“Family reunions are the place where you remember where you came from.”
— Author unknown
“You know,” Stan said. “Those two are the reason we’re here.”
The ‘here’ he referred to was another gathering of the descendants of Arthur George Johnson and Bernice Conlee Johnson, a family with Kentucky roots dating to the 1700s.
‘Those two’ were the family’s oldest remaining members, Bill Johnson, and Jo Johnson Scott. Eighty-eight and 92-years young, respectively. Both attended last weekend’s reunion in Abilene. Just as they have most of the previous gatherings wherever they have been held.
Stan made the serious comment as we went through the animated antics of trying to line up all 45 attendees representing four generations for a group photo.
With five minutes notice. An exercise in anything but seriousness.
“Everybody wants to take care of me,” laughed Uncle Bill, who uses a cane to offset multiple knee replacements. “They think I’m old. You should have seen them when I pretended to stumble and almost fall. Scared the you-know-what out of ‘em.”
Stan’s mother, Wyama (Amy) Johnson Weatherred, and my mother, Indianola Johnson Aldridge were members of that generation. Other siblings of the six children of Arthur and Bernice Johnson were another daughter, Katherine Johnson Fugitt, and a son, George Johnson, who did not survive childhood.
Arthur Johnson was born in 1894 and is responsible for starting the familial gatherings that have become legendary with those of us who have spent a lifetime traveling to the family reunions.
He died in 1951. He did not live a long life by most standards, but he did accomplish remarkable things. The most incredible might have been instilling in his G children the importance of family ties.
Among family documents is a letter he wrote to my mother on her marriage in 1944.
She was preparing to marry a young soldier named Aldridge from Pittsburg, Texas. Her plans to marry and move what must have seemed like a long distance in 1944 was probably intensified by the fact she was the first to marry and leave home.
His letter covered all the admonitions one might assume a father would offer his daughter. Things like honor and devotion to her new husband, remaining faithful to God and the importance of family and frequent get-togethers.
And get together frequently, Mom’s family did. Johnson reunions go back to the very early 1950s, that I recall. The familial gatherings were Kentucky events for many years. But, in the last couple of decades, locations convenient to aging members and growing families have included points from the Blue Grass State to Texas, where all but one branch of the family wound up.
After mom moved to Texas, she was followed by two sisters eventually calling the Lone Star State their adopted home.
Another sister settled in Ohio.
Bill stayed in Southern California after his discharge from the Navy in San Diego but later moved to Texas. Then to Phoenix before coming back to Texas.
Geography proved to be no obstacle, however.
Reunions were planned well in advance, and very few were missed.
Generations have driven halfway across the country and through the night to attend.
Mom was the oldest of her generation. I’m the most senior of my generation of cousins who have grown up more like brothers and sisters than cousins.
With reunions a given in my life, it’s been surprising to read in recent years that family reunions in America are declining. “Going out of style,” as one writer phrased it.
If that’s so, the Kentucky Johnsons were not informed.
Maybe we’ve slowed down a little. What used to be weeklong affairs are now threeor four-day weekends.
Time spent catching up. Sharing photos.
Relearning names of each other’s children and grandchildren that slip aging minds.
Laughing about stories from decades ago.
Stories I’ve heard more times than I can count.
Late nights supplemented with snappy cheese dip and Ale-8-1 soft drinks—both Kentucky traditions rooted in the Winchester area.
But I’ll keep going for as long as I can. And listen to the stories as long as they are still being told because, with each recitation, there are variations that only time and the love for recounting family history firsthand can enhance. Reminders of where we came from.
And that’s probably the best part of family reunions.
That, and the snappy cheese and Ale-8s.
