Meeting Johnny Fair

Thursday afternoon I walked across NW 3rd Street between 5th and 10th Ave., and through a lower-middle-class neighborhood on my way to Hyde and Zeke's Records.  I have made it a point to have a specific destination on my daily walks in order to get off the mental platform about when I should turn around and go back.  I have also been buying used vinyl LPs on many of my trips as an incentive to walk and kind of an reward system for my austerities.  Kind of like giving candy to a baby to make the medicine go down.  Sometimes I chant japa and sometimes I listen to music, according to my mood.  Whatever it takes to keep me moving is my moto because my body works much better when I walk regularly. About half way between 5th and 6th Ave., I came upon an old black man raking leaves in his driveway.  He greeted me with a smile and said something which I couldn't hear because I had my headphones on.  

I took my earphones off, "My name is Johnny Fair," he said.  "What's yours?"  "Greg," I said.  "Greg?" he said.  "Greg who?,"   "Greg Allard," I answered.  "Glad to meet you," he said extending his hand.  "I know everybody who comes through this neighborhood," he said.  "But I ain't never seen you."  I looked around and noticed only black people.  Every time some one went by by foot, bike or car, he waved and called them by their name. "Oh, that's because this is the first time, I've walked through here," I said.  "Well, glad to meet you," he repeated.  "Want some pound cake?"  "Pound cake?" I asked.  "Yes, everyone in the neighborhood eats my pound cake and they just love it," he said.   "Even the white folks."  "I'm sure it's good," I said.  "But I'm trying to lose weight."  "A little pound cake ain't going to make you or break you," he said  "Come in the house and try some. People say I'm a very good cook"  I refused again but felt bad.  The conversation continued.  

"How old do you think I am?" he asked.  "Oh, I don't know, about 60," I said, trying to be polite and make sure I under-guessed by about a decade or so.  "60?" he said.  "Are you kidding? I'm 83-years-old." "83," I said, truly surprised. "Wow."  "You don't believe me?" he said.  "No, of course I do," I said.  "You just look much younger." "Here, I'll prove it to you," he said, and promptly whipped out his driver's license.  "There it is," he said.  Sure enough, the birthdate read December 25, 1925.

"How do you feel about being born on Christmas?" I asked. "Did you only get one present?"

"I was lucky to get anything in those days," he said. "It was the depression."  "Oh. my father was born in 1924," I said.  "He told me a lot about those days. He didn't have a very high opinion of Herbert Hoover but he says that Franklin Roosevelt saved the day." "Oh yes," he said.  "There used to be a song I remember about him."  Then Johnny broke into song with a bluesy sweet voice that reminded me of Mississippi John Hurt, tapping his foot and singing, "Franklin Roosevelt is a poor man's friend..."  "Man, you're talented," I said, impressed.  "I used to be the president of the Baptist Church Singing Choir here in Gainesville," he said.  "Do you want to come in and see the pictures?" "Okay," I laughed, feeling both intrigued and sorry for the lonely old man at the same time.

I followed him down his driveway, up his rickety porch and into his kitchen.  The room was a little messy and the walls were jammed with pictures.  "This is my pastor, he's dead," he said.  "These people were all in the choir," he continued, pointing mostly to middle-aged black ladies in their Sunday best.  "Ain't but two of them dead."  Then he showed me other pictures.  One of him, his older sister and brother, and his brother-in-law.  "They're all dead and gone now but me," he said.  "I am the baby in the family."  Then he showed me his pride and joy, "This is my granddaughter," he said.  "She's real talented."  What does she do?" I asked.  "Business on the internet and everything."

In the course of talking to him for a few minutes, I found out quite a lot about his life.  His mother died when he was very young and he grew up thinking his older sister was his mother at first.  "After I turned five, every time I called my sister mama they would beat my behind." he said.  He grew in Statesboro, Ga. and still remembers it fondly.  "You go straight on 301 and you can tell when you're there because you start smelling all the good cooking coming out of the folks windows and it makes you real hungry" he said.

He worked for Perry Construction for over 50-years and helped build some of Gainesville tallest structures, like the Segal Building.  "My boss-man was like a brother and father to me all rolled into one," he said.  "He was real good to me but he's been dead five years now."

"Well, I hope you live to be 100," I said as I was about to leave.  "100?," he said.  "Is that all?  My Granddaddy lived to be 115.  He was an active pastor until he was 111 and independent until the day he died."  "Really?" I said.  "Yes, and I remember him too," he said.  "I was but three when I went into his room to wake him for breakfast and he was already gone. The night before he had rode his horse and buggy back from town and put the horse in the barn and went to bed." he said.  "He never told anybody he was feeling bad or nothing."

Amazed, I calculated that his grandfather was born in 1813.  "Somewhere around there," he said.  "My sister is 101 and goes through the neighborhood every morning collecting cans.  I always leave a few cans out there for her."

"I can heal people with my hands and I do it for free in the name of Jesus," he said.  "If anyone has a problem, send them over here and I'll help them.  Also, I will pray for anyone who needs help.  You can call me anytime day or night around the clock.  I don't care if it's two in the morning, I'll pray for you," he said.  

"Come back anytime, Greg," he said.  "Okay," I said.  "It's been a pleasure to meet you."  "What time is it now?" he asked as I started to walk away.  "3:30," I said.  "Good, still a few more hours of sunlight to finish my raking," he said, waving goodbye.