Where There’s a Will

When William B. Provine died earlier this year, I lost my last mentor. Since I’m 61 years old, I shouldn’t complain. But I can mourn, which is just what I was doing on a Sunday morning a few weeks ago when I walked to the beach in Delray to go for a long swim in the ocean.

Will Provine, as everyone knew him, was one of the most popular professors at Cornell when I arrived to begin my doctoral work in sociology in 1977. His lectures were engaging and overflowing. Back then, he was a rising young star on his way to becoming a full professor, soon to earn two appointments, one in history and the other in science.

That suited Will perfectly, since he was an expert in the history of evolution—or rather, the idea of evolution as it itself evolved in the minds of scientists. To aid his research, he sought out, and often purchased, entire libraries of eminent evolutionists so that he could turn every page of their personal copies of scientific articles and books on the hunt for marginalia that would provide clues to their thinking. He wrote scholarly articles on his findings as he traced what one scientist really thought of another’s work, and how he or she had been influenced by it.

I remember waiting outside his office on a wooden bench, along with two or three other students. When finally it was my turn to enter, I had a hard time remembering what I wanted to say because I couldn’t stop staring at the thousands of books lining the walls. Beautiful books, too, the kind they rarely make anymore, with tooled leather bindings and gold-leafed edges. But Will’s broad smile and questions brought me back to my senses. “So what do you want to study, Steve? And how can I help?”

Will was an unusual choice for my dissertation advisor, coming as I did from the sociology department. And I’m not exactly sure why I so badly wanted him to advise me. But I loved his playful, inquiring spirit. He was smitten with the love of finding things out. It was a game he played and invited his students to join.

He challenged but encouraged. He would question me and then toss me part of an answer, but never all of it. It was for me to find a way to the answers if I could.

Evolution of a friendship

After I finished my degree and left campus, we fell out of touch, but we reconnected some 10 years ago when I took my own sons to Cornell for a tour. In his office again, I witnessed my old professor engaging my own children. They had budding interests in history and science, and so he gave each of them one of his beautiful Victorian books that he inscribed for them. Watching my mentor teach my children sent a shiver through me, and I reached for Lori’s hand, who was with us to witness the moment. Will’s big smile was the same as I remembered, undiminished by the tumor that had been removed from his brain.

We stayed in touch after that. One year ago Will finally finished a book on genetic drift that he considered one of his crowning achievements. Since he knew I had some connections in publishing, he wondered if I might help get the word out. I sent it to my friend at Scientific American, to a high school buddy who is now a geneticist for the government, and to an eminent historian of science at Harvard, someone I’ve learned of while doing a fellowship here.

Coming home at the end of September to my temporary quarters in Cambridge after being away for two weeks, I found a fat envelope sticking out of my mailbox. It contained another copy of Will’s book together with a glowing review that Will had printed out for me. His only note was his business card.

Later that day that I opened my computer to see the notice from his wife. Will had passed.

Beach requiem

It is a week later when Lori and I are home in Florida and I am walking to the beach for my swim. I’ve been holding off thinking about Will’s passing. Now I will have my own service for him as I swim through the warm water, seeing the lovely blues through my goggles, hearing the water rush past my ears, feeling the waves gently rock me, as if in a cradle. Can I find a bit of Will’s spirit and say thank you? I hope to find a way.

As I walk in the sand through the sea grape hedges that border the beach, I see a Frisbee sail by, followed by a boy about 10 years old. As I come out in the open of the wide beach, I count a dozen or so discs on the beach that he has thrown at a target he made from a stick.

It is still early and there are few people on the beach, but beyond the boy is a woman sitting on the sand who I infer to be his mother, and beside her, a girl somewhat younger than the boy.

Deciding I can postpone my swim for a few minutes, I walk up to the lad and say, “Do you want to play?”

“Yes!” he says eagerly. And so we begin tossing one of his discs back and forth. He is good for such a young guy, and I know he appreciates that I can get it right to him, or make him run just a little, this way and that.

“What else do you like to do besides play catch?” I ask.

“Oh, I like to make targets and try to hit them.”

And so we play Frisbee golf, choosing targets among the Hobie Cats and recycling bins. We run to our discs for the fun of it.

At one point I run close to his mother. “Thanks for playing with him,” she says. I say something about how I am the one to thank him.

I ask the boy if he knows how to spin a disc on his finger. He does not, so I show him how to practice it, handing him a spinning disc from my forefinger to his.

Finally, I see his mother and sister packing up to leave, and so I walk up to him to say goodbye.

“Thanks for playing,” I say, extending my hand. “What’s your name?”

The boy takes my hand, smiles broadly and says, “Will.”

I am mute.

I regain myself enough to continue shaking his small hand and finally say, “Nice to meet you, Will. I’m Steve.”

We say goodbye. I exchange waves with his mom, and slowly walk into the sea.

 

Comments

[Corey Blake]

Steve,

Thank you for inviting me into these personal moments. Getting to see your mentor teach your children, and then to be in the sand with you as you played Frisbee with the young man only to feel the spirit of your mentor before your eyes... I am so moved. You have invited me to think fondly upon a mentor of my own, a professor by the name of Graham Provan who loved his students more than I had previously seen possible, or have felt since. Most other students called him a monster because he was the toughest old SOB at our university. But I experienced him as all love, the beautiful kind of love that demanded we start exactly on time. The kind of love that gave me more work than I thought I could handle, only to prove to myself I was capable of more than I believed. The kind of love that taught me to show up over-prepared to avoid the embarrassment of being publicly called out. He was brutal, and I never felt so cared for by a teacher.

He also introduced me to author Leon Uris, whose books became a love affair in my life and shaped so much of what I've built in a storytelling company.

I am grateful for your vulnerability, and for your invitation into a precious series of moments that invite me back into my own life. Thank you, my friend. You are a gift.

With love,
Corey

[Elizabeth H. Cottrell]

Oh my goodness, Steve...what a fascinating and poignant piece. I wish I had known your Will, but people like that, I believe, enrich us all. You have inherited many of his wonderful traits of intellectual curiosity and generosity in sharing.

[Cassandra Belgrave]

What a fabulous story...Steve: "Psalm 23: 4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me"...Be comforted...Genetic Drift...I remember something about that and Pennsylvania Dutch from freshmen year Zoology class back in 1969...

[Gay Kenney Browne]

Steve,
You are a wonderful writer! Though serendipity inspired, the way you wove the past, present and future memories of Will's life into an ordinary but poignant moment by the sea (a classic literary metaphor) is brilliant! What I want to know is, what stirred inside of you that caused you to postpone the swim? Was it for the love of finding things out? Or was it just to be playful? Did the sight of a flying Frisbee tug at your heart the same way people try to catch moments as they sail through life? Thank you for sharing this story. It gave me a moment of cherished reflection about the magic of life and stirred fond memories of my visit with you and Lori on that very same beach last May. Love, Gay

[Gail Provine]

Steve, thank you for that beautiful piece.That would have made Will very happy. He spoke of you with great affection and pride. Just a few notes about your piece:

- Will sent out that glowing review as his final act to promote his book. By then he had lost his ability to speak.

- Will enjoyed playing Frisbee, and was quite skilled at it. He always kept one in the back of his car.

- That picture is classic Will, and brings tears to my eyes.

Thank you for bringing him to life.

[Angela Rojas]

Hola Steve, gracias por compartir tan hermosa historia . Siempre hay gente con mucha pasión por lo que hacen, personas como tú a quien admiro y respeto profundamente. Personas que dejan una huella en tu vida y serán recordadas por siempre, como lo fue tu consejero. A esas personas talvez se le pueden llamar Ángeles, que nos animan a evaluar nuestra capacidad y mucho más. En la vida nos pasan cosas que como yo digo, no son coincidencias sino Dioscidencias y creería que eso fue lo que te pasó en la playa con el niño. Dios te regalo la oportunidad de despedirte de tu consejero atravez de ese chiquillo, creo que fue un ángel.
Con cariño, tu profesora de Español

[Steve Leveen]

Dear Gay,

Thank you for your kind praise of my writing. This is one of those cases, however, when the story told itself, or at least wanted to. I was something of an intermediary. As for why I postponed my swim, I dearly love Frisbee and never get enough time to play. I love any kind of playing catch, actually. It is a marvelous form of human cooperation, when you think of it. Frisbee still has something of the magic in it of an object that seems to defy gravity. Anyway, that's the simple answer. When Gail Provine, Will's widow, writes above how much Will loved Frisbee and was skilled at it, that makes me die a little. If only I had known! I so wish we had played. But maybe, after all, we did.
Hug you soon around campus,
Steve

[Steve Leveen]

Gracias Angie,

Tus palabras son un cálido abrazo. Me encanta tu frase, Dios te regalo la oportunidad de despedirte de tu consejero atravez de ese chiquillo. Creo que es verdad. Tu estudiante lento pero fieles, Steve

Thanks Angie,

Your words are a warm embrace. I love your line, God gave you the chance to say goodbye to your mentor right through that child. I think that's true. Your slow but faithful student, Steve

[Al Merritt]

Thank you, Steve, for sharing yourself and waking in me that spirit of mystery always so close at hand, yet so difficult to grasp. Yes, of course his name is Will...what else...

Yesterday I drove to Orlando from Miami with a friend to visit our mentor, whom we have been saying for months we would go see because he has been ill. We finally scheduled the trip and had driven halfway when we received a call from his daughter. "Don't come. Dad took a turn for the worse and is not getting out of bed. Hospice is here." Wow. Why did we wait three months to visit our friend? We pleaded with her to allow us to come anyway and just sit and pray by his side, and through tears she consented. Two hours later we walked into his kitchen, the kind untouched for 50 years, with octogenarians living in their original married home. Bob, sitting in a wheelchair, smiled at us, and spent the next two and a half hours visiting with us. Wow! His daughters, son, and wife said he rallied for us. What a beautiful last gift from this great man. We prayed with him, and through our tears left for the long drive back to South Florida, knowing we had said goodbye to our dear mentor. He made us promise we would return before we left, and we did.

Thank you, my friend Steve. Al Merritt

[Steve Leveen]

Dear Al,

What a lovely story about your mentor and your important last visit. He not only gave you a great gift, but you gave him a gift he so appreciated at the end. I admire your spirit and am honored to be your friend.

S

[Ray Penn]

As a professor who has retired after more than three decades of teaching I am touched by your tribute to your favorite professor. I once paid a similar tribute to one of my seminary professors in a church newsletter. A week later I received a postcard with two sentences from him: "arid the soil; useless the seed. Never forget you were willing soil." He was able to be a good teacher because you were a willing student. Education is a dance and too many students don't want to dance.

What pains me most in my decades of teaching is the loss of curiosity somewhere during the transition from elementary school to high school. After that anything that is difficult is interpreted as being boring. Then there are the grade grubbers who will technically qualify for an "A" but really are neither curious nor actually alive in the moment. They are living in graduate school thinking that a perfect 4.0 means that they are ready for that challenge. Give me the "B" student who is curious and who risks being wrong about things any day.

After teaching over 5,000 student I have to admit that I have found only about 20 who were really curious. Steve, you were as much a blessing to your professor as he was to you. I see my students as arrows shot into a land I can never enter called the future. You are an arrow that landed in the bullseye.

It is my belief that just as energy cannot be created or destroyed so neither can consciousness be created by the brain nor ever be destroyed. I believe your tribute is sensed and enjoyed by your professor. What a blessing you have given to him.

[Shari Elessar]

I was lucky enough to attend Will's seminar called History of Science in 1986. That one class (and working with Will, who was my thesis advisor) was worth more to me than any class I took at Cornell. I was the one who nominated him for the Clark's distinguished teaching award, which he deservedly won. Even though I did not keep in touch, I feel his passing is a loss to humanity.