Interesting People on the Fringe: This Week - Mark Hennick!

Yet again, I am journeying into the recesses of my memory (cue spacey mood music from Tangerine Dream) for this week’s interesting person on the fringe. And yes, despite many years of “good livin’”, I can still recall things that happened pre-1985. Don’t ask me about yesterday, however.

Mark Hennick was my first best friend. We first met in the Brayton, Iowa nursery school (they didn’t call it pre-school back then) in what I suppose was 1972. Coming from the small town, it is interesting how many kids in the core graduating class first met in 1972, going through the entire journey to 1986. Mark, however, wasn’t one of them, but that will be attended to shortly. What do I remember about my nursery school experience, and Mark in particular? I remember lunching on saltine crackers and Kool-Aid. I remember climbing on a structure with a ladder on each side with rungs across the top, sort of like in a military obstacle course, but this one made of smooth, varnished wood. I remember Mark and I simulating shooting at the enemy atop this structure, the same era when our boys were fighting off the gooks in the jungles of 'Nam. Does playing soldier with toy guns influence kids at a young age? For Mark, it didn’t, although he was very much interested in the military arts and sciences until we parted ways. For me, it shaped me early on, sending me eventually on a career path in the military, eventually only stopped by the one force that is more powerful than all the weaponry of all the world’s armies: love. (Cue cheesy Barbra Streisand melody.) But I shouldn’t be waxing poetic about the whole deal. Mark and I enjoyed playing army in Brayton. We enjoyed teasing the other youngsters on the playground. (I remember getting one girl named Amy to cry by telling her that her parents were dead.) And naturally, we enjoyed our crackers and sugar-laden Kool-Aid. Those were days of freedom. The only thing that tore us apart in the preschool was a conflict over my favorite, dark-blue felt cowboy hat, one of the various hand-me-down toys to be found in the toy chests there. I loved that hat, and hats in general, and, although I seldom wear one today, that fetish stuck with me all the way through college.

Mark Hennick was the middle kid of three brothers, living on an acreage south of town. His dad, Jim, was an insurance agent and also what could be called, an enthusiast. That was, of course, trés cool for Mark and his brothers, Mike and Mitch. They had the toys. And a house that was so groovy that even Mike Brady would have gushed praise upon it. The Hennicks even had the “cathedral” ceiling, where, if one was so inclined, one could line the whole posse up in Brady fashion on the open staircase for a family picture. The only things missing, of course, were three cute blonde chicks and a dopey maid. But the toys were there. Jim Hennick had a thing for remote-controlled model airplanes, probably one of the most exciting things a kid growing up then could get his hands on. I remember his dad showing off his model P-51 Mustang, scourge of the Luftwaffe, to us one sunny afternoon. He taxied out onto the gravel road in front of their place, and took off, buzzing up into the sky. Then he showed off by performing a stunt, which in retrospect, was even more impressive than it was at the time. He steered the Mustang between two power lines strung beside the road. One false calculation and the plane would have been ripped apart, irreparably destroyed. But he did it. And I am still impressed.

Mark, through his older brother, Mike, also was an original Trekkie. They had all the cool Star Trek toys back around 1975. This was pre-Star Wars action figure. The brothers Hennick had eight-inch figures of all the original crew, and a model layout of the bridge of the USS Enterprise. To simulate beaming down to a planet, you could put one of the figures in a spinning device, spin it, and press a button on the top, which would deliver him to the other side of the diorama, which I believe was decorated with an alien landscape. Pretty cool. Mark and Mike even talked in Trekkie lingo and knew every detail of every episode of the original 1960’s TV series. They were nerds before being nerds was cool: Ur-nerds, so to speak.

On Sunday afternoon, June 13, 1976, Iowa was attacked, with apologies to Les Nesman once again, by the godless tornados. And Mark's family was in on the action. Although nothing like the monster F-5 that wiped little Jordan, Iowa, west of Ames, off the map that afternoon, Brayton and the area south of Exira were also under a tornado warning. Mark related the story to me later. Jim had spotted the twister and yelled to the Hennicks, "Get your butts in the basement!" Everyone dropped what they were doing in the yard and bolted for cover. Mike was so worked up that he ran directly into the basement wall instead of the door and had to be attended to. But, fortunately, no one was hurt and the storm missed the Hennick place. Out east of town at our homestead, I remember watching golf on Channel 5 TV, when the tornado warning for Audubon County was given. I went out to my mom, then working in the garden west of the house, and told her that she had better come in. We both hurried down to the house, when it really started to rain. My dad refused to go in to the basement, however, playing tough guy in the kitchen. Then one of our apple trees flew over the house, and the pear tree went flying by as well. As I remember, he quickly joined us in the basement. Other than the two trees, however, everything remained intact at our farm, too.

Later, in the 5th grade, Mark and I had a falling out on the playground during noon recess from which our friendship never really recovered. As I remember it, I was pushing him on the swing and happened to push him a bit to the right, causing him to crash into the side pole. It must have hurt like hell. He kind of ran crazily around, ranting and sort of bawling at the same time. He refused to talk to me after it. I don’t really know if I did it on purpose, perhaps I had some kind of subconscious drive to hurt him for some fucked up reason. Maybe it was just an accident. Whatever it was, we didn’t hang out together again until the summer between 8^th and 9^th grade.

That summer of 1982, we had a pretty good time. The playground incident was finally put aside, and Mark and I spent our summer afternoons at Littlefield Lake southeast of Exira. I would ride my Honda 110 three-wheeler over to Mark’s place south of town, and he would ride his go-kart with me over to a dirt road south of Littlefield Park. There we would camouflage our vehicles along the side of the road and hike over the grassy hills to the park. Due to the policing of the park by Arlen Throne, Audubon County Conservation Officer and Official Dickhead, we avoided riding in the park directly, at least during daylight. A few years before, you could get away with it, but then Joe Muhr got busted on my three-wheeler, paying a 40-dollar fine for having neither license nor registration, so that sort of chickened us out for daylight raids. Mark and I would show up, dressed in Rat Patrol garb, complete with goggles atop our caps, and hang out with the whole park crew, which fortunately included lots of young ladies sunbathing. We would be greeted by Frank Wahlert, the guy who ran the concession stand and whom everyone thought was gay, although it never was really proven (who would want to prove it?), just rumors. One thing that stands out in my mind about Littlefield Lake, which was then just in its infancy, having been cornfields only a few years before, is that the showers and changing rooms at the beach smelled horrible. Every time we would enter, Mark would yell, “Ya know what it smells like in here? Smells like shit!” loud enough for everyone outside to hear. It didn’t do any good, however, as it always stunk that way.

Mark moved after the 9^th grade to Panora, and I saw him only one last time. One night in the winter of 1985-86, I think it was, Mark showed up at a party at Mitchell Coglon’s, who was fortunate like Darrin Munch, subject of a previous "Interesting People on the Fringe" column, in that his parents owned a bar, in this case the well-known Delbert’s Lounge in Brayton. Plus, Mitchell had the amenities of a bar, pool table, and a jukebox in the basement of their house, i.e. what the hell more could you ask for? I remember telling Mark that I planned on going for a career as an Army officer, to which he said, “Why the hell would you want to do that?” I guess his militaristic ideas had faded. Mine would fade much later. But, as most learn eventually, sometimes fighting is required. That night, for example, Jason Roberts and his passenger, Scott Paulsen, pulled up into Mitchell’s driveway and continued driving forward where Mark was sitting on a berm. Jason continued to drive forward, almost until Mark’s legs would have been pinned between his front bumper and the wooden-planked berm, when Mark flipped, again reminiscent of his 5^th grade reaction, and jumped up on the hood of Jason’s car. Scott Paulsen came out of his side and grabbed Mark by the legs, swinging him down forcefully into the gravel, breaking his glasses. So much for the fighting. A few folks got between them, and I accompanied Mark into Mitchell’s place, where he took care of his cut and bruised face and hands. Mark never showed up in Exira again, at least not on the social scene.

I did correspond with Mark via email once, at least five years ago. Mark owns a successful graphic design business in Kansas City. True, he was always very good in art class and in 9^th grade was Mrs. Pat Leinen’s favorite art student. But, aside from a few pleasantries, the correspondence fizzled out rather quickly. Oh well. Such is life. Perhaps he still thinks that 5th grade deal was on purpose.

Mark, if we ever see each other again…let’s be friends!