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SPECIAL TO THE REGISTER
Retired Simpson College professor Terry Hoy was diagnosed a few months ago with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig's disease, for which there is no cure. Even in his final days, Hoy continues to engage others in scholarly thinking and conversation.


Dying professor ponders all but death
He stays deep in scholarly thought despite his battle with Lou Gehrig's disease.

By DANIEL FINNEY
INDIANOLA RECORD-HERALD


November 25, 2006



Indianola, Ia. - When a man gets to be a certain age, he starts thinking about what his life has meant. For Terry Hoy, that time is now.

"I'm 82 years old, and I haven't figured out much in my life," he tells a small gathering of friends at Cal's Fine Foods & Spirits on a recent afternoon. "I would like to work a few things out before I die."

To understand what Hoy means, a person needs to know two things.

First, Hoy is dying. A few months ago, Iowa City doctors diagnosed him with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, the incurable killer known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

Second, Hoy has spent his entire life thinking. He has not spent much time pondering the things that consume most people's lives: when to get married, whether to have kids, when to buy a house or change jobs.

Hoy never does any of that. What he does is consider ideas: the meaning of events of our time, poverty, and the relationship between philosophy, politics and religion.

He pondered them every day at Simpson College, where he worked for a quarter century as a political science professor and spent another two decades haunting its library and faculty lounge as the school's resident philosopher.

But now Hoy recognizes his time is running out. It's time to come to some conclusions.

Fellow professors recall his precision

The dwindling number of days must be especially frustrating for Hoy. During his entire adult life, he practiced an almost supernatural routine that allowed him to maximize his time as a scholar.

Hoy's friends all tell a similar story about his days as a professor.

Hoy and his friends met in the faculty lounge and decided to go out for lunch.

They arrived at the restaurant a little after noon instead of 15 minutes or so before, which was Hoy's preference. The lunch crowd had arrived, and there was a short wait.

Somebody turned to ask Hoy something. He was gone.

"He had no patience for lines or waiting," says Bruce Haddox, formerly Simpson's academic dean and religion and philosophy professor. "He wasn't being rude. He just didn't want to take time to wait to eat. He would rather get something fast and get back to his work."

Hoy's work was - and still is - thinking. He thinks about how people relate to one another. He thinks about how governments work. He thinks about how the world would be a better place if humanity embraced the best of its nature.

Hoy never married. He never bought a house. He ate nearly every meal of his adult life at a restaurant - preferably one with speedy service.

He has lived a very precise life. After retirement in 1986, he began each day in the Simpson library.

At exactly 10 a.m., he walked from the library to the faculty lounge. He poured a cup of coffee and took stock of the conversation.

If the chatter was idle, Hoy finished his cup and went back to the library without a word.

But if ideas were in play - maybe somebody was working on a theory about Marxism - then Hoy was engaged.

"He just didn't have the patience for social graces," said John Epperson, a Simpson professor of political science. "He was about ideas. Anything that took him away from those ideas was wasting time."

Easy choice between war, farm life

Perhaps Hoy's nature is rooted in his rural South Dakota youth. Born in 1924 near Huron, S.D., his early years were spent in the darkest days of the Great Depression.

Droughts ravaged the wheat and cornfields, putting the family in dire straits. Hoy's mother died when he was 11, and his father put him in the care of his aunt and uncle.

Hoy's family did not talk about grief or pain. There was work to be done.

In rare whimsy, Hoy learned Morse code from his uncle, who tapped out stories from the newspaper for young Terry to translate.

Hoy enrolled at the University of South Dakota. When World War II broke out, he could have avoided the draft if he returned to farming.

"I did not want to be a farmer," Hoy said. "It was boring. I would rather submit to the draft than go back to that."

Skills come in handy for Marauders

After basic training, someone mentioned Hoy's Morse code skills to Gen. Frank Merrill, and Hoy became a radio operator for Merrill's Marauders, one of the most distinguished American fighting units.

The Marauders marched across the Himalayas and through the jungles of Burma. In a battle to capture Burma's capital, the Marauders lost 700 men. Of the 1,300 who survived, nearly half had to be hospitalized.

"The things those men saw were truly terrible, said Joe Walt, a retired Simpson history professor and friend of Hoy. "Terry never talks about it, but I'm sure it was a profound experience for him."

Today, Hoy jokes about his contribution.

"About the only real thing I ever did is click some switches on a radio and avoid getting hit in the head by stuff falling off the backs of the mules," Hoy said of his service.

Of all the thinking Hoy does, he doesn't think much about himself. He never brags; that would be a waste of time.

Respected but not necessarily popular

After the war, Hoy's philosophical nature flowered. He began thinking about how governments could work together to better humanity.

Those thoughts led him to the University of California at Berkeley. He earned his doctorate in 1958 and spent a year teaching before accepting an offer to teach at Simpson.

Simpson was in the midst of a renaissance under the leadership of President William Kerstetter. He hired Hoy to head the political science department.

Hoy was a respected professor. He was not necessarily popular, because he expected students to work at high levels. But for those with a passion for government and politics, Hoy was an important influence.

Hoy would not describe himself as an activist or a leader. But he did support activism, especially in the 1960s when student unrest over the Vietnam War reached its peak.

"Hoy didn't lead marches or hold signs, but he was a supporter of people who did," Walt recalled. "Students sought his counsel and really respected his perspective. He led a lot of changes on campus."

His colleagues recall impassioned speeches in support of student activism and a plea to close the college after Ohio National Guard soldiers killed four protesters at Kent State University in 1970.

The college remained open, but Hoy remained a steadfast supporter of change. And the biggest change of his life was soon to come.

Unmarried mother gains a friend for life

Nia Kos arrived at Simpson College in 1976. Born in the Ukraine and raised in Argentina, she came to teach Spanish and was pregnant with her first child.

Her husband did not want to move to Indianola from Chicago.

Despite the pregnancy, Kos divorced in the midst of trying to adjust to Iowa life.

Hoy took an immediate liking to Kos, though she had no interest in getting married. Still, she accepted Hoy's friendship.

"He just became a part of the family," she said. "I don't know how to explain it. He was just always there almost from the first day I got here."

Hoy drove Kos to the hospital when it was time to deliver her son, Alex. After the baby came home, Hoy stopped by every day to look after Alex.

As Alex grew up, he and Hoy became as close as father and son.

Now 28, Alex lives in Chicago and recalls the deep connection with Hoy.

"Every day at 6:30 he would be there," Alex said. "Terry was the one thing in all the world that would never let you down."

Everyone agrees Hoy's connection to Nia and Alex was good for him, but perhaps none understand it as deeply as his friend, Joe Walt.

Walt never married because his bride-to-be was killed in a car accident. Rather than look for love again, he dedicated his life to his work. He hosted Simpson foreign students in his home every year and continues to do so in retirement.

"I needed that human connection and that's how I got it," Walt said. "Terry needed that female influence in his life. Nia provided that. And he needed that contact with a child, and Alex gave him that."

Hoy predictably is tight-lipped about Nia and Alex. But when he sees old photos of them together, he smiles brightly.

"I really enjoyed that," he said. "It's probably the best thing I ever did."

Wasting no time on life after death

The sun is setting on his life now. There will be more bad days than good as his body shuts down.

He needs both hands to lift a glass of wine. He uses a walker. His fingers are too numb for him to write anymore.

"It's harder to engage him," said Walt. "I'll try to get him going over a cup of coffee, and he'll say, 'I don't want to get into that now.' I think he's realizing there's not much time left and that means all the things he wants to think about won't get done. That's depressing to him."

He's still gnawing at an idea. He wants to combine the best ideas of secular humanism - a brand of philosophy he believes - with the ideas of forgiveness and redemption to create a new idea for social justice.

It's complicated stuff, but the glimmer comes back into Hoy's eyes when he talks about the subject.

There's an idea in play and Hoy is engaged.

Facing death, Hoy isn't spending time thinking about life after death. That would be a waste of time.

No, Terry Hoy is thinking about what more he can contribute to the conversation.

Because when the conversation gets dull, Hoy is gone.

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