The Farm Report

There are times when I wonder about this technology. It seems to isolate us, to drive us into caves where we sit behind keyboards and rant and rave, flying to great heights of hyperbole and wit. Yet when we are among humans, we find ourselves stunted, unable to function anymore as social animals.

Other times, I revel in what this has done to bring us together. A friend of mine, a former student at the University of Oklahoma, found me a few weeks back. He’s now a poet and professor in Chicago. A couple of other students from that era are at the Washington Post. Another works for a legal-aid group. I found several other of these lost friends of 20 years, and some of them found me.

Facebook has become the yearbook of my life. I’ve even found people from high school, including my prom date. And now – thanks to this social network – I know where I can find them whenever I want to talk.

I was found a few weeks back by one of my professors from my doctoral program at Oklahoma. He was nearing retirement age when I was there in the mid-1980s. His name is Herbert Hengst. He was the sort of professor I want to be if I ever grow up: kindly, always willing to help, usually ready to drop anything to talk to a student.

Professor Hengst supervised the program in which I enrolled for my doctoral studies. Another great teacher, Paul Sharp (president emeritus of that university) , ended up actually supervising my dissertation. But Professor Hengst was there throughout.

I thought of him a lot over the years and then, as I say, he found me a few weeks back. He had done a search and found my homepage and congratulated me on what I’d been doing. He’d seen the pictures of the kids – all of them, from 3 to 29 – and admired the beautiful family.

He also told me about his loss. His wife of more than half a century had died. He was now living with his grown children. Life was as good as can be expected. I could still see him in my mind’s eye. One of those overused phrases from young-adult fiction is that stuff about “a twinkle in his eye.” But Professor Hengst twinkled.

One pleasure of his life these days is writing poetry. He sent me a couple of poems dealing with different shades of his loss. Can you imagine living with someone for a half century, and suddenly they are gone? Can you imagine the void?  His poems affected me deeply.

He was so excited to hear about my new book. He had never heard of Hunter S. Thompson – Professor Hengst’s field was education, not mass communication – and so he ordered Outlaw Journalist and sent me a long note of appreciation when he finished reading. He enjoyed learning about Hunter, he said, even though he didn’t think he’d like the man very much.

And he sent me a poem he’d written in response to Hunter. I asked him if I could post it, and Professor Hengst said that would be fine. It’s below.

I simply want to say that I liked being found. It’s great to know that Professor Hengst is still out there, listening, learning, writing. Again: I want to be like him when I grow up.

Let us now praise this technology that so easily allows us to find and be found.

AFTER  READING ABOUT
HUNTER THOMPSON

Herbert  R. Hengst

If humans are individually imperfect,
as demonstrated by historical fact and
confirmed by  religious seeking and
legions of literary fictional accounts,
why should we be surprised by
rants about the obvious misdeeds of
humans in organizations?

All human organizations are embroiled
in disagreements of varying intensity
pitting one against an other:
corporate structures, family,
villages, cities, urban structures,
clubs, churches, both public and private,
all dreamed of and run by imperfect individuals.

Should one not see this problem as endemic?
Why condemn  with biting and bitter invective
attempts to overcome limitations cooperatively
in social and potentially productive human groups?
Treating concerns with hoped for pleasurable
consequences for the imperfect ones, spites
the limitations and becomes useful and timely.

Thompson’s cries, though credible,
recognized as shouted invectives,
failed to rouse the wounded public
from their misdirected ways.
Thus may we ask, is there a more
productive approach to redirecting
imperfect human organizations?

DR. JONES AND MARION RAVENWOOD

It’s a long-running joke in our family. My wife, Nicole, so closely resembles actress Karen Allen that whenever we see one of her films on television, we act as if it’s Nicole on screen.

“I remember this one,” I say, turning to the kids. “Mommy was gone forever when they made this movie, and I missed her so much.”

“And it was so hot in Burma,” Nicole says.

This started with Savannah – just a little joke between mother and daughter.

It has become a widescreen epic in a household now filled with three boys – ages 6, 5 and 4 – who deeply love the Indiana Jones movies. Karen Allen played Marion Ravenwood in the first of the Jones films, Raiders of the Lost Ark.

“Is that really you flying the plane, Mommy?” Travis asked the first time we watched it together.

“Yes. You wouldn’t believe how many times they had to film that scene before they got it right.”

Travis’s serious gaze, now steeped in pride, returns to the screen.

The boys have embraced the Indiana Jones movies this summer, watching our box set of the first three films more than any other movies in their collection. I consider this a good thing. Dr. Jones is an organic hero – no super powers, no space ships, no over-the-top comic book silliness. Dr. Jones succeeds because he’s smart and – except for snakes – fearless.

This weekend, we bought the latest film in the series, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Harrison Ford is back and so is Karen Allen, with Dr. Jones the first time since Raiders in 1981.

This posed certain problems for us. It being a new movie and our boys being pretty smart, they might wonder how Mommy had found the time to make the movie. But for our husband-and-wife trip to Colorado this summer, she hasn’t been apart from the kids that much. We decided to say that making the film was something she did during her spare time on our trip. (The fact that the movie’s release-in-theaters pre-dates our trip to Colorado would probably not occur to the boys. They’re smart, but the concept of time is still elusive.)

This weekend was the best time to buy it. Nicole is gone on a business trip for three days and watching the film allowed me to show them what Mommy does when she’s away from home.

At first I wondered if the age discrepancy would bother the boys. After all, Karen Allen is in her fifties (as am I) and Nicole is 32. But let me go on record as saying that Karen Allen is as beautiful as ever.  She  has aged magnificently. She and Nicole can still be twins.

In the 28 hours we have owed the film, the boys have watched it five times. I’ve been in and out of the room  – making supper, doing laundry and so forth, only catching glimpses here and there – and didn’t sit down to watch it until after dinner tonight.

As always, I was distracted, but I was following the plot and the conversation the boys were having about the film. The tempo of the conversation went into a higher pitch when the film was ending.

“No, Trass,” Jack said. (He says Travis’s name so fast that it comes out as one syllable). “No, watch this.” He stops the DVD with the remote, backspaces then goes forward again.

It’s the very end of the movie when Indy and Marion get married. I look over at Travis, who is boring a hole into the screen with his eyes.

“See, look at the side of Indy’s face,” Jack says, pausing the film. “See, that’s Daddy’s face.”

Travis turns and asks, “Is that you, Daddy?” 

I pick up the thread just in time. “Oh yeah …” [insert fake Chevy Chase laugh here] “…that was a strange day. Oh, man … I remember that they flew me out to California just to do that one part, to stand  there so that Mommy could kiss me. Then they flew me back in time to pick you up from school.”

Their looks: so trusting. They’re falling for it.

“That was so Mommy wouldn’t have to kiss that other man, right, Daddy?” Travis asked.

“That’s right.”

“Because Mommy would never kiss anyone else, would she?” Travis said.

For a moment, I try to figure out how to tell the boys about Harrison Ford and how Mommy might have to kiss him if ever given the opportunity. We allow ourselves our various mad-monkey loves. Her drop-anything men are Matthew McConaughey and Harry Connick Jr. Me, I’m in for Angelina Jolie, Salma Hayek and (recently) Sarah Palin.

But that’s too much to lay on these boys, all of whom are looking up at me for confirmation: Travis, his lower lip pouting … Jack, wanting his theory confirmed … and Charley, the most-serious 3-year-old on the planet.

“No, she wouldn’t,” I say. “And so they had me fly all the way out to California and stand there, so they could film the side of my face, just so she could kiss me.” As if they know where California is.

Travis beams. “I knew it.”

The movie concluded with that happy ending and I took the boys upstairs for bath and bed, marveling once again at that wonderful love that young children have for their parents. It is a blessing and a burden to be so idealized.