In Act II, this American life isn't slowing down

Column

It remains anybody's guess what F. Scott Fitzgerald — tragic-comic novelist and national cynic — was thinking when he declared, a lifetime and then some ago, "There are no second acts in American lives."

Whether Fitzgerald was oblivious to the New World dynamism around him or was merely practicing pessimism for pessimism's sake, writers have spent the decades since hauling one marvelous exception after another into public view.

So I'm guessing one more won't hurt.

Hjalma Johnson, born into this world at the fading edge of both Fitzgerald's Jazz Age and the author's literary prowess, fashioned an all-American Act I.

He rose from a working-class upbringing in a tiny Florida Panhandle town through a brief but defining stint in corporate sales to the pinnacle of the banking profession (back when such a thing was widely admired).

Along the way he picked up degrees in industrial engineering and law — establishing Johnson's credentials as a nimble thinker — and a ferocious affection for the University of Florida, the practice of which inevitably triggers tears of gratitude, exposing the side of Johnson that is most like the climax of anything filmed by Frank Capra.

Add a cheerful longtime marriage, a son who's a partner in a Dade City law firm and bright, successful grandchildren and, at 77, even critics would join the standing ovation if stagehands dropped the curtain on Johnson's life. But if they did, it would be only to signal intermission. Now here we are, milling around in the lobby of the Hjalma Johnson Theater, and the house lights are flashing.

Seriously? We're exhausted, and, Fitzgerald notwithstanding, here comes Johnson. Again. As the music rises, Act II has begun.

"If I was ever retired — and I wasn't," Johnson said, "what I'm doing now is perfect for my background and training."

Let his peers while away their days playing golf, recruiting fourths for bridge and scheduling doctors' appointments. Johnson has formed a triangular partnership with wintering neighbors in a ski village near Vail, Colo., and together they're standing on the accelerator of at least one emerging economy in the Third World.

In India the spread of cellphone towers is limited less by access to fabricated steel and concrete than the ability to equip them with instant backup power, usually banks of lead-acid batteries. Helping supply those batteries is the task of a factory that opened this year near Mumbai in which Johnson and his colleagues — India-born, London-educated and Boca Raton-based Stephen Saldanha and Daytona Beach resident John T. Chain, retired Air Force general and former head of the U.S. Strategic Air Command — are partners.

"Losing power is not much of an issue in the United States," Johnson said, "but you get out in one of the less-developed countries, you can run into trouble in a hurry."

Here and elsewhere, towers come with battery backups, usually housed in small block buildings refrigerated to below 50 degrees Fahrenheit to extend battery life. Traditionally, diesel generators power the air conditioners, but keeping them fueled and in good working condition can be problematic in the developing world.

"That's where the other part of our operation comes in," Johnson said. The group has linked with a green energy developer headquartered in Wales, U.K., for the supplying of solar-powered chilling mechanisms. The eye-popping wrinkle: True Energy Ltd. claims to have a process for storing solar energy.

"Give us one day of sunlight," Johnson said, "and we'll give you 10 days of power."

The potential for suppliers of perishables (such as pharmaceuticals) and other cold-critical consumables (True Energy is in talks with a "major beverage company, one you surely have heard of," Johnson said) is readily evident. For now, the hot market is chilling new backup battery systems, and retiring those reliant on diesel generators.

All the while, Johnson remains staggeringly hands-on, maintaining a pace that might exhaust gym-chiseled professionals half his age. He and his partners spent October traveling to India for the dedication of the battery factory, surrounded by its 750 employees, then dashing to Wales to complete their partnership with True Energy.

"Age is a state of mind," Johnson said, "if you have Hjalma's 'four aces.' If you have major peace with your maker; if you are surrounded by family and friends who love you; if" — voice quaking now — "you have your health and your reputation; and you're doing things you enjoy."

The only downside: Johnson, a lifelong St. Louis Cardinals fan, came home to Dade City just in time for Game 6 of the World Series — arguably the best, and certainly among the most dramatic, game in baseball history — but couldn't keep his eyes open past the 7th inning. He missed it all: the Rangers twice on the brink, the Cardinals' two last-strike game-saving hits, the 11th-inning walk-off homer.

The next morning, when son Len Johnson (of Johnson, Auvil, Brock & Wilson) asked what he'd thought, Dade City's biggest Redbirds fan didn't have a clue. "I'll call you back," he said, fired up his DVR and raced through the game's final four innings, then phoned back. One word sufficed: "Unbelievable."

But as he thought about it, Johnson couldn't help but imagine he'd discovered a useful way for certain men of action to watch sporting events. Record it and watch it later in about half the time. After all, urgency turns the globe.

"If you are totally patient, in this world, you will get run over," Johnson said. Accordingly, this septuagenarian's breathtaking Act II shows no signs of slowing down.