I met Louis Emil Johnson on gameday of the MSU-Arizona State game. I was sitting in the air conditioned MSU Union, killing time between the trombone section tailgate and the trombone section warmups. He and his friend (Son? I didn’t ask. I should’ve asked) were looking closely at two large, round tabletops.
“Are there dates on there?” he asked. “Dates would make this a lot easier.”
In 1949, when Johnson started at MSU, the Union was hopping. It was the only real space to gather on campus outside of a sporting event. He was amazed at how empty the Union feels today, compared to when he attended. He remembers dancing to the Glen Miller Orchestra in the space where he was currently searching the tabletops (“It wasn’t the original band, but Tex Beneke was leading, and they played all the songs. It was packed in here.”).
In 1949, campus looked very different, he said. The only permanent buildings south of the banks of the Red Cedar were Spartan Stadium, Jenison Fieldhouse and a cattle barn. The Union was 25 years old. Snyder-Phillips was the newest dorm on campus, and male students lived in Quonset Village, a collection of over 100 quonset huts erected as temporary housing.
Postwar, the campus population had doubled almost overnight and MSU couldn’t build fast enough. Hence, the huts. There weren’t enough academic buildings, either. Johnson attended many classes in buildings he described as long, one-story structures covered in tar paper (think the mess hall on M*A*S*H).
When Johnson was a senior in 1953, he was given access to the Senior Lounge at the Union. One of the traditions of the lounge was that seniors carved their initials into the lounge’s tabletops. At least two of those tabletops still exist, under glass, in the lounge area at the MSU Union. And today, Johnson was on a hunt to see if one of those two tabletops bore his initials.
“Oh. There I am!” he said, and pointed. After a few minutes and a couple trips around the table, he’d found it. In a bold, serif type, he had carved “LEJ.”
In case you’re wondering, I couldn’t find any other carvers that took the time to include serifs on their letters.
The fact that Johnson’s carving has a precision and flair isn’t surprising, when you learn that Johnson went to school to be an industrial arts teacher. Specifically, woodworking.
At some point, he decided to return to his alma mater as a season ticket holder. He said it ended up being a money-saver. “I gave up smoking and spent that money on tickets. What cigarettes cost these days, season tickets are cheaper!”
At 88 (“I always said I wanted to make it to my Oldsmobile birthday”), Johnson is loving his life. Six years ago, his wife’s declining health meant moving into a retirement home. Some of his friends felt sorry for him. After a few weeks there, he couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t join him.
“They have entertainment at least twice a week there,” he explained. “Out of 150 or so old-timers, it’s easy to find a dozen or so you can get along with.”
Things came full circle recently when the current version of the Glen Miller Orchestra visited the retirement home and played for them. Johnson’s new goal is to make is to the other Oldsmobile birthday, the 98. After a few minutes with him, I’d say that seems very likely.
After he carved his initials into that table in the Union, Johnson enjoyed a career in teaching and administration in Grand Rapids Public Schools. He retired to a life of teaching Community Ed woodworking classes and building all of the oak cabinets for his new house from scratch.
He is very proud of those cabinets. I didn’t follow a lot of the lingo he used explaining their creation, but I understood that they were quite beautiful, with ornate carvings that he’d obsessed over.
As I reflect on our conversation, I wonder if as he was carving those doors, he was tempted to throw a little “LEJ” into one of them, for old time’s sake.