In Honor of Johnny

I am not a consistent journal writer. Despite the fact that I carry a small notebook everywhere I go to record random impressions and ideas, my beautiful leather bound journal has more blank pages than it should. I don't write for a number of reasons - the chief of which includes that I am far too detailed, and I've usually written pages before I've gotten to the heart of what I intended to write about. Also, writing experiences or thoughts down makes them real. I can avoid them or pretend that I don't feel that way in speech and in action, but there's no hiding in a journal. It's complete honesty, sometimes to the point of pain. And yet today, I feel it necessary to set a new goal to write in my journal on a regular basis. Seems a simple thing to do, but I have set this goal before and failed almost immediately. This go-around though, I have a stronger motivation and reasoning for doing it - concisely put, it is because of Johnny.

John Dietrich Hoffman was born in Germany on April 16, 1922. We don't know when exactly the Hoffman family immigrated to Brooklyn, New York, but we know well that he was my papa's brother and my grandma's uncle. He lived a very humble life - a young man during the Depression, he worked to support himself as part of the CCC - FDR's idea of how to employ those affected by the economy's downturn. Unknown to anyone else, he joined the army in the early 40s and showed up at my great-grandparents' home in San Francisco after completing basic training. Little is known about his service, though we do know that he did not like the army. And so when the war ended, he took a job found for him by his brother in South San Francisco in a factory near what would later be known as Candlestick Park. He worked there as a machinist until he was 62. Then he collected his pension and his social security and lived a quiet life that only included a few blocks in the heart of the city. To our knowledge, Johnny never married, though he did love a good woman named Peggy who he took care of while she suffered a long battle with cancer. Johnny was content to never learn how to drive - he didn't have anywhere that he wanted to go. He ate breakfast at the same diner every day. He walked his beloved dogs, read his paper, watched a little tv, and bet on horses when he could at the track. After complications from a bad fall in January, Johnny died on February 2, 2008.

Though we didn't see Johnny often (he didn't like to travel - Concord and Alamo seemed an eternity away), it was always entertaining when he came to dinner on holidays and special occasions. He had a distinct way of speaking - he never beat around the bush, and he always wanted to know about you and your family. Johnny asked sincere questions about other people, but never spoke about himself. He had a way of deflecting your questions and moving conversation back to someone else in the family. And that's why, after his memorial service that was held yesterday in Placerville, I walked away wishing we knew more. His siblings and parents are long gone. Anyone else who knew him is aging or dead and was also kept at bay not knowing any of Johnny's personal details. We don't know why he hated the army - was it the death he saw or corruption in his commanding officers? Why didn't he marry Peggy? Or if he did marry her, why didn't he share that with his family? Why did he lie about being born in Germany, instead always saying he was born in New York? Etc, etc.

With Johnny at the forefront of my mind today, I heard multiple talks and comments that seemed directed at me. They all focused on remembering and recording who we are, both for our purposes and those that follow us. I knew as I listened and now as I write, that despite my inadequacies and my constant reflection on the oddest things, writing in my journal needs to be a priority. I have always known that, but not accepted the responsibility. I have watched great examples (Megan--you especially!!) prove that it can be done and done well. I want to fill dozens of journals with pages that are covered with the classic day-to-day experiences and life-altering moments and random recollections of love that was lost and found, divine inspiration that changed everything, dreams that somehow came true, and goals that were finally accomplished.

Someday, when I have passed through the veil, I will sit down with Johnny and finally hear his stories. With diligence and help from above, hopefully, my family won't have to wait that long to know what I thought, what I did, and what I knew to be absolute truth because of my journals and the stories we have told over the years. The people I love most deserve to know, and so now I am off to write-- Good night and happy journaling!