Headline: HE
DIDN'T SEEK FAME OR FORTUNE, BUT HIS FAMILY FELT HIS LOVE
Reporter: By Greg Freeman
Publication: ST.
LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Last Printed: Tues., Dec. 1, 1998
Section: METRO, Page: B1, Edition: FIVE STAR LIFT
William Dean Johnson
William Dean Johnson
was a gentle man.
Yes, a gentleman in the common sense of the word. He opened
doors for women, waited for women to be seated before he sat and rarely had
a cross word to say about others.
But he was a gentle man too. He lived a peaceful life. He
didn't bother others. After his wife died, he raised his young daughter alone,
serving as a perfect dad.
That gentle man died early Thanksgiving morning, at the age
of 76. He was buried Monday.
He
was my father-in-law.
Johnson -- "Dad,
" as I came to call him after my wife and I married 19 years ago -- was
always kind to me. He was a man of few words, something I hadn't realized when
I first met him, which made me wonder if he really liked me. Over time, though,
I learned that he was not a person to carry on lengthy conversations.
My
wife and I met when we were students at Washington University, both working
for the school paper. The first time she brought me to her house, I wondered
what he would say. I'm black; Elizabeth is white.
As
it turns out, he said "hello" and "pleased to meet you."
He
was always like that. Race seemed unimportant to him. When Elizabeth and I decided
to marry, I wondered what he would think. No one in my wife's family had ever
married a black man. I was smart enough to realize that it might be a real shock
to the family.
But
dad embraced me immediately. His kind, gentle nature shone through once again.
When he was growing
up, though, Dad was the Johnson family's own Dennis the Menace, and family members
sometimes told him so.
Once, when he was about 5, he walked away from home, traveling
several blocks, until he arrived at a barber shop at Union and Easton avenues,
what is now known as Martin Luther King Drive.
He
ambled into the barber shop, plopped into the barber chair and asked for a haircut.
The
barber, amused by this little boy, asked his name.
"General,
" he replied.
"General?"
the barber asked. "General what?"
"General
Nuisance, " he said.
The
barber called the police, and the little nuisance was soon returned to his family.
The little boy
grew up to be a handsome man. A black-and-white portrait of him, taken in the
early 1950s, shows a striking young man with a calm, gentle expression. He married
Mozelle DeLoach in 1946, and the two had a daughter. Together they raised the
blond-haired little girl, until Mozelle died, when their only daughter was 12.
Dad raised her into adulthood, spending hours and hours with
her. At times he was more like a sibling than a father. Together they would
go sledding, to the movies and on long walks. He loved to walk, sometimes making
it hard for his daughter to keep up.
He worked for
many years for a company that made restaurant equipment, putting together catalogs.
But unlike some men, who find their greatest pleasure in their work, he found
his in his family and in his hobbies. He liked singing and playing the guitar,
and he had a good singing voice. He also played the harmonica and piano.
In
later years, after his grandson was born, he taught him a couple of his bad
habits, including opening a straw and blowing the paper wrapper off, and blowing
on the tops of empty soda bottles to make noises.
He
enjoyed cats. His first cat, Kiki, was a constant companion until her death.
Later, Josephine, a regal cat from the Gasconade pound, came into his life,
developing a jealous relationship with him. When anyone else would kiss him
on the cheek, Josephine would jump in his lap to divert his attention.
In
his later years, his health began to fail, but he always remained in good spirits,
enjoying classical music, Harrison Ford movies and National Geographic magazine.
He wasn't someone
who was in the news. He was not a person who had, nor sought, fame or fortune.
He was an ordinary man who was known by his daughter as an extraordinary father.
That
extraordinary father died in his sleep Thursday, gently, just as he had lived.
COPYRIGHT © 1998, ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH
Daniel Schesch - Webweaver