Obituary of William W. Johnson

William W. Johnson, Bill to his wife, W.W. to his friends, just W to the Tuesday night poker group, grandpa to many, and Billy to his brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, officially retired on November 25, 2018. He was born and raised in Florence County by the woman he called the sweetest in the world, in a house full of three older sisters and three older brothers. His father was killed in a work accident in 1943 and his hero, his brother John Lloyd, was killed in Normandy in 1944.

He always told us stories of his youth: granny shooting at the chicken hawk, grandpa climbing trees to catch raccoons, and remembering his first soft drink at nine, brought by his teacher who was checking up on him after he missed school due to illness. One of the best was the story of the cross-country hitchhiking trip in 1946 (he was 16!) with his best friend, Porgie. They went all the way to California and back, one hitch at a time. Dad told us about being stuck in Van Horn, Texas for almost a week on the way west and the cascade of silver dollars from the slot machines in Reno on the way back east. He joined the Army Air Corps in 1947 and they made him a radar repair technician on B-29s. The fact he was colorblind didn’t dissuade the military from keeping him in there with all those red and green wires. He liked the military and said the first turkey he ever had at thanksgiving was in the service, so he gave them a pass. It had always been chickens from the yard prior to that, but he never thought that was a bad thing. As a kid, they didn’t have electricity or running water sometimes, but they had a daddy who worked and hunted and fished, a strong mama, and strong children and that was enough. He worked a lot of jobs, some he was suited for and some he wasn’t, but he worked seemingly non-stop. He sold salt in Johnson City and collected debts in Orangeburg (for which he was too soft hearted). He ended up working for the mail service, riding the train from Florence to D.C. They worked the mail on the northbound train and “rested” on the way back. He told us of one of his workmates who was supposed to get off in Savannah who sometimes “rested” a little too much and would have to be roused at the end of the line in Jacksonville and be sent back on the next train.

He lived a life before he met his Dottie at the Flamingo Restaurant in Florence. She was a strong, single mama at the time to Wayne and Sunny, and she said that Bill was the first man she thought was good enough to be a part of their lives. He took on the role of husband and father and showed up every day for the rest of his life. They soon added Wes and Carson to their family. He welcomed all of his kids’ friends and, if you met him once, he asked about you for years afterwards. He worked nights at the Columbia, then Dixiana, post office for almost 50 years which would have been enough for anybody but him. He had a paper route, hung billboards, ran a floor-cleaning company, took us camping and fishing, taught us how to catch and dress crabs, eat oysters, and drove us all over creation, mixing trips to water parks with historical sites. He supported all his children in everything they did, even football and baseball when he thought they should be playing golf and shooting pool.

He was a member at Hidden Valley, then Lexington Country Club, and finally the Ponderosa where he played six days a week after retiring from the post office two months before his 80th birthday. Cold or bugs or heat were of no concern to him and he showed up every day there was a match, whether it was for a Pepsi or for ten dollars a hole with front and back bets, greenies, polies, and mandatory presses. He was the rules guru to the consternation of those who would use the old foot wedge or forget how to count correctly, but he was hard on himself as well and it was always a fair match.

He started having grandkids and he pushed them in strollers and carried their dirty diapers to trash cans (amazing Dottie who said he never did that for any of his own children). After he retired, he and Dottie traveled the country on charter bus trips, satisfying the curiosity he always showed. If you saw him on an airplane, his head was pressed against the window, peering at the landscape below. If he was in a car, he sat up front, looking at the passing landscape. He went on long hikes with the Boy Scouts with Wayne while Dottie and Sunny and the little boys camped out in the VW pop-too camper. He took Wes and Carson to England one year and they hung out with a bunch of Irish kids in a working class pub playing pool and drinking lagers every night after they drug him around town. In 2007, he finally saw John Lloyd’s grave in France on a trip with Carson, satisfying the need to pay respects to his brother.

He knew stuff...all kinds of stuff. He would have been a great history professor and he could talk all day authoritatively on many subjects but, if he didn’t know the answer, he wouldn’t make one up. He wanted to know the truth and was famous for replying, “Well, that’s not exactly so,” if he heard someone misrepresent something he knew the truth of. Stories though, were different. In a Memphis restaurant on New Year’s Day, when being corrected about a factual matter in a tale he was telling, he responded, “Boy, I’m not recounting facts. I’m telling a story.” And, like all the others, it was a good one.

Strokes began to take away his legs when he was 84 and it progressed through the years, robbing him of his golf and driving. He missed going to the grocery store when he had a hankering for pigs feet or ox tail and hated relying on others to help him. “I don’t want to be beholden to nobody,” was the line he used from the movie Sergeant York and he tried to live it. He hated having his freedom taken from him, but we all loved having him to talk to and didn’t mind helping out.

Dottie and Bill were married over 51 years and there was never a doubt it wasn’t going to endure. He was a dad every single one of those years and a great one. He was even a better grandad and he will be missed by so many. We will all remember who he was though, and how he showed up for us every day. We will all try to honor him by doing the same. He always underestimated himself and didn’t realize the influence he had on us all. They say that you are alive as long as someone remembers you. Well, with all the stories we have to tell, W will be alive for a very long time.

W.W. is survived by his children, their spouses, a mess of grandchildren who thought he was hilarious, and some great-grandchildren who are going to have to put up with our stories about him for a long time.

There will be a graveside service to honor W. W. in Southland Memorial Gardens on Friday, November 30, 2018 at 1:00 p.m.