When I arrived at Wabash College in the autumn of 1983, I was not unlike many of my classmates. I had a plan to major in biology and to be “pre-med.”
Though I had visited campus many times before enrolling, I knew little about the College. People were nice, the campus was well-kept, and the town seemed just right.
So while I had that plan, I didn’t have a clue about the liberal arts education I was about to receive or the people who would change my life.
The “pre-med” biology track lasted one semester. I soon discovered that the magic of Wabash is not in the poorly conceived plans of high school boys but in the new discoveries a school like Wabash provides.
Midway through that first semester, I realized that the men I respected in my fraternity didn’t talk much about their majors or even the titles of the classes they were taking.
They’d say, “You’ve got to take a Placher” or “Even if you don’t like religion, you have to take a Peebles or Dean.”
The wise men of Wabash took professors, not courses. They knew — as I would eventually come to know — that the subject matter is less important than the teachers who provide the instruction, and who develop in students critical thinking skills and the ability to process complex ideas and communicate them effectively.
I’d never dreamed of taking a religion class. But I enrolled in Hall Peebles’ Old Testament course. I wasn’t wild about taking speech courses, but I was told that Vic Powell and Joe O’Rourke were giants in their field and on campus.
I nearly majored in speech because of the legends in that department — Powell and O’Rourke. I wasn’t particularly intellectually curious about rhetorical theory and had never competed in debate tournaments. But those men were giants and they could coax out of young men passion for almost any topic.
They were clearly passionate about the role they played in the lives of the students, which in turn inspired in us a passion to pursue not just the course material, but the fullness of the liberal arts.
Over time, I chose to major in history because I enjoyed the work, though mostly because I loved the professors — Peter Frederick’s free-wheeling, engaging style; George Davis’ sharp, no-nonsense intellect; and Jim Barnes’ deep knowledge of history and his gentle, inviting approach in the classroom.
I never had a course with the great Eric Dean, but I made a point to attend chapel services when he preached and I spent four soggy days camping with him in the Smoky Mountains over fall break. I learned as much about life (and a life of the mind) drying out around campfires as I could have learned in a full semester — I’m sure of that.
I was not a particularly wise or bright student, but I learned quickly that Wabash is all about relationships — relationships between students and their professors. At its core, Wabash’s enterprise is about shaping young men and helping them become better than they ever imagined they could.
Melissa Butler had a role in my development, as did Brenda Bankart — though I don’t think I ever had Professor Bankart for a class.
At Wabash, students need not take classes from these giants on the faculty (though that certainly is important). Faculty at the College are present in the lives of all students — through colloquia, luncheon talks, committee work, supporting students in the arts and athletics, and attending student social events.
President Pat White likes to say he recruits faculty who are willing to “get up to their elbows in the lives of Wabash students.”
It’s always been that way. Wabash teachers have always been eager to engage their students in all aspects of their lives.
Vic Powell provides, perhaps, one of the greatest models of that engagement. Vic passed away last week about a month shy of his 92nd birthday. From 1947 until the time of his death, Vic Powell was present in the lives of the students of Wabash and to a great degree, he was present in the lives of the men he taught three, four, and five decades earlier.
He was a terrific teacher, campus leader, community servant, and took on difficult assignments when asked to do so.
He retired more than 20 years ago, but hardly a day passed that he didn’t walk to campus, pick up his newspaper, and have coffee at the Scarlet Inn. It was there that he caught up with old friends, mentored young faculty, told legendary stories, and inspired in current students a life of leadership and service.
Vic lived a long and wonderful life. While there is great sadness in his passing, the real sadness is that no more students will learn from him, hear his unique laugh, or be inspired to greatness by one of the truly great teachers of Wabash.
