Russell Blackwood remembered

Dear Russell,

At some moment during my senior year, you and I were talking about graduate school and life after Hamilton. I don't remember the conversation or the circumstances, but I do remember you wryly asserting that, as the years went by, I might forget a lot of the philosophy that I had learned, even including the ontological proof of the existence of God. Well, of course you were right (except about the proof). But something I have never forgotten was the writing of my senior philosophy thesis in the spring of 1965. I mentioned this to you at reunion this past weekend. Here's the story.

I was a tad late getting started on it, having dithered overlong about the subject matter. But by the time of spring break came in March I had settled on a topic ("Meaning and Religious Language"), and I was making progress on basic research, reading, taking and organizing notes. A choir trip went off during the last few days of classes, extending a day or two into spring vacation. I planned to stay on campus, camping out at the TKE house, to continue work on the paper.

At this point I thought that the paper was due on a date two-plus weeks following the end of the spring break.

A few days into break week I decided that I was far enough along--notes, bookmarked pages, reference list, preliminary thoughts about structure, etc.--to be able to take a couple days off and pay a visit home. Again, the operating assumption was that the deadline was over two weeks away. I had ample time.

Returning to Hamilton a few days later, I was settling into my room in Carnegie when I ran into Tim Fanning, another senior philosophy major, as you may remember. He asked if I was finished with the thesis. This sent a little shiver up my spine, but I responded by saying, no, mine wasn't due for another couple weeks. Of course, this precipitated a visit in your office (basement of Dunham?) first thing the next morning.

That conversation went like a trailer for a bad dream. Yes, you said, all the papers --certainly including mine--were due the next day. We had a brief talk about whether you had inadvertently gave me the wrong date months earlier, but as I recall this conversation you were not prepared to take personal responsibility for any misunderstanding about this. The deadline was settled policy, uniformly applicable. The problem was mine.

And, of course, it was a rather serious problem because, as everybody knew at the time, for each day the thesis was late, the record grade would be docked one entire grade level below the nominal grade.

You gave me two choices: I could petition the dean and request a waiver of the deadline, or I could just start writing.

I took a walk around the campus. Although I was tempted by a line of defense that relied on blaming you, it didn't take me too long to decide that the better view was that the mistake and problem were mine and that I was responsible for them both. Also, I decided that I didn't have much stomach for begging the dean for mercy, particularly when all of the other philosophy majors had managed to get the date right. And on a different level, I expect that there was a competitive part of me that was sort of curious about how fast a long paper could be written under desperate circumstances. So I returned to your office to take my medicine.

We discussed the ground rules. In particular, you made it plain that there would be no mercy on the deadline. The rule would be enforced. And I calculated that, somehow, I could write the entire paper, or at least some abbreviated version of it, in however much time was left before the deduction went from one grade level to two.

But then--and this is how I got to know Betty and one reason why I remember this whole business so vividly--you sweetened the deal. You said that you had an empty bedroom/study in your home and that if I needed a quiet place to concentrate and work, I was welcome to it. And, you would supply the coffee. I said yes.

I then went off to take a Spanish exam that morning. Following that, I boxed up all my materials and reference books and arrived at your house sometime late morning, ready to begin the battle. I sorted through all the reference materials, tossing under the bed anything that I had not read and annotated. Then I simply started writing.

I wrote all that afternoon, all night and all the next day. This was long before word processors, or even correcting typewriters, so there were bundles of hand-written yellow pages dispersed for typing to various volunteers, returning in draft form for review. I'm sure that Betty must have fed me at some point, but it is the coffee that I remember.

Fueled by adrenalin and all that caffeine, I was really flying. I remember feeling like whole paragraphs would blink into my head, and my hand just wrote them down.

At some point during that next day I really began to watch the clock. I needed to maximize that amount of time actually composing the paper, while leaving enough time to manage the footnotes, proofreading and other logistics at the end. I don't remember now the actual time of day that marked the deadline, although I do not believe that it was midnight. Maybe it was 5 p.m. But whatever the time of day, I made the deadline, handing over the completed, typed, 45-page thesis to you in your house a few minutes before the recorded grade would have clicked down another notch. Whatever proofreading and polishing was not then done, didn't get done.

You gave me a B+ reduced to C+. Undoubtedly, my college transcript says C+.

Actually, I've decided over the years that both grades mean something to me. I was proud of the B+, given the way the paper was composed. Although the thought of that C+ sitting there in my academic record embarrasses me, I have always felt reasonably content with my decision to proceed with the paper rather than appealing for clemency on the deadline. It seemed then like the right thing to do. Still does.

But even more important to me then, and now, was your personal note to me, hand-written on college stationary in your unmistakable, flowing script. I've had it in a file ever since, and a photocopy is attached.

So there is the story.

If you recall any of this, I would be delighted. But if you do not, I am not surprised. I'm confident that many, probably most, of your former students treasure a favorite moment with you, unforgettable to them but for you simply one of thousands of encounters during which you were simply being yourself.

To you, and to Betty, thanks.

Douglas Hyde '65

Dear Doug,

I attach herewith the first copy of your thesis. It is a good job. Considering the circumstances of its final composition, it is an excellent job.

I have made some detailed comments in the text. In general, I still wonder about the verifiability theory of meaning. But I admire your openness to mysticism and your unwillingness to discard old theories out of hand.

Perhaps it is not relevant, but I want to record my admiration for the way you undertook what most others would have considered a hopeless task. My family is still talking about those remarkable two days. It was a shame to present you with such a puzzle; it was a pleasure to see the way you handled it.

You have my best wishes for law school and the future and my congratulations for a job well-done.

Cordially,

Russell Blackwood