2001 alumnus Fred Minnick recently noticed some amusing differences between himself and current college students. Minnick will be featured in the December STATE magazine.

By Fred Minnick

At 31, I don’t feel physically old. But when I returned to Oklahoma State University Oct.7 to sign copies of my new book, Camera Boy: An Army Journalist’s War in Iraq (Hellgate Press), those young whippersnappers trotting around made me realize how behind the times I am.

While they’re using iPhone No. 4 or whatever the latest one is called, I am flipping a 1999 worn piece of metal and plastic. They walk and text. Old-fashioned: I walk and talk.

I suppose society’s been moving forward with personal gadgets while I’ve had a book in my hand or been trying to figure out how to make a good chicken stock, but I’ve not noticed the depth and reach of headphones and miniature flat screen TVs until I sat at a table of the ancient media—printed books.

Books were once the promise of tomorrow. They contained useful information, were the entryway to other ideas. They entertained us, taught us, made us laugh, made us cry, made us angry, gave us hope and in some cases, took down corruption. The literal book creation was an amazingly technical process. Today, the method and product are next to the paperclip in innovation. And instead of flipping pages, readers are moving toward toggling an iPod-looking device.

So, there I was, my books and I, in the middle of the Student Union and I could not help but observe and make a hypothesis about this transient “wired” society.  In my three hours of sitting and signing, I estimate 80 percent were engaged in talking, texting, watching or listening to some gadget. Fifteen had giant headphones and about 40 could not hear me say “hello.” Three texting students rammed into each other. Four dropped and perhaps broke their devices. And one girl banged her phone-talking arm’s elbow into the wall while walking with and talking to her in-person friend, who was also on the phone.  Oh, and there was the guy I thought was talking to me, but wore a small ear device.

These observations are certainly not unique, especially to frequent travelers stuck in airports a lot. But I realized that we are way too distracted with these darn devices. How often do we actually have meals with four people without one person checking their phones? Do we really need to text or Tweet in the middle of conversations with friends?

I wonder if, in 30 years, carpal tunnel becomes more common than the flu or if as MAD TV spoofed, “LOL” actually gets added to the dictionary. Could our language be reduced to OMG (oh, my God), YGG (you go girl) and “afaict” (as far as I can tell)?

All this technology is wonderful, but I miss talking to people for five straight minutes and actually enjoying dinner. Maybe, it’s me. Maybe, I am just getting old.

You can read more from this aging 31-year-old writer in the next issue of STATE, where he writes about his Iraq war experience and his struggles with PTSD.

Visit Fred Minnick at http://fredwrite.com

Having grown up in Texas, I wasn’t very familiar with Henry Bellmon before I interviewed him last spring. I knew he’d been Oklahoma’s governor and a U.S. senator, but I didn’t know anything about his character, his politics, his beliefs.

But the more I learned from reading his autobiography in which he explains his political decisions and describes the life experiences that influenced those decisions, the more I respected him. Then, talking to people close to him, including two of his three daughters and a handful of former employees, my admiration for him grew exponentially.

My first impression in reading about Bellmon seemed to be of a tough farm boy able to go barefoot in the snow and later fight in hand-to-hand combat with other Marines at Iwo Jima. From that experience, he vowed if he survived and could reach a position to influence change, he would exhaust every diplomatic means possible before sending others to face the horrors he had experienced. That’s the kind of soldier I respect – one not afraid to fight if necessary, but a believer in seeking peace first to save soldiers’ lives.

As a politician, Bellmon voted his conscience and stood up for what was just – equal rights for African-Americans, women, farmers — even if it angered his constituents or friends. He was unwavering and thick-skinned. He let the critics roar, but he was strong enough to let their criticisms slide off his back. Above all, he wanted his votes to be fair and to improve the common good for everyone.

But I got a deeper understanding of him when his daughters told me about the letters he wrote them when they were young. After a long day in the governor’s office, he would slip notes under their doors if they had already gone to bed. The notes praised them for good grades and good character. Some contained thoughtful explanations. Ann laughed and told me about one he wrote to her older sister, Pat, a young teen at the time, about why she wasn’t allowed to wear lipstick. The sisters told me about the entertaining jingles he made up about their mother and sang to them during car rides. My image of this strong man evolved to include tenderness, humor and loads of love for his family. Likewise, every former employee or volunteer who spoke about Mr. Bellmon said he made them feel more like part of his family than his staff. He invited them to the family farm for cookouts and retreats. All praised his inspirational leadership and say they still value the life lessons they learned from his honesty and integrity.

Mr. Bellmon held some of the most influential political positions in the world. He mingled with U.S. presidents and foreign dignitaries. Yet, I think he considered himself an ordinary man who did the best he could for his family and his country.

And in doing that, I think he became an extraordinary man.

Henry Bellmon, one of OSU’s greatest alumni, died on Tuesday morning, Sept. 29, 2009, following a lengthy battle with Parkinson’s. The former Oklahoma governor and U.S. senator was a man of integrity who loved Oklahoma State University and the state of Oklahoma. He will be missed and long remembered by the OSU family and many others.

A STATESMAN FOR ALL THE PEOPLE
View Full Magazine (Bellmon Story on Page 62)

Henry Bellmon’s freshman year in 1938 differed significantly from student life today.
Few people of the Depression era had any money. Maybe a dozen students owned an automobile. And except for church and occasional theater productions or dances at the girls’ dorms, “There wasn’t much of a social life,” Bellmon says.

Campus also contrasted with the homestead in north-central Oklahoma where his family produced wheat and livestock and where his love of farming began.
Bellmon’s father encouraged him to pursue a high-paying profession. “He wanted me to become a lawyer,” Bellmon says. But Bellmon wanted to study agriculture and chose Oklahoma A&M because it was close to home. Preferring the outdoors to class work, he took the maximum course load to graduate a semester early in January 1942.

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