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  (Delivered Sept. 30, 2004 at Holy Angeles Catholic Church, Sidney, Ohio) 
  How do you sum up 70 years in a couple of paragraphs?
  Very simply, you don’t.
  I realize that my words here today will make very little difference. Nor are they likely to enlighten, entertain or inspire anyone.
  First and foremost, I must officially tell everyone here that Dad did, in fact, die of a severe case of “the epizootic” - a mythological illness which everybody in Dick Johnson’s world suffered at one point or another. It took everything I had not to put that in the obituary.
  As I spent the last few days contemplating what to write to eulogize Dad, I struggled with not only what to say, but how to say it.
  Too flowery or glamorous, and I know he would be looking down shaking his head at me – and would probably kill the sound system. Too blunt – as Dad would have it – and Mom would be mortified (plus, we’re in church).
  Then, Monday night, I was in Waffle House here in Sidney when I overheard the most amazing conversation. As I was getting ready to pay for a cup of coffee, cup of tea and a piece of pie, I thought I heard one of the guys at the counter mumble something that sounded a lot like “Dick Johnson.”
  OK. It’s nearly midnight. We’re at Waffle House in Sidney, Ohio. And, now I’m hallucinating and hearing voices. Just magnificent.
  Then, I heard it again. I distinctly heard it again.
  “Dick Johnson.”
  I turned to my right and saw a trio of guys sitting at the counter. They were all older than middle age. One of them had a long white beard, one’s clothes were spotted with grease and grime, and they all had dirt under their fingernails. These were average, everyday working guys – probably just off the second shift somewhere, enjoying a bowl of chili, piece of pie or a cup of coffee and some local gossip.
  I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on them. When the conversation turned to whether Dad worked for Dixie or CarQuest or Napa when he left Dunson’s, I could no longer constrain myself.
  “So, you knew Dick Johnson?” I asked.
  “Yep, we bought parts from him for years,” came one response.
  “We always bought our parts from Dick,” came another.
  “We heard he passed away Sunday,” the third guy said, looking up from his chili.
  We talked for a few minutes, them relating stories of Dad’s devotion to his customers and relaying some of his well-known antics – all the while without them knowing exactly who I was. I guess they just figured I was another wrench-turner popping into Waffle House for a quick late-night bite.
  When one finally recognized that Dad and I have a slight resemblance to each other, he asked, “Are you related to him? You look like you are.”
  I identified myself, and the man who hadn’t said more than three words in 10 minutes put down his spoon, looked up from his bowl and very quietly, his eyes starting to mist, said, “Your old man was a hell of a guy.”
  “Your old man was a hell of a guy.” That about sums it up. But the fact that they were all clueless as to exactly where he was employed says even more. Here were guys that weren’t simply Dad’s customers. They were his friends. They weren’t buying their parts from Dixie or Dunson’s or Napa. They were buying their parts from their friend Dick Johnson.
  And he returned that sentiment – although he would likely never admit it – more than they will ever know. I remember him breaking down when Jim and Junior Morrow passed away several years ago. I remember walking into garages with him and watching as he would tell the struggling mechanic, “pay me when you can, I’ll take care of old Dunson.”
  Yep, these guys – and sometimes women – truly were his friends. That was never more evident than last evening at the funeral home, as a steady line of people packed the place to pay their last respects. It’s evidenced by the fact that there are very few empty pews this morning.
  If a man is judged by the company he keeps, then Dick Johnson was, in fact, one hell of a man.
  As a father, Dad was not the most emoting of individuals. He wasn’t snuggly, cuddly or huggy. If I intimated that he was, he would rise up as surely as I stand here and – as he would often say, “cuff me upside the head.”
  But, you know what?
  Growing up, my sisters and I didn’t need Dad to be Mr. Warmth and emotion. We knew he loved us – all of us. We knew he was proud of us – all of us – even if he didn’t tell us very often. He didn’t have to.
  The loudest cheerer at IUITIS softball games was often Dick Johnson. The most-fervent defender of the Johnson brood – of his grandchildren, especially - was most often Dick Johnson. The loudest laugher and best tormentor was always Dick Johnson.
  I’m reminded of a story that Wild West legend Wyatt Earp related in his later years about his father. Nicholas Earp, was actually a very strict, cold man.
  But when Wyatt was about to embark on a grand adventure to the untamed west as a young adult, his father pulled him aside on a moonlit night and gave him one major piece of advice.
 “Nothing is stronger than blood,” the elder Earp told his son. “Always remember that.”
  Nothing is stronger than blood – a lesson that Dad lived every day of his mortal existence. 
  All four of us kids, all 13 of his grand and great-grandchildren, knew that when the entire world was against us – even if we were wrong – we had an ally in Dad.
  Sure, he might tell us that whatever particular situation we had gotten ourselves into was of our own making and entirely stupid, he didn’t do it in a condescending or judgmental manner.
   He plainly stated the facts – with all the subtlety of a freight train.
  But then he immediately tried to help us fix whatever we had broken and dig out of whatever hole we had landed in this time.
  When I was faced with a rapidly failing marriage, financial ruin and unemployment, Dad’s advice to me was very short, very succinct and very true. Six words which – like Wyatt Earp’s father’s advice – are something I’ll carry with me forever.
  “You need to be a man.”
  Oh, how true. Because to Dick Johnson, being a man meant carrying your head high. It meant pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps. It meant taking whatever life had to throw at you and dealing with it. Never giving up, never shrinking from the battle and never running away from your problems. This abject bravery was never more evident than during his recent bout with faltering health – the epizootic to be more specific.
  It also meant taking responsibility for your actions. It meant taking care of your own. It meant very simply that nothing is stronger than blood.
  Several years ago, I wrote a column about Dad. Now, I’m not the world’s most-talented writer. I’m not the world’s greatest columnist – although I would like to think I can hold my own.
  I would like to share those words with you now, edited slightly.
  After several decades, I finally understood why my father yelled at me about his tools. 
   “I can’t find my wrench Mike,” he would bellow.  Or it would be, “Where’s my (expletive deleted) Philips screwdriver?” 
  Mind you, these inquiries into the location of specific hand tools were never done in a really pleasant or jovial manner. But after living with a son of my own for 16 years, I understand why Dad was having a conniption fit over something so seemingly trivial.
  My own experience with little hands being where they weren’t supposed to came as I was trying to change the fuel pump on my car in the middle of a parking lot in Asheboro, N.C., a number of years ago.
  When we moved to North Carolina, I had two full sets of sockets and four ratchets. One set was metric and the other was normal. As I opened the toolbox to get the proper socket to remove the old fuel pump, I discovered that out of seventy sockets I had nine.
  Now I know for a fact that my wife didn’t take those 61 sockets. If my golf clubs were missing, then I could blame her. But she would never mess with something as sacred as a man’s tools. After buying the four sockets I needed to repair the car, I fumed at my son. “Keep your (expletive deleted) hands out of my toolbox. The next time I catch you messing with my tools you’re in big trouble.” He naturally denied any knowledge of a toolbox, tools or the existence of a fuel pump entirely.
  That night, as I was lying in bed it hit me like a large two-by-four with a nail in the end - I’m turning into my father!
  When I was 17 years old, I probably would have struck anyone who told me that, but a few years later, I suddenly realized that the thought of turning into my father wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
  First, let me tell you a little bit about him. Richard Charles Johnson, age 70, was raised in Raymond, Ohio, a little community of less than 500 people.
  His father, William Johnson, was a life-long railroad man, working many miles from home. For the last 40-or-so years, Dad was employed as an auto parts salesman.
  I used to look down on that, one time even telling him that I was going to make something better of my life than being a “stupid parts salesman.”
  That rather ignorant comment can be attributed to a rebellious seventeen-year-old who couldn’t get along with anybody, let alone his father. I’ve never apologized for that comment. So, Dad, I’m sorry.
  When my sisters and I were growing up, we always looked at our father as gruff, outspoken when he did speak, and unfeeling about most issues. Oh, how we were wrong.
  Although my dad didn’t tell us he loved us more frequently than maybe twice in twenty years, we somehow knew it - especially after we got out on our own. My father’s family was kind of different. They never show that much emotion about each other. Knowing that Dad was brought up in kind of a chilly environment explains a lot when you think about his lack of enthusiasm for hugs and all that mushy stuff.
  My mom would always intervene and tell us kids that Dad does care deeply for all of us; he just has a hard time showing it. I guess she was right. I can remember getting flack for losing tools or for being in “his light” when he was trying to work, but I also remember going sledding at the Moose and shooting hoops behind the garage with him.
  I also remember the look on his face when I held up my son David in the nursery of Mary Rutan Hospital in Bellefontaine.
  I think he might even have gotten a little teary-eyed. Its memories like these that make me realize more everyday that our dad wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
  I understand that he probably couldn’t say the words “I love you” nearly as often as we’d like to have heard them, but I know he did.
  Oh, and by the way Dad - I love you, too.
  Dick Johnson really was one hell of a man.
  Dad, on behalf of all of us, thanks for helping make us who we are. Thanks for instilling in us a true sense of right and wrong. Thanks for motivation – sometimes in the form of a swift kick in the pants. But most of all, thanks for simply being you.
  This world is truly a better place for having known Dick Johnson, and our lives are all a little less full today because of his passing.

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