The Farm: On Practical Wisdom

By George Benda

The Farm, set in the second global energy crisis, juxtaposes Jack's high-flying energy career with his pursuit of an idyllic life with his new bride, Anna. Together with Jack's old philosophical friend, Ben, and Ben's wife, Rebecca, the couples explore a path to practical wisdom in the nuclear age. Jack and Ben, learning from their jobs and their marriages, distill out from the noise and tumult seven essential criteria in achieving happiness and a good life, the measure of practical wisdom in all ages and cultures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098313951

Book preview

Cover credits: Back cover tractor photos by the author’s father, George Benda, Sr.

©2020 George Benda

® Jack Slack Shoebox Dialogues is a registered trademark of George Benda

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09831-394-4

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09831-395-1

Readers comment on

the Jack Slack Shoebox Dialogue Series…

… fast-paced narrative…

"… readers can’t help but be drawn to the protagonist,

a well-sculpted character with traits that will pique the

interest of readers…"

… provides intelligent and provocative thought…

… Mr. Benda knows his subject inside and out…

… The whole book brought me back to the ‘70s…

"… a great novel with relevant historical references… a book with a lot for readers: pathos, craft, passion, and elements that will excite readers in a well-crafted novel

… the characters were so human, so relatable, I found myself utterly invested in each…

"For anyone who likes to go deeper delving into the realm of philosophy, politics, life, this book is a great platform to explore many questions…"

To Pat, the love of my life

Acknowledgements

Current events around the time of the publication of this book place special weight and meaning on the exploration of practical wisdom. In placing Jack Slack in a context of international intrigue in the 1970s, The Farm provides myriad examples of challenges to practical wisdom. Deep in the middle of the Cold War era, the world was poised for a watershed change in what the idea of practical wisdom might imply. My philosophy professors who once told me nothing of any significance had changed since ancient times were simply wrong. Many aspects of human nature remain, that’s true. But the shift in the stakes of practical wisdom that put the entire future of humanity in the hands of a small number of people placed a burden on wisdom never before seen.

This book has been a long and wild ride for me as an author. It has been its own learning process and reinforced the lessons of practical wisdom along the way. Earlier drafts of the book included a far-ranging exploration of practical reasoning and the emergence of artificial intelligence. These, I ultimately decided, were too important to be a small part in a larger book and deserved to have a separate volume of their own. That book is in early draft form now. As a reader, please know that The Farm was informed by a deeper look into practical reason, and that you will soon enough be able to critique the thinking I have done on that topic.

Since beginning the Jack Slack Shoebox Dialogues, I’ve met and heard from a wide range of readers, many of whom have interesting and challenging questions. To me this is the most encouraging outcome I could seek. I elected to write dialogues because they are about questions more than about answers. Engagement in dialogue is something that has nearly passed from human culture with the advances in such frightful communications techniques as the currently popular Twitter. But most chat technologies are much the same – I need this, you give it to me in as few words, characters, or emojis as possible. Good dialogue is full of nuance, referential content, and the opening up, not the closing of questions. If I’ve done my job, you will leave The Farm with more questions – good deep questions about what is right and what is wrong – than you leave with answers. But, fingers crossed, you will have gained several new ideas about how to search out the correct answers.

There are so many to thank for their help on the path of writing The Farm. First and foremost, my wife Pat and our dear friend, Pam Jewson. These two remarkable women provided many rounds of critique and comment. Pat also helped carry the book across the finish line with a final copy edit and proofing. It is appropriate that women played such a predominant role in the development of this book. That is another change since ancient times. Pat and Pam, though not recognizable as radical feminists in any way, represent the true vanguard of the rise of women in society. They’ve shown through wisdom and hard work that they are equal to any man, yet able to collaborate and contribute in unique ways.

A special thanks, also, to my new mentor and friend, Christian Lybrook. A novelist and screenwriter of some repute, Christian guided me through the entire rework of the book. I asked him to help me make this a more compelling story. I believe he pointed me in a good direction. His highly interactive mentoring process enabled a significant improvement in my writing.

As always, any remaining shortcomings or mistakes in this book are mine, all mine. I hand it over to you, my friend, in the hopes that you will take from it what you need and share whatever wisdom is of value with others.

Aloha,

George Benda

Molokai, Hawaii

Table of Contents

Prologue

From the Shoebox: A Class Paper on Iran

Chapter 1: Brittle Power

Chapter 2: Lab Tests

Chapter 3: New Money

From the Shoebox: Draft Memo to the Governor

Chapter 4: Bait

Chapter 5: The Nuclear Equation

Chapter 6: An Idyllic Interlude

From the Shoebox: Pictures of the Nelson Farm

Chapter 7: Pipeline

Chapter 8: Killing Fields

Chapter 9: Reflection

Epilogue

Prologue

Our decision about energy will test the character of the American people and the ability of the President and the Congress to govern this Nation. This difficult effort will be the moral equivalent of war, except that we will be uniting our efforts to build and not to destroy.

President Jimmy Carter, Address to the Nation on Energy, 18 April 1977

’ello there, the shift nurse said as she arrived at the room of Ali Shariati, Iranian moderate opposition leader to the Shah. A man set to bring peaceful resolution to the turmoil of the Middle East.

Southampton General Hospital on Tremona Road, United Kingdom, 18 June 1977. Just up the Solent channel from the Isle of Wight.

’ello to you, said the tall Iranian in an exquisite business suit, holster bulge disguised by an excellent tailor. I wasn’t made aware of any personnel changes. Can I see your identification, please?

Oh, my, yes, the nurse replied, leaning over to show him the credentials on the lanyard. Uniform open two buttons, not just the one. The tops of her breasts swayed in front of his eyes.

Um, yes… the guard said, everything looks in order.

Maggie called in sick, explained the nurse. I’m covering. Donna’s the name. Only one they could get at the last minute for a Saturday night, that’s my guess. Maggie told me there would be a guard, I just didn’t expect such a ‘andsome bloke.

I’m not complaining, either. You’re a sight better looking than Miss Maggie, the guard said.

Maggie said you have a long night, so I brought you coffee – or tea, if that’s what you prefer. Donna handed the guard the coffee.

Really? the guard challenged.

It’s late. I stopped in the cafeteria. Like I said, Maggie told me you’re stuck ‘ere. Didn’t know which you’d prefer. I like both – do you prefer the tea?

Coffee is fine. Much appreciated, the guard said, more relaxed, raising his cup to her. Can’t leave my station.

The guard flirted. Donna played along, waiting for the ketamine in the coffee to take effect. The guard slumped into his chair and was out. Fifteen minutes, given the dose, he’d start waking.

Just past the guard, she could see Shariati, inside the room, sedated, asleep.

Donna walked in and looked at the chart hanging on the end of the steel bed frame. She removed a syringe from the pocket of her nurse’s uniform. Lifting the blanket and sheet from Shariati’s feet, she moved, her back to the door to hide her actions, so she could hold his foot.

Gently spreading his toes, she injected a dose of biguanide, enough to kill Shariati within twelve hours. Apparent heart failure. Actually, lactic acidosis to amplify the residual effects of his torture at the hands of the Shah’s SAVAK in 1975. Wouldn’t matter. Shariati’s religious beliefs precluded autopsy. This wouldn’t be traced.

Donna checked her watch. Guard should be waking. She slipped from the room and touched the guard’s shoulder. His eyes opened.

’e’s sleeping well. Nothing to show he shouldn’t be released in the morning.

"I must’ve dozed off. I’ll probably need the coffee and the tea to keep me awake tonight."

Aw, everything’s tickety-boo. Caffeine should pop you up in a minute… I’ll be going, then, Donna said. Shouldn’t need anything, but if you or the patient do, I’ll be down the hall.

The guard shook himself awake and mustered a mumbled thank you and goodbye.

Donna slipped out through the loading dock into the dark alley. The door to the aging black BMW 1500 swung open for her.

"Sashenka, rybka," Tanya said, breaking from her cover as Donna, the nurse. Terms of endearment. Russian: Sasha, my little fish.

English! Speak English. Sasha said as Tanya slipped into the left side of the Beemer.

It is done, she said with a little sigh. He will last until tomorrow high tea, latest, but no earlier than the Elevenses, I think.

Anna, Jack said, the University Housing Office called me today. They want me out of my apartment as soon as possible. They need it for next quarter.

Anna had just gotten back to her apartment from work. Jack stood up from cleaning little Razzy-Cat’s box, the kitchen window letting in cold spring air. 16 July 1977, 1311 Madison Park. A cozy spot on the top floor.

Anna dropped her keys on the bookshelf near the door. We’ve just been using it for storage, mostly, since I got back from Stanford. Why not just move in here?

You know your parents – and mine – would go nuts if we did that. Your dad already hates me. This might push him over the edge. He’s never had very far to go.

Jack… please, just drop it, said Anna, walking to the kitchen. I had a long day at the bank. My balance was off by ten thousand dollars. I knew what happened. Totally innocent. Even after I told them where to find the money, they kept questioning me. I was right, but boy….

I need a bigger place than this. I still work in my apartment, since I can’t work in the library anymore.

Again, what can we do?

I’ve been thinking, Anna.

Never a good thing… she mumbled, thinking, Try listening for a change.

Married student housing has bigger places….

Jack dropped awkwardly to one knee, the cat pooper-scooper still in his hand. Anna, will you marry me?

Anna looked down at Jack’s hand. He turned and tossed the scooper into the box.

Anna shook her head. That’s my Jack, she thought to herself. Great mind… the rest?

Jack looked up into her tired eyes, expectant.

We’ve talked about this… how many times? Anna grumbled.

I know… It’s just that… I love you, Anna. This is a good time for us to get married.

I love you, Jack… and, yes, I will marry you, her tone softened as she touched his face. Can I rest for a little while before we start the planning?

Jack stood to hug her.

It has to be soon, he said, so we can qualify for married student housing.

She pushed him away and laughed.

Oh, Jack, you’re such a romantic.

From the Shoebox: A Class Paper on Iran

The closet in my study still held all those shoeboxes my wife, Anna, had organized before her death. I’d been through the ones marked The City, which resulted in my first book of the same name, Older, which provided the foundation for The Edge, and Kankakee, which had given me all I needed to write The River. Anna had known I dreamed of writing my philosophical dialogues. Now, almost five decades later, they were taking shape, the Jack Slack shoebox dialogues. I chuckled at my own lack of imagination. I pulled the next box out and set it on the floor. Another masterpiece of organization.

I looked down into the shoebox marked Farm and saw the bent corners of a stapled onion skin copy. A school paper. I pulled it from the box – the letter-sized paper formed a sort of inside wrapper around the bottom of it. A research paper for an international affairs class taught by Lloyd and Susanne Rudolph. An A+ in the corner. What will become of Iran?

I read and reread the paper. I wrote it. But I had no recollection of having done so. The style was irrepressibly mine:

Any hope for the evolution of a moderate state in Iran fell to pieces on 19 June this year with what appears to be the assassination of Ali Shariati in England at his Southampton residence. In his opposition to both American and Russian influence, and in his somewhat conflicted concept of Islamic democracy, Shariati offered perhaps the only path of moderation between the Shah and Ayatollah Khomeini, currently living in exile in Najaf, Iraq.

Though not proven, it appears that following Shariati’s imprisonment and exile, the Iranian secret police, SAVAK, chose a permanent resolution to the perceived revolutionary threat. The Machiavellian move, if true, reflects a consistent but shortsighted view of how to defend the current regime in Iran. Shariati’s Red Shiism, offering a democratic approach that conforms to Islamic outlines, contrasts sharply with the Black Shiism that more radical Islamists purport. It would appear that Shariati was trying to deny the Hegelian dialectical imperative for conflict between the thesis of the oligarchy of the Shah and the antithesis of the rising Islamic fundamentalism represented by Ayatollah Khomeini. Perhaps SAVAK determined that Hegel could not be denied.

The American perspective on Shariati appears simply that he would not play ball with our oil interests. Equal in its shortsightedness to the Shah and SAVAK, the American view may well end with a complete failure of policy goals. In Shariati there was a scientifically minded and Western trained leader with firm religious footings that enabled a popular following. In Khomeini, there is only fundamentalist Islamic belief with a strong leaning to Sharia law….

American interests, rooted in the support for the ruling oligarchy, can only face the violence of revolution that Hegelian logic dictates. The question remains, will that result in Soviet domination through their support of the revolution, or will it be that Iran becomes an uncooperative Islamic fundamentalist regime and rogue state?

Alice walked into their shared office at the Institute for the Environment and grabbed Jack’s hand, pulling him up from his desk. Alice Causey, Assistant to the Director.

Come on, big boy, Mr. Director wants to talk to both of us at the same time, she said. She held onto his hand.

The director, Jim Stevens, head of the Institute for the Environment. Soon to be director of the newly created Institute for Energy and Natural Resources, assuming the executive order was signed. If all went well, the Institute would absorb the Energy Office in June 1978, and Stevens’ new empire would be born.

Jack swallowed hard: Uh, Alice, uh… Is this a proposal?

Alice squeezed Jack’s hand and dragged him into the open, central office area.

Come on, slowpoke. I told you, Jim needs to see you.

Very funny. What’s he going to do? Fire me, again?

Stevens opened hard as soon as Alice closed the door to his office. There is legislation creating a new bond fund to invest in new energy technology for our State. Coal and renewable energy. The ultimate solution for the energy crisis. Seventy million bucks, Jack. You think you can manage that program?

Jack sat across the desk from Jim, who was puffing furiously on his pipe. Alice took the chair next to Jack.

Uh, sir? Jack hesitated.

You told me that you want a management job, didn’t you? You up for a big one?

Stevens grinned at Jack. He’d seen the same grin when Jim gave him the Kankakee job. Four – or was it five? – attempts on his life from that one.

Yes, that’s true, Jack said, cautious. I have expressed interest in moving into management.

Jack’s the only person in the agency I trust for it, Alice said. I’ve met with everyone. No one else comes close. And I think recruiting for it would take too long.

It’s as big a plum as I have to offer, Jim said. The Governor already approved. You saved his ass on the Kankakee and with George Ryan. Take your reward, you earned it. You in?

Would the job be in Springfield?

I guess. Could be here or there, but probably there. For the short term, I have a two-bedroom apartment we can share – if you are okay with that. It will give you something better than a hotel room while you look for a place downstate.

Um, that’s a big deal. I need to talk to Anna about it. She still has to finish her degree before we can leave Chicago.

"Rezident says the mission accomplished the goal," Tanya said to Sasha in their London flat.

Newspapers lay scattered across the kitchen table. New York Times, Christian Science Monitor, and half a dozen London papers.

The Americans are not responding, at least in public, Sasha said, looking up from the papers.

"Rezident says Carter is privately criticizing the Shah for the attack. Thumping his chest about human rights. So silly."

It’s Ed. I need a commitment from you, Evie’s boss said when she picked up her phone at her tiny studio apartment in Lakepoint Tower, just north of the Chicago River.

Slow down, Ed. It’s my bedtime. I was just watching the ten o’clock news. Gotta see my man, Walter Jacobson, Evie said. Connie Chung reporting out of LA on PCP again. Nasty drug. Gangs, this time.

Yeah, no time for crime. I just got out of a meeting with top brass at the FBI, a bunch of other intelligence and enforcement agencies, and the White House. If I ask you, Ed squirmed, will you volunteer to be on a new domestic counterterrorism task force?

The White House? Really?

Like I said, top brass. Interagency. NSA, CIA, Defense. Listen, Evie, you’ve been working on domestic issues. This would go international. Worrying about Arabs and Russians. Maybe in cahoots. All of your public work will need to be under a State Department alias – the NSA is afraid people you talk to might be upset with an FBI presence. State Department, dealing with foreign nationals here, mostly. Some travel, but mostly here. Based in Chicago, at least for now.

You guys work late, Evie replied.

Yeah, I gotta know. And I gotta give ‘em a name tonight. Everybody knows what you did up on that mesa and then out in the forest preserves. Don’t let it go to your head, but you’re getting to be a legend out here.

How can a legend say no to an opportunity to get on the world stage, Ed? Evie said.

Is that a yes or no?

It’s a yes, Ed. But you know I’m getting married on Saturday and I want to settle down a bit. Does that fit your profile?

Your fiancé, that Roth guy, is representing the Defense Intelligence Agency. He’s going to be based in Chicago and chairing the task force. At least for now it will let you two lovebirds stay close.

Thank you, Ed, very thoughtful.

Don’t thank me, he said. Just doing what’s best for the Bureau. Gotta say, some raised eyebrows when I put your name in the hopper. Two legends, so in the end, no one objected.

Tanya, come look, Sasha called from the small parlor in their London flat.

She came in and stood next to him, hand on his shoulder, while the small black and white TV droned.

"The United States