Remembering Jack Hemingway, a true gentleman
Commentary by JOELLEN COLLINS
In 1982, in order to explain to my Southern
California friends why in the heck I was moving to Ketchum, I answered,
"If it's good enough for the Hemingways, it's good enough for
me." At the time, I meant the Ernest Hemingway of literary fame. But
since I have leaned more about the beauties of this part of the world and
have settled in, feeling more like a native than a transplanted
Californian, I have come increasingly to think of "my" Idaho as
the kind of place where Jack Hemingway chose to spend his life.
So, today, I write not of the Hemingway who
changed 20th century letters with his spare style, although I am tempted
to regale you with anecdotes about the times I have spent with Ernest
Hemingway aficionados and in the classroom teaching his life and letters.
While I too, am a fan of Papa Hemingway, and honor his accomplishments and
mystique, this isn't the time to dwell on his works. I think it is maybe
more important to honor the memory of his very real son and proud
achievement, Jack.
Maybe it is presumptuous of me, one who
didn't know Jack Hemingway personally, to write about him. When he was
alive and present at so many Ketchum locales, I would never have had the
audacity to approach him, although that was my standard, not his. I am
very respectful of a celebrity's right to personal space, and, in fact,
that is one of the things I like about living here. We don't bug the
notable people who pass through here or choose to have homes in this
valley. I like that we leave them alone. Many years ago I did succumb to
the temptation to compliment Burgess Meredith on his life's work while we
both waited in a post office line in Malibu. Luckily, he was inordinately
pleased, even adding that that was the kind of applause he lived for. But
I do try to be careful, especially here in our small town.
I would hope that my reflections about Jack
Hemingway would echo the thoughts of those who knew him well; let me share
my admiration for him.
The list is long; I respected him for many
things. First, he bore sorrow and pain with dignity; we can all recall the
times he had to wear private grief under public scrutiny.
Second, he wore his celebrity well: I never
thought of him as someone who cashed in on being a Hemingway; those who
spent time with him learned to introduce him by his first name because he
didn't want to trade on family fame.
I sensed also that he didn't have a trace
of arrogance or snobbery in him. He didn't wear a label that said,
"Keep off. I'm a big shot." His friendliness was evident at
Chateau Drug, for example, where one could turn a corner and spy that tall
and kind figure at the sporting goods section, engaged in a conversation
with one of the clerks. Once, I even spoke with him about some fishing
tackle I was buying. He gave me his full and gentlemanly attention. A few
weeks later I might encounter Jack in the Ketchum post office. Again, he
would be chatting with one of the locals about the weather or the latest
valley whoop-di-do.
He seemed like the kind of man who would be
a grandfather with an ample lap. I have been told that indeed he was a
wonderful father, always respecting his daughters even as one accords
courtesy to strangers. He was civil and polite, especially to his family,
a quality many public charmers lack.
Without observing it directly, I knew he
had a sense of humor. Gene Steiner cites an example. When he and Butch
Harper were hunting with Jack, they noticed how many times he misplaced
his car keys; they all accepted the search for keys with good nature. On
the final day they stopped for dinner at a restaurant in Stanley, and Jack
unknowingly dropped his keys in the parking lot. Butch found them, put
them into his pocket, and kept them through dinner. Then, when Jack
excused himself, he slipped them into his coffee. When Jack returned to
the table, took a swig of the coffee and felt the keys, he dead-panned,
"So this is where they've been!"
It has been noted in other tributes that he
worked for the preservation and conservation of Silver Creek and of other
wild places, that he served as a commissioner on the Idaho Fish and Game
Commission for many years. He fiercely protected the Idaho that brought
his father here in the `30s. Many have wonderful words of tribute for
those efforts.
Most definitively, though, Jack Hemingway
seemed like a true gentleman, and I miss that behavior. It is worthy of
note when I hear a child say "Thank you" or inquire about my
health. In a recent column I bewailed the proliferation of examples of
road rage. Sometimes I fear the likes of Jack Hemingway are rarer than
ever. I hope I'm wrong. He represented an era which I fear is
vanishing...a time of manners, civility, honorable conduct and a
willingness to listen. I'm glad gentle and gentlemanly Jack Hemingway
passed though our lives.