“Hey, HoJo, you awake up there? Everyone keeps asking about you, and I could use some help!” I awoke with a jolt, “Where am I?" Then I realize I am home in my bed, but why does everything smell like smoke? “Fire!” I tumbled out of bed only to realize that I was smelling myself! I got called out to a fire last night, and when I came home, I never changed out of my clothes. I must have just crawled into bed in my clothes.
“Fire? What do you mean, fire?” Into my room ran Barnabus Phifer, aka Barney, my business partner, and best friend. “Fire? You okay, HoJo? Oh man, dude, you smell like smoke. What did you do, sleep in your clothes?”
My name is Howard Johnson. I know, I know, just like the restaurant. However, Howard Johnson was a real entrepreneur who started the popular Americana foods restaurant, Howard Johnson’s in the 1920s. My dad named me after him. Johnson started out selling ice cream at a soda fountain in a pharmacy; he purchased it for $2000, and soon his claim to fame was that he had 28 flavors! “Can you imagine that 28 flavors of ice cream,” my dad used to say.
Stopping at Howard Johnson’s restaurants was my favorite thing about the long drive on the Pennsylvania Turnpike to granny and grandpop’s house in New Jersey each summer. You could always find a Howard Johnson’s just about anywhere. I can remember the restaurant’s iconic orange roofs, with cupolas and weathervanes. I would order the Clam Boat - deep-fried clams, served in a split-top hotdog bun, or the Frankforter - a grilled hotdog also served in a split-top hotdog bun with a side order of incredible french fries or onion rings. But the absolute best was trying to decide what flavor of ice cream I wanted; I mean, there were 28 flavors. In the end, it was always ice cream with some kind of chocolate in it. I love chocolate.
For as long as I can remember, my nickname has been HoJo. My little sister gave me my nickname because I never stopped talking about Howard Johnson. HoJo was also the nickname and a trademark of Howard Johnson’s restaurants. I used to tell people that I, too, was one day going to own a bunch of restaurants like Howard Johnson and be rich and famous.
I grew up in Charleston, Ohio, on Lake Erie. My parents moved there when I was ten. Built where the St. Charles River meets Lake Erie, Charleston was an industrial city anchored in steel mills, shipyards, and auto assembly plants. It was a culturally diverse community. Charleston is home to Polish and Italian immigrants, black folks, white folks, Hispanic migrant workers, Jews, West Virginians, and more. People came from far and wide to work in the steel mills, build ships, assemble cars and vans, and open up businesses. Charleston was known as the “International City” because it was home to over 70 different nationalities. It was a booming city with a vibrant economy and a racially mixed community.
Charleston was a part of the “golden crescent,” a crescent moon-shaped area from just west of Charleston and east to just the other side of Cleveland. The industrial belt, if you will, is now a part of the “Rust Belt!” The shipyards closed a long time ago, the steel mills are closing, and the auto assembly plants have all shuddered their doors.
My parents came from New Jersey to Ohio in the late 1950s to stake their claim in the “wild west.” That was what my grandmother used to call Ohio - the “wild west.” She never forgave my father for taking her daughter and grandchildren to the wild west state of Ohio. I can still remember as a teenager trying to explain to my grandmother that Ohio was in the Midwest, not the “wild west.” To her, anything west of Delaware was the “Wild West.” No, she never forgave my father.
My father’s dream was to start a restaurant specializing in American food and culture. He reasoned that it would do well in such a city as the “international” city of Charleston. There was always room for hamburgers, hotdogs, and malts, so with some inheritance money, he started Pappy’s Place in 1959 and ran it himself for the next forty years. I have great memories of hanging out there with my friends, dancing to music from the jukebox, and having crazy great hamburgers and deep-fried onion rings. When I got to high school, Pappy wanted me to learn the business and learn the business I did. Pappy dreamed about starting a whole chain of Pappy’s Place restaurants. “We will be just like Howard Johnson - rich and famous.”
I graduated high school in 1967 and headed off to Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, to pursue a major in history. Many of my high school classmates went to Miami, and most important of all, my high school sweetheart, Caroline Jones. We started dating two years before graduation, and I was smitten by her and would have followed her anywhere. Her strong Christian faith challenged me. My family was nominally Christian at best - Christmas and Easter Christians. My father thought church membership was like belonging to a service club; the community expected it. I did the obligatory catechism classes and became a member of First Congregational Church but did not want anything to do with church or religion.
While at Miami University, Caroline became involved with InterVarsity Campus Ministries. One thing led to another, and she convinced me to start attending Bible studies. I was impressed with how clear and understanding the studies were. In February of 1968, we loaded up a bus and went to a retreat center in the Hocking Hills of Southern Ohio. It was that weekend when I gave my life to Christ, and I knew I would never be the next Howard Johnson. God had other plans that I did not know about yet; I just had to wait on God.
Caroline and I graduated from Miami in 1971 and were married two weeks after graduation. We chose to have our wedding at the University’s Chapel on the campus of Miami University. By August, we had moved to Dallas, Texas, for both of us to attend Dallas Theological Seminary. I went to prepare to be a Bible teacher. I wanted to be the next Howard Hendricks who, for over fifty years, was a professor at Dallas Theological Seminary (DTS), where he taught "Bible Exposition and Hermeneutics" to freshmen. We came to Dallas because of him. Caroline went to train to be a missionary, and her heart was attached to the mission field of Southeast Asia, specifically Indonesia. She wanted to teach elementary school at a missionary school. She thought I would make a great Bible teacher and chaplain at a missionary school. She was partly right. I wanted to be a Bible teacher but I was not sure how great I would be as a chaplain on the mission field. I was willing to follow Caroline anywhere but I just didn’t know about Indonesia. I honestly didn’t know if I could. I guess I just needed to wait on God. But, as far as I was concerned, he was going to have to speak loud for me to hear him. Once again, I found myself waiting on God.
During the month of June 1972, Explo ‘72 happened in Dallas, Texas. The New York Times called Explo ’72 “the largest and most conspicuous public outpouring thus far of the Jesus Movement, which has revived interest in fundamentalist Christianity among young people across the country.” Attendees earnestly studied their Bibles and attended workshops like “How to Live with Your Parents.” Caroline and I were among the many DTS students and spouses who volunteered to help out that week. Caroline taught a couple of sections of “How to Live with Your Parents.” I was blessed that I got to teach several times on the topic of how to study the Bible. It was an amazing week. Caroline and I were encouraged to continue pursuing teaching careers and I was more open to the mission field. However, I was still waiting to hear from God about His call upon my life to the mission field.
In December of 1973, we attended the Urbana Student Missions Conference in Urbana, Illinois. One of the speakers was John Stott, a noted New Testament Scholar from England. I was so excited to hear him. Caroline was ecstatic that she was going to hear Elizabeth Elliot. She had followed the story of her and her husband, Jim Elliot, who was martyred for the cause of Christ in South America. “HoJo, listen to this,” she said as we were filling out the registration forms, “Elizabeth Elliot’s conference session title is Women in World Mission. Can you believe it? We are going to get to hear Elizabeth Elliot.” She was glowing with excitement, and it was at that moment I had an epiphany; she was called to the mission field, and so was I. God had broken through my confusion and very clearly called me to go to the mission field as a Bible teacher.
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