This week’s issue is personal.

It’s filled with heart, humor, and a glimpse into the extraordinary life of a man who meant the world to me—my dad, Norman LeRoy Johnson.

My Dad in 1965 when he was District Governor for Lion’s Club

This past weekend, our family had the honor of hosting about 500 people between Saturday & Sunday to celebrate his life—and celebrate we did. My dad didn’t want a somber service. He wanted joy. He wanted music. He wanted people gathering and telling stories, laughing, and living in the moment.

He lived 95 years with unmatched generosity, unwavering faith, and the kind of humor that could light up a room—or make you shake your head and laugh in disbelief. His legacy lives on in every fairground he helped build, every coin he collected, every table he sat around, and every life he touched.

I was given the chance to speak at his celebration of life—one of the greatest honors of my life. It wasn’t a eulogy. It was a thank you. A reminder of the lessons he left us with—lessons that still ring in my ears:
Show up. Be present. Keep doing the good that’s in you. And don’t forget to try the chicken salad.

This week, I’m sharing a glimpse of that speech with you—not just because I needed to write it, but because I believe we all need reminders like this. Reminders to live bigger, laugh louder, and love deeper.

Thank you for letting me share my dad with you.
He was, and will always be, the best.

With love,
Angie
Editor, MYLO Mag (aka Angie Pooh)

Whiskey Lessons

They say one of the greatest gifts a father can give his children is to love their mother.

My dad, Norman Johnson, gave that gift generously—right up to the very end. He loved my mom out loud, with a kind of affection that was steady, sweet, and often... a little saucy.

He’d sneak up behind her in the kitchen, grab her playfully, and she'd swat him away saying, “Norman! Good grief!”
To which he’d reply, every time:

“Doesn’t your mother have sexy legs? Man… she has sexy legs.”

He said it with the same gusto from the time we were young right into their 90s.

And that’s the kind of man he was—full of heart, humor, and big love for life. He loved us kids just as fiercely, and though we often joke that our mom might not have loved us all quite as much, we never doubted his love for all of us.

When we gathered to honor his 95 remarkable years, I spoke at his vibrant service filled with beautiful music and stories. It wasn’t a goodbye—it was a tribute. A joyful, story-filled sendoff. I shared three lessons he taught me, and today, I want to share them with you—plus one bonus lesson about chicken salad that came late in life but stuck deep in my soul.

Lesson One: Respect Yourself Enough to Give Your Best

Dad believed in showing up with integrity.
Whether it was for a job, a church board, a community project, or setting up the fairgrounds for the 100th time—he believed that if something had his name on it, it deserved his best.

It wasn’t about perfection or obligation—it was about respecting yourself enough to give your full heart and energy to whatever you do.

And he also believed in being present.

My mom said that every single day, when Dad woke up in their house by Oakland, he would say:

“Man, we are lucky to live in such a nice house. I just love it here.”

Every day! Until Mom would finally laugh and say, “Yes, Norman—I know you love it here.”

He meant it every time.
He found joy in that moment—every day.
That’s what being present looks like.

I can still hear his voice whenever I take on something new or pour my heart into a project:

“Make it count. Do it right. And enjoy it while you're doing it.”

Lesson Two: Pain Doesn’t Define You—Faith Does

In 1986, my dad lost his job.
It was a job he had given his heart and soul to.

And for the first time, I saw my dad cry.

He told me it hurt his pride.
That he had poured so much of himself into something—and they let him go anyway.

That moment stayed with me.
And years later, when I experienced the heartbreak of losing a job I loved, I remembered what he had walked through.

But here's the thing—my dad didn’t let that pain define him.
He didn’t let it harden him.

He reminded me that:

Who you are has nothing to do with other people’s problems.
You just keep doing the good that is in you.

I told him once that my dear friend Jean Groth had said something that stuck with me:

“These are the moments Jesus wants you to feel some of His pain...
You go out and do good in the world—and they nail you to the cross.”

Dad understood that kind of hurt.

But he also believed that what’s on the other side is a story—

A story full of mystery, hope, and beautiful opportunities you never dreamed possible.

That’s faith. That’s resilience. That’s my dad.

Lesson Three: Find Joy in the Ordinary

My dad didn’t just do life—he loved it.
And he loved his people.

If you knew him, you probably felt like he really knew you.
Like you were the most important person in the room.

That was his gift. That was his joy.

He shared it through stories, through laughter, through a great quote or joke, and through bobbing along to a great tune with a whiskey in hand.

He planned. He organized. He made things beautiful.
But more than anything—he showed up in the moment.

His love for life was contagious.
His generosity? Endless.

In a world filled with darkness, he always found the light.
He was the light.

He loved his wife.
He loved his kids, his grandkids, his great-grandkids.
He loved his church, his community, his neighbors, his friends.
He loved you.

Bonus Lesson: It’s Never Too Late to Try Something New

My dad called me Pooh. Angie Pooh.
It started when I was just a little girl--and between him and Dewaine Gahan, I wasn't sure I even had a real name.

Even on one of his final days--just two days before he passed--I walked in, and he turned to me and said:

"Well, hi Pooh."

I loved that nickname.
Because I knew--without a doubt--that it meant love.
My dad gave love with his whole heart--and always threw in a one-liner to boot.

If you walked away laughing--that was his greatest joy.

My dad was a simple eater--meat and potatoes. He didn't venture far from that line for most of his life.

But when he was 88 years old, something unexpected happened.

One Sunday, my sisters and I were visiting our folks, and Cherie turned to me and said, "Ang, did you ask Dad about Mom's chicken salad?"

I said, "No...?" So I looked at Dad and said, "Hey, I'm supposed to ask you about Mom's chicken salad."

And he looked at me, kind of smirking, and said, "Oh yeah!"

I said, "Yeah... so what about it?"

He goes, "Well, I tried it."

I said, "Wait... you're 88 years old and you're telling me you finally tried Mom's chicken salad for the first time?"

And he said, "Yep!"

I asked, "So what did you think?"

And he goes, "Well it's damn good. I've just been eating the hell out of it!"

Then he looked right at me and said, "I tell ya what, Pooh--it's never too late to try something new. And when you discover how good it is, you gotta eat the hell out of it."

I was thinking, “Wow!” There’s a lesson right there. Just what I needed at the right time. That moment hit. It was profound. I was going through a pivotal time in my life--everything was changing.

And that message became something I wore on my sleeve:
It's never too late to try something new.
And when you find out how amazing it is--you need to gobble it up. Keep enjoying. Keep trying. It became my personal hashtag, my mantra.

Because the experiences? They're what take you places.

That simple lesson from Dad pushed me to new heights.

To try things…not with fear--but with ambition and pure excitement. Because it just might be remarkable.

What a gift.