Profs Without Pitchers*

* With full and complete apologies to whoever ran the "Pitchers and Profs" programs at the Overcup Oak.

Offered for your consideration are some very random recollections of just a few of the lecturers and professors. (For those of you who were, for instance, Nursing, Pre-Med and Engineering students, please accept my apologies in advance, since these memories are drawn from experiences that are by necessity heavily weighted on the A&S side of the house. If you don't like it...well, you'll get over it. Time heals all wounds.)

John Lachs: Several years ago, Professor Lachs wrote a book aptly entitled "In Love With Life." If you have not read it and if you were half the fan of Dr. Lachs that many of us philosopher-kings-and-queens were, then trust me on this: you really need to read this book. It is just like the best of his lectures: distilled and erudite to their essence, humorous and sometimes poignant, but always full of deep insights and wisdom. He'd have half the class giggling like schoolkids when he'd pepper some otherwise-dry reference to John Stuart Mill or Jeremy Bentham's theories with a way-out hedonistic comment like, "To the Utilitarians, this is a very good thing: to them, it's just as good as getting stoned out of your mind on Friday night. Or, like you just had really great sex." (I always figured that the half of us who were laughing were doing so nervously, as we had little or no practical experience with either of those things. Or, I figured, somebody else actually had, and they got the inside joke. One never really knew.)

Madame Popovich: Fine Arts program. A brilliant woman and Yugoslavian emigre with a categorical and, as best I could tell, darn-near-photographic memory when it came to art of the classical and pre-Renaissance periods, but she did not take distractions, interruptions or whispering in class at all well. Mme. P. never hesitated to stop class in mid-sentence to lecture the offenders sharply. A sampling of this follows: "The next slide is of a ....Quiet, you children!!! I am not your kindergarten teacher!!! Now, what was I saying? Yesss...the next slide is of a fine Doric temple...."

Robert H. Birkby: He must have educated more lawyers of the future than any other Vanderbilt professor outside of the Law School. His Constitutional Interpretation and American Political Thought classes had a fearsome reputation, and Dr. Birkby was allegedly Kingsbury of "The Paper Chase," Dean Roscoe Pound and Gen. Patton rolled into one. He had an amazing stunt, replicated daily, that could not be repeated at VU anymore. That is the case because, you'll recall, once upon a time in Vandyland, professors could smoke in class--and smoke, Bob Birkby most certainly did. When he finished a cigarette, he'd take a brief glance at its remnants to ensure he'd smoked up all its last dregs; deftly flick it to the floor with a snap of the wrist; and while he leaned on his desk or podium, his right foot would snap out, squash the stub, and with a quarter-turn side kick that would do Beckham or Pele proud, sent the stomped-out butt careening some 6 to 7 feet into the halls of Calhoun's 3rd floor as it passed under his classroom's doorjamb. He did this entire drill--I swear, I am not making any of this up--in about 3 seconds of elapsed time. Passers-by unused to this routine would do a double-take as the spent butt whooshed by their feet. One day, the guy who was the supreme wiseass of the Poli Sci undergrads, and the local Miller beer campus rep, waited until Birkby did his usual procedure with his last cigarette. Imagine the look on Prof. Birkby's face as the same butt came whooshing back under his door, mere seconds after he had kicked it out.

Prof. Thweatt: Economics was not an area of the curriculum that came naturally to many of us, but at least he made macroeconomics kind of fun. (OK, that's qualified somewhat by admitting that he made it as fun as it can be to a non-economist.) He was fond of peppering his allusions to economic choice theory by giving students a choice between various kinds of Scotch whisky versus Jack Daniel's. Mel Thweatt was no great fan of Reaganomics trickle-down economics, and he made that quite clear in his lectures. (Before I saw it written on a bathroom wall in Sarratt Center, I heard someone mumble in his class, "The Laffer Curve is a joke.") Prof. Thweatt had been a real globetrotter and apparently lived in India for some years, references to which he would also drop into his lectures occasionally.

Professor Delzell: Dr. Delzell was the expert on Modern European History in the History Department, and he never ceased to cause people to squirm when he talked about Hitler's sex life or horse lovers to whimper when he talked about rioting Parisians in the 1930s trying to cut the legs of soldiers' horses with razors taped to poles. He encouraged his classes to sit in on some showings that the Fine Arts program featured of classical movies and documentaries like "Night and Fog," "The Grand Illusion" and "The Battleship Potemkin," which was a very ecumenical way to encourage inter-disciplinary studies. Besides learning much history, one could also end up with a better overall cultural appreciation by taking Dr. Delzell's suggestions on these great films to heart. While the map of Europe--complete with all rivers and mountain ranges--that he had his students prepare at the beginning of Modern European History was an utter pain to construct, the general knowledge it provided of European terrain proved useful with the Iron Curtain's fall and the conflicts in the Balkans and the former Yugoslavia.

Professor Bryant: One of the stalwarts of the Mathematics Department, he was just about the only teacher I ever had, whether in or before college, who actually had me enjoying mathematics. Professor Bryant was also one of the kindliest professors I ever encountered at Vanderbilt. Having him as a teacher and lecturer was much like being patiently taught some very difficult tasks by your favorite uncle, who also just happened to have a passing physical resemblance to the late comic actor Ed Wynn. Every time I have to do anything in my work that deals with statistics or probability, I still think fondly of him and his TA, almost 30 years later.

Harry Howe Ransom: A Political Science Department member and cousin, I believe, of the great Vanderbilt Fugitive John Crowe Ransom: instead of looking at his students' faces while lecturing, he would kind of gaze upwards, as if he was looking at something hovering collectively over the heads of the class. (It was speculated that in doing so, he was actually carrying on an invisible conversation with McGeorge Bundy, George Kennan or one of those other diplomat-statesmen.) Nevertheless, his criticisms of the CIA and U.S. intelligence system--he had been an expert witness for Sen. Frank Church's Congressional committee, which investigated the 1960s and 1970s intelligence failures that contributed to the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam and the Iranian hostage crisis of our own college days--were spot-on at the time and seem remarkably prescient now, in that he posited that the intelligence system was structured to give our leaders exactly the kind of information that the policymakers wanted to hear--not what they needed to hear. This occurred 25 years before most Americans had ever heard of words like "stovepiping." Or "waterboarding," for that matter. One can muse on the fact that the title of one of the textbooks he used was called "The Irony of Vietnam: The System Worked."

We'll save other memories for another time. Until we talk again...Vaya con Dios, folks.

A little free (and highly random) association for y'all...

Free Association:

Since my latest blog dealt with some fairly serious themes, let's shift gears. Are you up for a little free association about your years at Vanderbilt? If so, let's go....

Your freshman dorm: was it Vaughn; Lupton (I was on Lupton 2); anything in Kissam Quad?

Remember your first class freshman year? Mine was General Biology 101. I have mercifully forgotten the professor's name but I recall vividly that he walked in to the huge classroom in the Science Center, clasped his hands behind his back, looked up at the 100-odd of us, and intoned: "Class, this is a first. This will be the first time everyone is here and everyone is quiet"...and with that, he proceeded to begin a highly detailed lecture on the cell. We all scrambled for pens and notebooks as he looked at us over sardonically raised eyebrows. Oh, how I hated that class, and my grades showed it, too. We had great fun later in lab every week dissecting cats, frogs, and the biggest formaldehyde-laced worm I never hope to hang on my fishing line.

Your sophomore dorm: Barnard (a/k/a the Barnyard--yeah, that was my place); living in exile (or so it seemed to some) over on Peabody...or, were you one of the lucky souls who got a place off-campus? Mike Castellan's and Rick Cozby's place was strategically located virtually next door to Obie's Flying Tomato; they had a pet tarantula. (Rick and Mike, that is, not Obie's so far as I know. At least, I don't remember ever eating an large and hairy arachnid leg on one of their pizzas. Of course, I often had imbibed various mind-numbing substances before I began to eat eating said pizzas at 2 a.m.)

Off-campus places to hang out and eat (late night or early morning; hey, what's the diff?) Steak and Egg (good eats), Krystal (better eats), The Sub Station II (far superior), Mac's Country Cooking (OK, that had to be the apex of undergrad soul food); and, of course, TGI Friday's, Houston's, Spats, and the sainted Obie's and Rotier's. Awesome bean rolls at Exit Inn. Cold and cheap beer at Jonesy's. And don't forget running the risk of cashing a bad check--you really didn't want to do that, if all the rumors were true--as Mrs. Mize's liquor store. How many of these places are left now in the Vandy area?

Places to hang out on campus: The Wall--the hangout/sunspot/mail reading, post-class place numero uno. If you were lucky, or maybe cursed (no pun intended), Sister Cindy and Brother Jed might wander by to save your souls and denounce your heathenish, co-ed-chasin', cigarette-smokin', alcohol-drinkin' ways, you Vandy [here, I'll self-censor their memorable descriptions of all of us accursed groveling lowlifes].

Who was the Vandy Knight for Homecoming Eve '81 (a/k/a " A Knight to Remember"?) Hint: he had eyebrows that would make a schnauzer jealous, but he was perhaps one of the most impressive persons that many of us still think we may ever meet, as a scholar, an administrator and leader, and as a person. Chancellor Heard was truly a Renaissance man.

Did you ever go into the steam tunnels? There is proof that these definitely did exist beneath those manhole covers, and in the days before Tom Cruise cut his chops, several of our classmates have their own "Mission Impossible" tales of derring-do and evasive maneuvers in escaping Campus Security (a/k/a Vandy's Finest) that would make a commando proud. (Caveat: Those midnight tunnelers had better be good: they certainly didn't want to get hauled before Vandy's Lord of Discipline, Dean K.C. Potter. Further caveat: Do not confuse the above mentioned Lord of Discipline with the Lords of Flatulence, a most excellent intramural sports-jock squad. To do so would be a most serious mistake. Another serious mistake would be to confuse the Lords of Flatulence with the Society of Creative Anachronism members who'd take to sword-dueling on Alumni Lawn occasionally...they were the ones in armor. The ones marching about sharply in the black or khaki uniforms with the white Good Humor Man hats would be the Navy ROTC midshipmen and midshipwomen--uh, midshippersonages. Confusing these two groups would be yet a fourth mistake. But, I digress....)

Remember where you were when President Reagan was shot? I was just walking into my dorm at the time, Tolman, right after a poli-sci class, and soon thereafter heard Al Haig utter those memorable words, "I'm in charge here!" Scary thing, that. That was a moment many of us will never forget.

Listening to the Davis Family (if memory serves correctly, that was their name) at The Bluegrass Inn? That was long before "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" and bluegrass became cool. For my money, nobody ever did "Fox on the Run" any better.

If bluegrass didn't float your boat, there were always the Vandy Concerts performances, or Sarratt Cinema, or plays or The Original Cast (they were usually staging a show each Parents' Weekend) ,or IMPACT, or the SGA Speaker Series. There were always parties. And, there was always a road trip to see "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." If you couldn't make it to Mardi Gras, you could always drink a Hurricane or Play-De-Do at Cajun's Wharf across the river. But, if you really wanted authentic performance art, there was the old Gerst Haus, with the guaranteed-meanest wait staff ever found south of Hell's Kitchen, or a 2 a.m. trip to Mary's BBQ in North Nashville where you'd be served out of a whitewashed cinderblock building that could easily have passed for a bunker at Checkpoint Charlie in East Berlin. Damn fine barbecue, though.

Learning early computer programming: in FORTRAN and COBOL on that gigantic old DEC 10 at the Computer Center (for some, just a convenient excuse to play early computer games).

Now, it's your turn, folks: yes, you can do this too. Just pour yourself your favorite beverage; turn on your lava lamp or your ancient eight-track player with Steve Miller, beach music, Bob Marley or Earth, Wind & Fire; think of Dr. Lach's philosophy class, a good day at Dudley Field, or a good nighttime walk around the Parthenon--whatever turns you on--and, free-associate to your heart's content!

Memories and Memorial Days

This blog entry is not in the usual manner and style of our other postings for our Reunion. To do so is wholly purposeful on my part. I offer this up in a spirit of not forgetting the sacrifices of many persons--some older than us; some younger than us; and some exactly our age.

As some of you may know or recall, I ended up spending almost six years as an active duty Army officer after our graduation, courtesy of my time with Vandy Army ROTC. Others with whom I spent time in ROTC, however, have gone on to serve as professional officers; several of our classmates who were in the Army, Navy, Air Force or Marine Option ROTC programs remain on active duty or have recently retired. One of the ROTC instructors, Marine Major Emil Bedard, is now a general; his successor, Gary Anderson, is now well known as a frequent military commentator for PBS, NPR and CNN. One of our own classmates, Army Colonel Bill Hickman, has served in senior leadership roles in the 101st Airborne Division overseas on repeated tours of combat duty. We know, of course, that Bill is not alone in that respect.

Memorial Day will be here very soon. It now holds a special meaning for many Americans as being a day for more than barbecues, sports and for welcoming summer. Regrettably, the meaning it holds for many Americans is now quite personally imbued with the deepest of emotions: of sadness, of regret, of loss of a loved one or family member. My father, a Marine veteran of World War II, died just days after Memorial Day ten years ago. That holiday will no longer pass without my missing him and wondering about what kinds of private hells he and his buddies encountered on Pacific battlefields over sixty years ago.

Other families' memories of loss and pain are sharper and even more poignant. I share with you below an e-mail I received last night from a former law firm colleague of mine who is in age a contemporary of ours, and who is a National Guard JAG lawyer now stationed in Tikrit, Iraq. Obviously, each of you shall draw your own message, political observations and conclusions from this post. I ask, however, that as you read it, please take a moment to think of those who have died (as well as those permanently scarred by the wounds of war, I would suggest), and their families and loved ones who have lost them, as we proceed this month towards Memorial Day 2008.

A quick and somber note. Last night our redeployment focus was tempered by the death of a civilian contractor living in the next compound. He died after an IED exploded under his vehicle. Approximately 200 people attended a late evening ceremony to load his remains for the flight home.

The send off, known as a "ramp ceremony", was conducted with a too well-practiced efficiency and quiet military heraldry. An ambulance delivered the casket, draped in an American flag, to the runway. The attendees formed two rows facing each other creating a path between the ambulance and the plane's cargo hatch. An eight-man detail removed the casket from the ambulance and carried it through the formation at a halfstep march. We held an honorary salute until the detail placed the body in the plane's cargo area and were dismissed.

We arrived at the airfield at 10:15 pm, but the ceremony did not start until 11 pm. The evening was comfortable, starlit and the drone of Blackhawk and Apache helicopters taking off and landing for their nightly missions interfered with most conversation. The ceremony lasted 10 minutes. Most were quiet afterwards, and those who knew the dead man (I did not) were caught up in various stages of emotion.

My thoughts ranged dramatically. The man woke up that morning, ate breakfast in the mess hall and left for a mission with expectation to return to [Camp] Speicher for dinner. His plans were interrupted by the war.He instead died, and 12 hours later his body was going home in a casket. I learned he was my exact age - a sobering thought to my self-perceived immortality. I also wondered about the soldiers traveling with the body. None of them awoke yesterday expecting to fly with a flag-draped casket visible from every seat in the plane. The event is a solemn reminder of the violence and tragedy this conflict continues to inflict.

I called Claudine immediately upon returning to our compound to hear her voice and speak with the children. The conversation pacified my mood,and I enjoyed Aidan's prattle more than any conversation with him in my memory bank. Most of all - last night reaffirmed that I am ready to come home.