Last Sunday, as I read other bloggers’ posts about their dads, I realized I could do the same thing. Since I still had Dad’s obituary, from which I could gleam information about his life before I came along, this wouldn’t be difficult. I could have waited until next year, but there’s no time like the present, especially since Dad would have turned 90 last month. So, here goes.
My father, Edwin Lee Johnson, was known to most people as Ed. He was born May 9th, 1936, in Pueblo, Colorado. At the time, Grandpa Johnson was playing the saxophone in a traveling band, and Grandma was with him. In 1938, the family settled here in Sheridan, Wyoming, where in 1940, Grandpa started a company placing and servicing coin-operated machines in businesses throughout northeastern Wyoming and parts of Montana.
As a high school student in the 1950s, Dad played football, sang in the choir, and began his lifelong involvement in theater. After graduating in 1954, he attended the University of Colorado in Boulder, where he obtained a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1959. While there, he acted in various plays through the university and the Colorado Shakespeare Festival. He met my mother, and they were married in 1960.
They moved to New York City to pursue acting careers, and I was born in 1961. In 1963, we returned to Boulder, where Dad completed a Master of Fine Arts degree in English literature. A couple of years later, we moved to Tucson, Arizona, where in 1968, my younger brother Andy was born. Dad taught English at the universities in Tucson and Tempe and acted in various community theater productions. He also worked as a bartender and drove a taxi for a while.
In 1973, we settled in Sheridan, where Dad took over the coin-operated machine business after Grandpa Johnson passed and ran it for twenty years until he sold it. He also taught English at Sheridan College, directed and acted in more community theater productions, and sang in the community choir.
When I was in high school, we formed our own band with Dad on string bass, Andy on drums, and me on piano and vocals. But Dad’s true passion was theater. I have many fond memories of watching him in plays. Inspired, I acted in various productions and got involved with the speech team in high school and college.
Dad taught me to appreciate music. I spent many happy hours as a child listening to Fats Waller and other jazz artists with him. I remember stomping around the den in our Tucson, Arizona, home to Waller’s “Your Feet’s Too Big.” Dad connected a speaker in my bedroom to the phonograph in the den and played jazz and classical music for me when I went to bed to help me fall asleep. He also took me to many rock, jazz and classical concerts in Tucson and Sheridan, most of which I enjoyed.
For Christmas in 1973, after we moved to Sheridan, Dad gave me a remote-control unit he installed in my room with the speaker and connected to a jukebox in the basement. Now, I could play whatever music I wanted to hear when I wanted. By that time, I was more interested in popular songs, and Dad brought me artists’ latest hits. When we moved to a bigger house later, Dad installed a jukebox in our second-floor laundry room that Andy and I could both enjoy.
Soon after I got the remote-control jukebox for Christmas, I started singing popular songs and accompanying myself on the piano, playing by ear because it was difficult to read music with my limited vision. Dad listened and seemed to enjoy my music. When I started performing in talent shows and other venues, he supported me. One night while we were eating at a local pizza parlor with a piano, he encouraged me to play and sing there, and after I did, the manager gave us a free pitcher of Coke.
A couple of years later, Andy started playing drums. He often accompanied my singing. Dad joined us on bass, thus the aforementioned band.
At one point while we were living in Tucson, Dad converted our garage into a woodworking shop and bought power tools and other equipment. He built a desk with bookshelves that Mother and I both used and a rocking horse for Andy. When I was struggling with geometry, he used his power saw to cut various shapes out of wood and even made a stop sign with “stop” printed on it. When I was in high school and college, he often read me class materials that weren’t available in Braille or audio formats and helped me study.
During my music therapy internship in Fargo, North Dakota, when my supervisor, for no apparent reason, wanted to terminate it, Dad said, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” I managed to complete the internship. Dad reiterated these words years later when another supervisor here in Sheridan told me she couldn’t work with my disability, and I managed to keep my job. I always remember these words and take them to heart whenever I face hard times.
In January of 2005, when my late husband Bill proposed after a two-year long-distance relationship, he living in Colorado at the time, Dad, who had met Bill twice, couldn’t have been more tickled, proclaiming Bill was a “fine fellow.” Dad was apparently eager to get his daughter married off. I, on the other hand, was in shock, having thought Bill only wanted to be friends. Dad encouraged me to give the proposal some thought. Long story short, Bill moved to Sheridan, and we were married eight months later. Dad helped plan the wedding, paid for everything, and proudly walked me down the aisle. You can read more of our story in my memoir, My Ideal Partner: How I Met, Married, and Cared for the Man I Loved Despite Debilitating Odds.
Dad also taught me to appreciate technology. In 1997, when I was working as a registered music therapist with nursing home residents, he helped me purchase my first computer, a Mac, and taught me to do word processing, email, and Web browsing with a screen reader. Though I’d dabbled in creative writing earlier, it wasn’t until I learned how easy it was to correct mistakes in a word processor that I took a serious interest in it. If not for Dad’s teaching me how to use a computer, I might not have published seven books.
Dad only lived to see two of these books published. He passed unexpectedly but peacefully on August 16th, 2013. I miss him but will always be thankful for memories of dear old Dad.
What are you thankful for this week? It doesn’t have to be your father, but you’re welcome to share memories of him. You can respond in the comments or on your blog with a link to this post. Thank you for reading and always be grateful.
Photo Courtesy of Tess Anderson Photography
Photo Resize and Description
by Two Pentacles Publishing
New! Living Vicariously in Wyoming: Stories
Copyright 2025 by Abbie Johnson Taylor
Published independently with the help of DLD Books.
Image Description written by Leonore Dvorkin of DLD Books.
As defined in the first story, living vicariously means living your life through someone else’s. You’re invited to live vicariously through the lives of the people in these stories. There’s the lawyer who catches his wife in the act with a nun. A college student identifies with a character in a play. A young woman loses her mother and finds her father. And a high school student’s prudish English teacher strenuously objects to a single word in her paper.
In Wyoming, as in any other state, people fall in love, and sometimes relationships are shattered. Accidents, domestic violence, prejudice, and crimes all occur. Lives are torn apart, and people are reunited. Ordinary people deal with everyday and not–so–everyday situations.
The 25 stories in this collection, most of which are set in Wyoming, are about how the various characters resolve their conflicts—or not.
Click here for more information and ordering links.
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