by Mark Shreve ’04
On a warm afternoon last fall, Professor of Speech Emeritus Vic Powell and I shared a couple of Cokes and a plate of sugar cookies in his basement study. It’s a room with the old newspaper and magazine smell of most grandparents’ basements, but the walls are lined with reminders of people and ideas that have inspired Vic, and those he has inspired.
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Joe Barnette '61, chairman of the Board of Trustees talks with Vic Powell during the Celebration of Student Research and Creative Work
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There are photographs from vacations out West with Wabash President Lew Salter’s family, and of Norwood Brigance, the man who brought him to Wabash; books on Lincoln, American history, ancient rhetoric, and mountain men and the fur trade; African art pieces from students, friends, and colleagues; a lacquered “‘I am not a crook,’ Nixon says” headline from the Indianapolis Star; and various souvenirs from the St. Louis Cardinals.
One entire wall is covered with Wabash memorabilia: a framed citation from the faculty given him at his retirement in 1989, his Honorary Degree, his Honorary Alumnus certificate (he chose the class of 1955 because it was a class of “great debaters”), and his National Association of Wabash Men “Man of the Year” award.
I sat on a plaid couch asking questions and listening to Vic’s stories as he looked through an old file cabinet for the “typical Powell syllabus” I’d requested. He smiled as he read through the assignments. When I asked him why he kept his old teaching files, he replied, “I can’t bring myself to toss them. It’s like throwing away a piece of myself.”
This was only my second meeting with Vic, the “subject” of my biography for Professor Peter Frederick’s local history class, yet he shared his reflections as though we were old friends. I was already discovering why many here say that the College’s emeritus professors are an essential yet often underused resource for student learning. I was interviewing Vic to learn about his career and life, but as we talked, I found myself inspired—learning more about what matters in my own life and the responsibility one has to serve the community.
Three months later, when my classmates and I presented our projects, I discovered they had also developed personal connections with their subjects.
Adam Pope told the class about observing “Yahweh” in front of Salter Hall packed with sophomores for a Cultures & Traditions lecture. He appreciated Hall Peebles’ passion and enthusiasm much more than he had as a sophomore.
Matt Abid spoke about the tour he was given of Professor Bernie Manker’s home, where Manker showed Matt his paintings and revealed an artistic talent Matt had not expected of the man he had been studying.
Ben Scanlon knew that he and Professor Ed McLean were politically polar opposites, yet he jumped at the chance to write McLean’s biography, gaining even more respect for the teacher’s integrity. He discovered a common bond with McLean—they were both considered by many to be on “the periphery of the academy.”
In his junior year, Hank Leach had been a “feckless” student in John Fischer’s Latin class. Now he was writing a biography of one of the most respected professors on campus. “He struck me as the type of man every student claims to want to be, but does not have the energy, ethic, or drive to become,” wrote Leach.
Football team captain Nick Dawson, no stranger to the Allen Athletic Center, hadn’t been to a swim meet in his four years at Wabash until he was faced with writing a biography of coaching legend Gail Pebworth. So at one Friday evening meet, he found a seat next to Pebworth, and she welcomed his questions. His work on Pebworth reflects not only on her success as a coach, but as an influence on other women, students, colleagues, and community members.
Dawson, myself, and our classmates found that there was much more to these “legends” than their classroom reputations.
I quickly learned that Vic Powell was a modest man. To find out more about him, I called upon former students, colleagues, and most importantly, his daughters, to get to the personal “essence” of Vic Powell. Carol and Karen have fond memories of growing up as professor’s daughters. But they also shared stories of their father’s stubborn political nature and his occasional doubts about his attentiveness as a father.
Most surprising to me, though, was the Powells’ hospitality. They made me feel almost as one of the family. After I finished the biography, I was invited to dinner with Carol and her husband at Vic and Marion’s Market Street home. I sat alone on one side of the table while the rest of the Powell family remembered stories, asked about my background, and even questioned my political views.
Towards the end of the dinner, Vic left the table and returned with a small monkey figurine that possessed some family history. He asked me about the artistic value it held.
My answer was honest but bold: “Art is subjective, but that’s ugly,”
Vic and his family roared with laughter—and agreement.
The rapid-fire inquiries were good practice for my oral comprehensives that following Monday. Even better, these were the sorts of conversations I’d heard about in Vic’s stories.
Like all emeritus professors, Vic Powell’s role has changed since he left the classroom 15 years ago. Though he’s glad to have blue books and grading behind him, he misses the classroom setting and the days when he could walk across the mall and know the names and faces of most of the students.
I got a taste of those days when Vic accepted my invitation to my presentation of the class’s biographies at the Celebration of Student Research and Creative Work in January. Trustees and alumni swarmed to our table, as did current students and faculty members. Occasionally someone would pick up one of the biographies on display and flip through it. But most were there to speak and listen to Vic.
I watched from a few steps back as he visited with “guests,” speaking as though making a point in class—eyes open wide, face close to his listener, and hands waving in the air to emphasize his words.
At that moment, our presentation became less about the research of nine budding historians, and more the living connections professors like Vic Powell have created and continue to nurture at Wabash. I’ll graduate from Wabash this spring, but I’ll take this experience—and those connections—with me, wherever I go.
Contact Mark Shreve at: shrevem@wabash.edu
