Literary Biography

Robert Johansen

His first serious writing was handwritten letters to his wife, Sue. When his wife died, he wrote a letter of appreciation to his doctor thanking her for her sympathy and caring. The doctor commented that his writing was raw, and suggested he take up writing. He later joined a hospice group, “Writing through Loss.” The leader of the group, an author, encouraged him to take up writing seriously. The purpose of the hospice group is to ease the pain of bereavement using objective writing. The main idea is to get in touch with your true feelings, be they anger, sadness, relief, hostility, despair, regret, etc. Not all your thoughts will get on paper, but during the writing, your mind will be flooded with memories good and bad. Eventually, at a time, only the writer will recognize the pain will subside.

It was his good fortune that a writing group existed in the community where he lives, “The Crystal Springs Writers.” He joined the San Bruno group in the later months of 2015. His writing improved, aided by the group’s members critiquing.

He sometimes writes poetry, but has to be inspired, either by love or by sorrow. He is in the process of writing a four-chapter book. Two are complete. The other two chapters are in limbo interrupted by other writing projects, most notably a booklet of poems and short stories. Most of his writing is a departure from regular prose, taking on the unique form of Sue’s imagined diary, using her voice. Love and sorrow combined to inspire him to write as if it was Sue’s book.

His writings are founded on personal experience, with guessing based on research to fill out the narrative. His writing style is to be truthful, and inject humor when possible/appropriate. His writing is suggestive, revealing enough detail that the reader’s imagination or knowledge will delight or disgust them drawing them into the story. He bids you welcome.

Suckers and Creamed Corn

by Robert “Bob” Johansen

Our neighborhood was an extended family. Every parent was your parent. They would tell you to quit throwing rocks and be careful playing in the street. You'd better go home now. It's getting dark. There were many children on the farms, but they were six years older than me, close to my Brother Johnny's age. My brother didn't mind me "tagging along," but his playmates objected and would tell me the bear was out of the park and I had better run for home. I had two options I could stay at home and play, or I could play with the Grady girls next door. I didn't play with the Grady girls much. Pretending to eat mud pies and drink lemonade, they insisted on calling something else wasn't my cup of tea. Most of the time, I stayed at home playing under a big Chinese Elm tree, digging holes, making motor noises, and building a mini play farm with salvaged wood.

There was another activity I could do to my heart's content. I could fish in the Portneuf River. I was great at fishing, bad at catching. Equipment was a problem. I only had fishhooks. Part of the wonder of growing up without things is making them. I needed a long stick, something flexible. Willow bushes grew along the riverbank, and with a hatchet, I cut a branch about four feet long. After stripping it of small limbs and leaves, I had a fishing pole. My mother provided white cotton string for the fishing line that I tied to the end of the pole. After several tries, I coaxed the twine through the fishhook eyelet. Getting bait was the simple part. Digging anywhere in the farm's fertile soil would provide worms. With a shovel and an empty can to hold bait, I dug up enough worms for an hour or two of fishing.

At the river, my father had a large irrigation pump on skids that he would lower or raise to follow the water level. The pump platform was the place for a boy whose first consideration was comfort. A few weeks after the spring runoff, the river would fill to the brim and be at a depth of two feet of clear water. The pump motor was a perfect place to sit as I dangled bait in front of the fish I could see. I anxiously watched as my prey nibbled at the bait.

There were three fish species in the Portneuf that I could identify, Rainbow trout, easily identifiable by their tapered nose and brightly colored sides. Carp, a large bottom feeder that I only saw trapped in pools after a spring flood. Then there were Suckers, a bottom feeder whose fleshy-lipped mouth under its blunt nose grovels through the muck, sucking up tiny morsels and expelling mud.

I didn't fish for food. I never ate them. Fishing's for fun. Suckers have many fine bones, and they taste muddy. My father may have eaten the trout, but they had to be caught close to lunch or dinner. Fish spoil within hours of being caught, and we didn't have a refrigerator. If I caught something, it usually ended up in a hole as fertilizer for a rosebush or some other plant. One day, close to noon, I caught a Sucker. I ran to the house to show my mother the prize. Mr. Smith, the hired hand for neighbor Grady, would eat Suckers, and at my mother's direction, I took the fish to Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith was a short, thin, dark man. I don't know where he was from, but working in the hot Idaho sun would turn your skin nearly black. I heard a rumor that he had been a merchant seaman. He lived on a small plot of land in a one-room house surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. It gave him some privacy and kept the cows from the adjacent pasture away from his home and garden. His little abode was immaculate. In the corner furthest from the door was a single made-up twin-bed with a plain bedspread. Near the center of the room was a small dining table with two chairs. The house had the luxury of a sink, but the facilities were outside.

Around noon, I knocked on Mr. Smith's door. He invited me in and, after a few minutes, asked if I would join him for lunch. "I'd have to get permission," I said and ran for home. In less than ten minutes, I was back. Mr. Smith had a pot of water boiling and was cleaning the fish. "Will you please go out to the garden and pick two big ears of corn," Mr. Smith said.

The garden was nearly as neat as the house. I found two big ears on a nearby stock and ran back to the house. The fish was clean, and I could smell fat in the cast-iron skillet getting hot. Mr. Smith quickly pulled the silk from the corn and plunged them into boiling water. The Sucker in the pan sizzled, crisping its sides. "Set the table, please. The dishes are on the counter," he said. He pulled the corn from the pot and began cutting off the kernels. What was he doing, I wondered. He put the corn in a small pan, adding ingredients and stirring.

It smelled good. "Why don't you sit there?" he said, pointing to a chair. I sat and waited. The fish was on a big plater along with some boiled potatoes that he sat on the table. Where did the potatoes come from, I wondered. Mr. Smith sat down and said, "Help yourself." I took a potato, cut it in two, and slathered it with butter. "Have some fish and corn," Mr. Smith invited. "No, thank you," I said. "Have you ever had creamed corn? He asked. "No. I've never heard of creamed corn," I said. "Would you like a taste? That would be the polite thing to do," he said with a wink. "Okay," I said. He put a small spoonful on my plate. I cautiously dipped my fork into the sauce and tasted. Not bad. Maybe I'll eat two kernels. A couple of kernels tasted better. As good as ice cream, maybe. Mr. Smith wasn't eating. He smiled, watching me. "Would you like some more?" he asked. "Just a little," I lied. Mr. Smith knew and gave me a generous portion. Mr. Smith started eating his lunch. Every once in a while, I'd see a grin creep across his face. After lunch, Mr. Smith thanked me for the fish and joining him for lunch. "We should do this again sometime," he said. "Okay," I said. "Bye. I liked your corn, Mr. Smith. Thank you."