In Memory of Henry

I first met Henry W. Johstone. Jr. in the spring of 1968. I was a doctoral candidate then at the University of Wisconsin. Henry was in Madison as part of a distinguished visitors series my mentor, Lloyd Bitzer, was hosting in the department. Lloyd had invited a group of graduate students to his home to meet the guest of honor. I was particularly excited because Henry had accepted my paper on Aristotle’s theory of exemplification to appear in the new international journal he edited, Philosophy and Rhetoric. This was my first publication and I wanted to thank him, which seemed to this novice the appropriate thing to do. I remember that evening for Henry’s seeming reserve, which I later learned was deep shyness that masked his uncanny directness and wicked sense of humor, and for his generosity in deflecting my naiveté about the basis for editorial decisions. The following fall, we met again during my interview for a position in the Speech Department at Penn State University. I was offered the position and became Henry colleague. For the next 30 years I was blessed to serve as Henry’s partner-in-crime in the joys of life that, today, may remain only among the professoriate. We shared in the editorial work of the journal, in co-teaching our graduate seminar in Philosophy and Rhetoric, and in our intellectual passion for the bonds and wars between philosophy and rhetoric. But more than that, we shared these common pursuits in contexts of luncheons, dinners, and social occasions that mixed intellectual work with the pleasure of treasured company.

My son phoned me on Saturday to tell me that Henry had died. His passing leaves a void in my life that goes beyond the loss of a friend and colleague. Henry was the person who taught me how to read journal submissions. He patiently selected manuscripts for me to referee and offered guidance on how to frame critiques that might help the author to improve and the journal to prosper. Henry was the person who taught me the value of generosity with junior colleagues through his respectful and serious engagement of my own work. In this, he lived the ideas about which he philosophized. He possessed a marvelous capacity to entertain any idea seriously, to consider the possibility that even a far-fetched conjecture might have value, so he seldom rejected any idea out of hand. Henry was the person who took me in tow as a young Turk and suffered my impatience with the conservative ways of our established institution by taking me to lunch, engaging me into discussions of ideas, and sharing the delights of intellectual work.

Lunch for Henry was more than a noontime meal. It was the way he sustained bonds with those he valued as friends and colleagues. He would call two weeks in advance to arrange a date at the Allen Room of the State College Hotel. He would arrive at my office 10 minutes early and we would take a leisurely stroll to the Hotel. When we arrived the host would greet him by title as “Dr. Johnstone,” that showed in its formality a deep respect and in its tone an equally deep affection. Henry always took a cocktail with lunch, inviting his companion to join him, and unless you were specific about the bill beforehand, Henry usually insisted on paying. Settling the bill was never an issue for Henry. He often included a graduate assistant from the journal or an assistant professor in our party and seemed to feel more comfortable with the occasion of shared company if the wages of our delight were not a topic of discussion.

Henry’s generosity with the bill was symptomatic of his deeper capacity to share openly and inventively. This particular trait was impressed on me over lunch one afternoon when I was, perhaps, no more than four years on the faculty and still deferential to my senior colleague. That particular afternoon Henry insisted that we have wine with lunch and, with specificity about the vintner and vintage, proceeded to order a fine French white wine. The purpose of our luncheon was to discuss the book review section of P&R but moved to other matters quickly and lasted until we had been consumed that very fine wine. As we were finishing the last drops Henry took the bottle in his hand and said: “The person who invented the wine bottle must have been a genius.” “Why do you say that, Henry?” “Because, Jerry, it’s the perfect size for two friends to consume comfortably in one sitting.” Henry’s way of putting me at ease in his company was equally an expression of his generous spirit and the dignity he bought to everything in life.

Henry was born in the year and month of my father. I am a firm believer that the joys and responsibilities of parenthood belong properly to those who raised us and ought not be thrust on those who enter our lives at later stages along the way. My father is unique and irreplaceable. But the connection of dates and the distance of age were not lost on me. Henry was not a second father to me, but he was more than mentor and friend. He filled me with admiration, trust, confidence, a sense of dignity, and love. I don’t know the word for a person who brings those qualities to life. I only know that my life has been infinitely richer for having been touched by such a person. I shall remember him with fondness and affection. And I shall miss him deeply.

Gerard A. Hauser

February 20, 2000

Boulder, Colorado