OPINION- Column One

PAUL GREENBERG: His name: Henry Johnson

From time to time a news story about a disabled veteran or some other double amputee will appear in Arkansas' Newspaper, who's accomplishing physical feats that able-bodied types would have a hard time pulling off. That's when the spittin' image of Henry Johnson comes swiftly out of the past, complete with pearly white teeth set in his dark face and his look of mild amusement when I would forget he had no legs. That's how strong and sturdy the rest of his husky self was.

Back then I was obliged to attend the editorial conferences of the Chicago Daily News every weekday morning, to hammer out a consensus all of us opinionators could agree upon. Call it the paper's party line, and no meeting of any politburo could prove as tedious.

One day the issue before the editorial board was whether a candidate for firefighter who qualified for the job in every other respect should be allowed to compete for the position even if he happened to lack legs. My colleagues all agreed that 'twas a pity but, really, how could the city of Chicago reasonably expect so disabled a man to perform all the duties that would be demanded of him? The real pity, I was bold enough to say, was that the rest of those gathered around the conference table had never had the privilege and education of knowing and admiring Henry Johnson, my own mentor in these matters and many another.

My father was unhindered by any such prejudices. An immigrant not only to this country but to this part of it, he could recognize intelligence, ambition and all-around competence when he spotted it. He'd built a series of small businesses on such qualities, extending credit ("easy credit terms") to customers who displayed them. So when a young man entered his shoe store on Texas Avenue in Shreveport one day looking for a job, he took the young man on. Henry Johnson turned out to be such a good worker that my father asked him if he'd like to learn the shoemaker's trade, my father's own.

All was going well till Henry, in a hurry to get to work one day, decided to crawl under a long, still freight train that suddenly moved, neatly severing both of his legs. But what might have been a tragedy for others, Henry Johnson transformed into an opportunity and a test of character he would pass with flying colors for the rest of his life, which would coincide with my father's for the next half-century.

Henry would become the family's faithful retainer, although it was not always clear whether he worked for my father or my father for him. Henry knew the territory, as they say, and he would always go ahead to scout it out for the old man and for the boy I was then. Together he and I would deliver cheap furniture (aka Borax in the business) all across southern Arkansas, northern Louisiana, and eastern Texas, then known as the ArkLaTex.

The location of the store at 836 Texas Avenue never changed; only what it sold did. And the identities of the customers scarcely changed either, from generation to generation. Families would just return to "The Store with the Green Front" to buy whatever they needed at the time. And when Pa and Henry would die at about the same time, Henry just before Pa, the family would say that, once again, Henry had gone ahead to scout out the territory.

Whenever I count my numerous blessings on one of those nights when I'm having trouble falling asleep, having known Henry Johnson, that good and faithful servant, ranks high among them, a reminiscence and instruction in the art and discipline of gratitude. Thank you, Henry, wherever you are, for the rich memories you have bequeathed to me and mine.

Paul Greenberg is the Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial writer and columnist for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.

Editorial on 03/04/2018

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