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In Memory of Caroline Glandon Johnson

During my mother’s last eighteen months of life I visited her at least once a week at the memory care home. Typically, I would spend about four or five hours with her per visit. Prior to moving into the first care home, on May 1, 2023, Mom lived with my husband and me. She had lived with us for over twenty years.

But during those last couple years, as her mind drifted off into the hell that is dementia, I tried soothing’s Mom’s fears—the fear and terror that comes with forgetting one’s life—by telling her stories about that life. During our weekly visits, she would often ask me to tell her a story.

Mom passed away last Thursday, October 24, 2024. In leu of a traditional obit, I thought I’d retell one of the stories I often told Mom.

Once upon a time there was a little girl name Caroline. But everyone called her Baby, because she was the youngest in her family. She had an older sister named Margaret, who was a talented artist and also a bit of a  tomboy, who would sometimes sock Caroline in the arm, but she was also protective of her little sister.

Caroline had three older brothers, Rod, Gene, and Ken, and a mother and father she adored. Caroline was well loved. Her parents owned El Monte Laundry and when Caroline was very little, she would take naps in the bin of warm clean towels at the laundry. She played with her cousins and had made many close friends in her little town of El Monte—many of whom she remained friends with throughout her entire life. Making lifelong friends says a lot about someone’s character. 

But when she was eleven years old her father died suddenly of a heart attack. Caroline’s older brother, Gene, stepped in as a father figure. While Caroline loved all her brothers, she especially appreciated her brother Gene, for all he did, such as decorating the home on Christmas Eve and being there when she needed him.

Caroline also adored her mama, Hilda. And for a time, after her father died, she would sleep with her mama each night.

One day, Caroline wanted people to stop calling her Baby. She told her older sister she didn’t like the nickname anymore, so Margaret told everyone to stop calling Caroline Baby. And they did.

One day, when Caroline was in high school, a new boy walked into class. Unlike the other boys in her high school, he wasn’t wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was wearing nice slacks and a dress shirt. At the time, she didn’t know it was because he was from Michigan, and the high school boys in Michigan didn’t dress as casual as the high school boys in southern California. 

While normally shy, Caroline felt confident surrounded by the kids she had grown up with. And when this new student walked into class, Caroline eyed the handsome young man, and in a sassy  voice, she called out, “Hey Zoot!”

That boy was Walt Johnson, the young man she would marry a few years later. They would go on to have two daughters, Lynn and Bobbi.  Caroline was a loving mother and traditional homemaker. Walt became a general contractor, and they lived in a custom home Walt built and designed.

But one day Walt wanted to go on an adventure, and Caroline, always wanting to support Walt, agreed to join him. They packed up their family and moved to Havasu Palms. Caroline moved from a beautiful custom home in Covina, California, to an old ten wide trailer located at the end of a twelve mile dirt road, on the shores of Lake Havasu. And Caroline worked beside her husband, to help his dream come true.

That’s pretty much the story I told Mom, countless times, over the last couple years. Earlier in her dementia we would discuss my father, and she would ask what happened to him. When I moved her into the memory care home we had a wall of family pictures, one was of my father, when he was in the Navy, before they married.  Mom would ask, “Who is that man?” I would take the picture off the wall, show it to her, and tell her it was her husband, Walt, my father.  She would look at the picture, smile, and say, “He was good looking.”

Over the last few years of this slow goodbye, I’ve learned some things about my mother, that I never understood before her dementia. I always knew she was shy. People often mistook her shyness for rudeness—or bitchyness. In truth, Mom was always generous, compassionate, and loved animals. She was also fiercely protective of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Because of this fierce love, sometimes her words lacked diplomacy.

But what I didn’t understand about Mom, she also lacked confidence. Apparently, she always felt as if she had no talent. During her last few years, she often spoke of her sister Margaret, who had passed away in 2013. In those conversations she would praise her sister’s artistic abilities. Mom would also praise me, telling me how proud she was that I was an author, and then she would go on to point out that unlike other members of our family, she had no real talent. 

Mom was born in an era where women were raised to get married, have children, take care of their families, and basically, weren’t encouraged to have dreams beyond that narrow scope. I told mom she had been a wonderful mother, and then I asked her if there was something she had wanted to do, besides the traditional role she had taken.

To my surprise, she said writer.  But why was I surprised? Mom had been writing in her journals for as long as I could remember. I was always a bit envious of how she had stuck to it, each year filling out a new journal. In the past, I had started journals, and never lasted more than a week or so.  And here I am, a writer by profession.

I remembered it was Mom who nudged me in the direction which led to a career in writing. Back in high school, when selecting classes for my sophomore year, she encouraged me to take journalism. I hadn’t even considered journalism, and it ended up being a major part of my writing journey. 

It’s not unusual for a child—even an adult child—to fail to see the entire person that is their mother. For years I failed to see the truth about my mother—she was a fellow writer. It had been there all along, right in front of my eyes. Mom had always been a voracious reader who filled our home with books. One thing about writers, we love to read, and we love books. 

I also understand that Mom’s lack of confidence prevented her from pursuing writing beyond her private ledgers. When I realized how her love of reading and writing had helped propel my writing career, I shared that with Mom, and it seemed to give her a more positive perspective of herself. I also reminded Mom that while she may not have pursued a writing career, she was still a writer.

This late life epiphany about my mother takes on an even deeper meaning when I consider my granddaughter. My mother and granddaughter shared a special and beautiful bond. My granddaughter called Mom, GG. Like Mom and me, my granddaughter has an interest in writing. She would like to someday be an author.  

All of this makes me smile, and while I write this, I can’t help but pause, glance upwards and tell Mom, see what you started? Three generations of writers.

Bobbi Ann Johnson Holmes

Is Danielle too nice?

After reading The Ghost Who Lied, one reader suggested that Danielle might be “too good to be true.” She based this on Danielle’s seemingly blasé attitude regarding a potential lawsuit. However, I would have to respectfully disagree. I believe Danielle’s attitude was not borne from martyrdom selflessness—but practical reality.

My husband and I have owned businesses—and we have managed businesses. One thing we have learned over the years, a business is always open to a potential lawsuit. Like Danielle, we didn’t fret over the possibility, instead, we tried to take preventive measures, and we had insurance.

Danielle informing the insurance company of a potential lawsuit is something I have done myself—and in one notable case, we were as inculpable as Danielle.  An airplane had crashed when attempting to land on the dirt airstrip at Havasu Palms. Fortunately, no one was killed. One of the first things I did—after dealing with the crash—was to contact the insurance company. I didn’t believe we were liable, but I was not going to agonize over it—that is why we had insurance. The same was true for Danielle.

As it turned out, Havasu Palms was sued, yet the case was eventually dropped when it was determined that the crash didn’t actually take place on our lease land. However, the insurance company bore the cost of the lawsuit.

Over the years, we have seen other lawsuits where the insurance company opted to simply settle a nuisance case, believing it would save them money in the long run. It always bothered me that they are willing to pay scammers to get rid of them—but it’s not that unusual.

Therefore, I don’t believe Danielle’s behavior was indicative of some goodie-good Pollyanna, but instead of a practical realist.

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Remembering the Real Walt

laughBWThe real Walt for me is my dad—Walt Johnson. He passed away 23 years ago today. It’s hard to imagine he’s been gone for almost a quarter of a century.

Dad loved Christmas, and I suppose I missed him most those last few Christmases he spent with us—because he was noticeably absent those last few years. Oh, I’m not saying he was physically elsewhere—he spent Christmas with us. Nor did he check out mentally. It wasn’t as if he was suffering from some form of dementia.

But, Dad was so ill those last couple years of his life; the man who loved Christmas, was no longer involved.

In Haunting Danielle’s The Ghost Who Came for Christmas, Danielle cooks up a batch of oyster stew for Christmas Eve, a recipe she is not thrilled with, but it was a tradition of her late father’s, so she feels compelled to prepare it.  Dad’s signature dish on Christmas Eve was oyster stew—and like Danielle, I was not fond of it.  I don’t prepare it on Christmas Eve, but I let Danielle do it for me.

Dad had been battling congestive heart failure for a couple years before he died. Don and I moved to Havasu in 1991, with our two young children, to help my parents run the family business, Havasu Palms—and to help Mom take care of Dad, which included running him to the hospital several times a week for overnight treatment.  When I say running him to the hospital, I mean taking him across the lake on Havasu Palms’ supply boat.

Mom and I stayed by Dad’s side that last week. He had been in and out of the hospital numerous times during the year prior to his death, yet we knew this trip to intensive care was different. The night he died, Mom and I got a hotel room in town, and Don returned across the lake to Havasu Palms, with the kids.

During that final week, Dad had been out of it. We weren’t able to have a real conversation, and when he did say something, he really didn’t understand where he was or what was going on. At one point, he started rambling about seeing people he knew.

A male nurse showed up during that last day—we had never seen him before, and considering the amount of times Dad was in and out of intensive care, we knew the entire staff.

But this nurse said he was on loan from another hospital, and strangely, he didn’t seem to have any other patients he needed to tend to.  Instead, he spent the time with my mother, talking to her about Dad, encouraging her to talk about their life together.

I will confess, I rather wanted him to go away. I just wanted to be alone in my grief—yet, Mom seemed to need him.  So, I didn’t say anything—and mom continued to talk to the nurse, letting him help her through her impending loss.

When she had said all she had to say, he quietly excused himself—and disappeared. We never saw him again, and I will admit, we have often wondered if he wasn’t a nurse at all. An angel perhaps?

Later that evening, after Mom and I checked into our hotel room and grabbed something to eat, I told Mom I felt we needed to get back to the hospital.  It was not long after we returned to the hospital that Dad moved on.

I remember how it reminded me of being at a train station or an airport, when we’d wait with someone who was waiting to take off on a trip. (Back in the days when you could wait at the airport with someone departing.)  You sit there and talk a little, maybe say nothing, then when the train or plane arrives everyone starts talking and saying their goodbyes.

It was like that for us. The moment Dad flat lined—I began talking to him.  All week I had been by his side, yet it had been impossible to communicate with him. I figured this was my last chance. During his illness I had read numerous books on near death experiences, and the belief that a person’s departing spirit can hear all that is happening around his body immediately following death.

I told him how much I loved him. What a good father he had been. I told him my sister Lynn wished she could be with him. I told him to follow the light.  Mom joined in and started talking to him too, saying her goodbyes.  I did my best to ignore the female nurse who was now in the room, and not allow myself to grow silent from embarrassment. Saying goodbye to Dad was much too important.

I remember the feeling of being engulfed by his love.  The day after his death, a tenant of Havasu Palms’ mobile home park offered me her condolences. In that moment, I remembered something Dad had told me the previous Christmas, when I had asked him want he wanted. He told me, “Get me something you want.” His meaning of course, was that since he was dying, whatever I gave him, I would be getting back.

Dad had this amazing—and sometimes inappropriate sense of humor—so when the woman offered her sympathies, I said without thinking, “At least I hadn’t bought his Christmas present yet.”

Of course, she looked at me like I was either insane or a horrible person. Yet, I could hear Dad’s roar of laughter at my comment, and once again, his love embraced me.

Merry Christmas Daddy. I miss you.

(Photo: me and my dad, Walt)