FAVORITE MEMORIES OF WILLIAMS

Senior Math Seminar with Professor Guilford Spencer, two students sharing the teaching equally; Math independent study in celestial navigation with Prof. Spencer, star sights with a sextant on the roof of Bronfman using an artificial horizon mirror of molasses; Prof. Spencer’s gift of molasses brownies from his academic hood at Commencement march down Spring Street.
Fall Saturday soccer on Cole Field; football on Weston Field; Winter Carnival at Berlin Mountain, Coach Ralph Townsend; Winter Study; Oceanography; winter outdoors on Greylock.

WILLIAMS CLUBS / ACTIVITIES

Soccer, varsity, freshman; WOC, ski instructor, ski patrol, Winter Carnival; Williams Record, sports reporter/writer; cheerleader, Purple Cow (udder end); Phi Beta Kappa; soccer coach, Pine Cobble School; Big Brothers/Big Sisters; Purple Key

CURRENT INTERESTS, PASSIONS, AND ORGANIZATIONS

Alpine and Nordic skiing; sailing; boating/fishing; biking; golf and racquet sports; volunteering for New England Association of Schools and Colleges; Commission for Independent Schools

LIFE SINCE GRADUATION

I guess I measure my life, most of all, in the marvel, challenge, and joy of family, kids, and grandkids: their happiness in adulthood (our kids); starting their own education, social growth, and learning to ski and sail (grandkids). For both Marcia and me, our real “wealth” is measured in the individuals for whom we’ve made a difference in their learning and confidence: students we’ve taught, coached, and advised; young teachers who’ve grown into leadership and impact on kids, as school leaders; and school leaders who bring their inspiration and direction to schools and more students.

After graduation in ’72, I started at Holderness School in N.H. as a rookie math teacher, coach, advisor to students, and dorm parent. Nine years later, with Marcia and our young son, we left the teaching world and N.H. to begin a career in the cable-TV industry: 13 years of entrepreneurial management and executive responsibilities and life in suburban Massachusetts. When cable became more corporate, regulated, and ruled by stock-price decisions, Marcia reminded me that my real dream was to be a head of a school. Turns out that management, finance, and public relations were more relevant to the demands of a school head than long training in academia—with the caveat that without some recent currency in school involvement, no school would consider me. Next stop: director of development at Salisbury School in northwest Conn., uprooting our family, now three middle-school-aged kids, from their school and friends, to start a new experience in independent schools. Dick Flood ’57 offered me the job to lead a major fund-raising campaign and build the school’s visibility and facilities. In 2001, my seventh year at Salisbury, I was named head of school at Hebron Academy in Hebron, Me. Marcia and I were struck by the student-centered, caring involvement in each individual’s learning, challenges, and emotional growth that so matched our own interests and beliefs. Hebron was, and is, a school where kids who need support, encouragement, and help are welcome and grow. We retired in 2016, with more than 1200 students graduated and off to colleges, lives, and careers; scores of young teachers who have learned to be mentors and inspirations and who have taken on responsibilities at other schools; and many good friends and colleagues. Along the way I became involved as chair of the Commission for Independent Schools and board member of the New England Association of Schools and Colleges, supporting and accrediting elementary, middle, and high schools. That volunteer role in “retirement” keeps me engaged, as does my small mentoring and placement service, Plan A Head, where I support, interview, and coach aspiring teachers to find opportunities in schools. The name of my boat, which I use for fishing, getting around Nantucket Sound, and beach and island excursions with grandkids and family, is Senior Moment . . . Um.

A humbling Williams Fish story (thank goodness): Dec. 1, 1969, the night of the draft lottery: My roommate, Tom Fisher, had the only TV on our floor in East College, so we hosted a draft-watch party. Tom was a quiet, friendly, low-key guy who had gotten a great number in the room draw, so we had a big end room. I had to attend a ski-patrol training meeting, so I asked Tom to keep track of my birthday in the lottery. When I got back to the dorm, I could hear plenty of party sounds from the room. As I walked in, the gang went silent; no one would look at me. Tom soberly told me he had bad news: my birthday had been drawn at number 10. Stunned, I collapsed into a chair in the corner, head in my hands, wondering what I would have to do: Drop out? Enlist? Canada? Just as I reached for the phone to call my parents, I caught the TV announcer saying, “Number 239 . . . March 20,” followed immediately by the hoots of my mild-mannered roomie and the rest of the crowd in the room. “Fish” caught me—hook, line, and sinker. I couldn’t even get mad, because my relief was so immense. Sadly, Tom passed away much too young, so I won’t see him at our reunion to tell him how well he “got my number!”