brook Farm, and he had built a small shed in the woods in back of our house modeled on Thoreaus Waldon hut. My great grandparents supplied flour to the Aurora Colony,( http://www.auroracolony.com/History.htm) south of Portland in the 19th century. And my father and Stafford spoke both with high regard and skepticism about Glen Caufield who had moved to Estacada to live off the grid and start the Grundtvig (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikolaj_Frederik_Severin_Grundtvig ) (Danish Folk education) Free School. We sadly, never bought the land. A road not taken. At about the same time that Glen was trying to live off the grid in Estacada, a splinter group of teachers and students moved all the way from the Black Mountain School in North Carolina. http:// blackmountaincollege.org/content/view/ 12/52/ For John Wallen, the community was the curriculum, and in his group dynamics course he tried to find better ways of working together. He was critical of what he saw as too great an emphasis on the arts and felt that the arts as they exited were too esoteric. Eager to develop a more intimate involvement with the local community, he presented a community service plan What is it about Estacada? Oregon author Robin Cody, Steve Johnson and Millie Kiggins, Estacada, summer 2011 through which, instead of teaching, he would have been a liaison between the college and the surrounding area for projects related to class and local arts and crafts activities. The plan was rejected, so Wallen and a group of students decided to pool their resources to form a commune that would have an integral relationship with the surrounding community. He left in February 1948 to find a location, and the following gummers several students joined him near Estacada, Oregon. For several years they lived together as a farm cooperative and had a woodworking shop. To create for the small logging community a sense of its history and traditions, they started a timber jamboree with dances, logging skills, and a crafts exhibition. When the group dissolved, many of the members moved to Portland (where several taught at the Catlin Gable School) and remained a close community of friends. In the mid-19070s my wife Cathy (see: http://www.oeconline.org/community/members/ larry-williams) and I bought land on Horse Heaven Ridge, high above the Clackamas, 4 miles south of Estacada. We bought the land from one of the most splendid Millie Kiggins and her father Grover Kiggins. The Kiggins are spread out over Estacada. Millie may have been the first women to try out for a high school football team in Oregon. She also had an encounter with Bigfoot (http://www.estacadanews.com/features/story.php? story_id=122288913062619500) And created a most beautiful garden(http://www.humanflowerproject.com/index.php/weblog/ comments/kinzy_faire_barber_meets_champagne_cork/) surrounding the house that Cathy and I bought and lived in for several yearsa house that Millie told she lost in a poker game to that damn Indian woman. Millie also by pure chance found and purchased the floor milling equipment that used to be my Great Grandfather Swans at Champoeg. But, you have to wonder what goes on at Estacada or what draws wonderful and eccentric people there. People Like Robin Cody (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robin_Cody) whose novel RICOCHET RIVER is the best way to fully understand small town life in Oregon, and Mike Houck, the godfather of the greenspaces movement in Portland, and MJ Cody, a wonderful travel writer. http://www.powells.com/biblio/2-9780896585539-0 Ive never quite come up with a good explanation of what the draw is but one suspicion End of the Journey They thought long and often about death. It has long been my desire that when my time comes to die I may be enabled to sneak out of the world. Having pains--for Kenny you ever have a pain and begin to fear the worst? Agony hasn't come but it will, it will. Already you're lonely--nobody understands. People stride by in their despicable vigor, laughing. the fools!-- Can't they admire a hero? Can't they be kind, a little? You begin to plan: the doctor will shake his head; you refuse treatment. You disappear-- pretend a trip, and you wander, weaker and weaker. Pain distorts your face, and you travel by night. At the last you hid, crawling, forsaken, forgotten. You have that drama, ever? It runs through my mind, usually when I cut myself shaving or feel some twinge--mortality calling! I've died that death often. One of the on-going rivalries between Kenny and Bill was who was going to live longer. My father chided Bill about his tee-toddler, and protestant moderation mores. He figured his living life with more gusto, and drinking--but rarely getting tipsy let alone drunk-- outdoor physical exercise, and avoidance of stressful academic obligations, would be a winning formula. In the end they both died at nearly the same age. My father was a few days shy of 79 and Bill was 5 months past his 79th. They may have both ignored bodily signs that they were near the end. My father's was explicit. When told he had prostrate cancer he fell back on his Christen Science upbringing and decided to ignore it. He also swore my mother to secrecy to not tell anyone else about the prognosis. He created cover stories, like telling me his doctor thought he might have chronic fatigue syndrome. In a letter to Bill he expresses this view of his body as something he should be in control, " after bouts with pain the past couple years a suspicion that my body is a traitor has grown to the extent that I doubt that I never will have more than a momentary or hourly trust of it. I haven't reached the doctor yet. My hangover from Christian science makes drs. a resort only when I am in good health or have more compulsion from then that I did the last time. I didn't feel the old heart twitter." Cont. In 1983 my father had abdominal pain that doctors never did figure out. After an evening together when my father described the pain to the gathered core group, Bill sent him this poem. The poem foresees their future; my father refusing Retirement Speech
In courtesy at the end of a visit one of the older Eskimos hints time to part: "I feel rich enough."
now that my office hours have ended light clings to a few books left around on a table, and arrows of sun read slowly across that floor.
A discard box has broken. Spineless volumes craw from behind a door and beg. I lift on and it flutters poems yellow and brittle, gnawed by a rat.
Over this campus I place a bowl that fits tight at the edge. As days go by they will pump all the air slowly away. later years, I will be afraid to touch any of you people as your fragile dust precariously balances along your course, wherever it leads.
As a last effort to be oblique and to leave you thinking, let me put it this way: Now that I am going. I can't hurt you any more, and of that I have always been afraid. In letter, William Stafford to Kenny Johnson, 4/4/1978 Bill often commemorated the big events in his friends lives. Even, he practiced far in advance of the actual events. The Retirement speech was written several years before anyones actual retirement. The Informal Will was written over 40 years before his death. He was the groups speech writer,custodian of rituals, secretary, and poet. for Kenny, Bob, T.J. (edmonds) and all such, who always knew.... The great, autistic to the low, pass us; they go by elevated by a horse or charmed into such a stance as moves and pretends to bend. They bow, the great bow to each other, and to God--something-- Someone--over our heads. In rooms where they are, I look everywhere. Sometimes a ray strikes the wall or a dog trots in and examines all the legs, even mine, which extend down equally far.
In the city, where almost everyone is great, there is a space: I used to be there. When they looked past me I used think, "I'm gone." Now One of Bills most famous poems, Traveling Through the Dark, speaks to his role. The group was likely Kenny and Bob Dusenbery. Bill was teaching at Clatsop Community Cottage, and my father and Bob went along to keep him company. I thought hard for all of us... The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine. I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen. I thought hard for us allmy only swerving , then pushed her over the edge into the river. dear Kenny it is the last day--last class met, all students turned toward home for spring break, and myself snug in the office beside your old one where we faced so many spells of work and hiding from work... this building, its earlier shape, and in its old place was the scene of many an encounter, adventure, pursuit of ideas. john gross himself served in these walls. you were the "promising young man" John Gross promised me I'd meet when I first came to L&C. Odell, Ralph Allen, Helen Naundorf--all the titans of our heroic age were around. I pause to think about it. Down the hall I can hear the secretary and few teachers and students lurking around to end the term. The sun is coming in my western window. Books are piled around me. The shades of Tony Ostroff still hover around this room too. I take some of my stuff and head for the car and home. But I had to doff my hat your way on this occasion, thinking of how you helped me through the years of our finding our way into and out of this strange activity of teaching. No more giving grades now. No more to try to agonizing bluff of having something worthy to say! Let's rejoice that we made it. Think back now and then. And also think forward. so long, dear bill
you did exactly the right thing at 4 p.m. March 16th. Even the time was right for it was the most normal time for us to close our doors, to round off each day. But this was not a normal day for you. You moved me with your words much more than anything I can remember reading in a long time. when reading it I knew I held something I was grateful for yet I couldn't leave it for me alone. I read it to Jean without an introduction, just Its from Bill. When I got to the part about the old building I looked up and Jean was crying. I felt moisture coming to my eyes as well and to retrain it I had to shake my head.
letter, Kenny to Bill, march 24, 79 Decorum and Expression of Feelings The Staffords, Johnson's and Staufers camping at Motolius River (a most favorite place for the group) sans kinds. bill and Dorothy had a long decorous but destructive argument." My father adds, marriage is like being attached to an umbilical cord only without the security of being in her womb. Kenny Johnson Journal It goes back to the theme that Lona Packard described in the 1950s, not enough Dante. (* other part of the quote). But then again, imaging this exchange of poem and letter, You did Exactly the Right Thing ad 4 p.m., March 16 Ive read this exchange several times and keep imagining my father rushing home to read the letter from Bill, and only having to say, Its from Bill, for my mom to stop whatever she was doing and listen. In the end both Kenny and Bill did crawl out into the forest to die. Maybe not literally. Kenny died in his favorite room in the Johnson family home, his den. with a wall of hard bound books to his left and a view of his beloved Johnson creek on the other side. Just above his head were the complete works of Henry James and George Santayana. One of the last things he relayed to me was what he thought was a dream but was actually a passage from Giants in the Earth. The last communication from Bill and Dorothy (11/23/1990) to my dad, 2 months before he died, was about a dream Bill had: "last night I dreamed that I was waling somewhere with a child, and we met Kenny. I suddenly remembered I was to meet a class; so I said, "Kenny would you please go tell my class I wont be able to come, for I have to take this child home." Then I thought even better, "hey, why don't you just go meet my class yourself. Then there is a note with no date: "Kenny and Jean....we stopped by to sing "Jacob's ladder but you were out on the town." Jacobs Ladder along with Swing Low Sweet Chariot, my father sang, out loud for anyone around, in baritone, when he was happy on content. Bill and Dorothy tried to make contact with my father when it was clear he was immanently dying, but he refused to see them. My mother told me they were hurt by this, but I suspect they also understood. My father did not want their last memory of him to be the withered person on a futon struggling for breath. .. Johnson family homestead The Last Time The last time Bill and Dorothy visited my family place. It was probably summer, 1992. Also present were the Luchts and Dusenberys, Paulys. We were in front of the large brick stove. the men were sitting on lawn chairs and the women were arranging the meal. It was a potluck with casseroles as always. Bill, watching the women, said, "it must be hard for the women to watch their men go down hill so quickly." I looked at us, well more them then me (at least at the time), and there was a stark contrast. The men were hunched over with drink in hand. The women were bustling about. ....Later he commented, "you know you are old when doing exercise is bad for you." it was so true. the men seemed like they were checking out. the women POSTSCRIPT The Venerable Fireplace. This is where all the casseroles were warmed or the burgers and hot dogs cooked for 4th of July and other picnics.The last time I saw Bill we were sitting around it. He had helped Kenny build it. That day in 1991 we found his initials, along with my fathers, mine, and Kim and Bret. In 2014 the initials were gone.