In Memoriam & Appreciation

I’ve heard it said that one goal of writing is to process our thoughts and feelings, to help us make sense and order of what’s inside us. Today’s post is for me, a moment to mourn a loss and to celebrate a great gift. I wish I had better words to fulfill my quest.

I was just 17, dressed in a fancy-for-me skirt, matching blouse and shoes that hurt my feet.

My mom and I were in North Carolina for me to interview for a presidential scholarship at the college that would be my home for the next four years. I needed that scholarship to make the opportunity happen, but my shy Georgia-self was almost overwhelmed when I learned I’d be interviewing not just with three faculty members (like that wouldn’t have been scary enough!), but one of them was the chair of Communication Studies department.

I’d known for several years that I wanted to write for a newspaper, to model my career after a woman I’d seen on the Johnny Carson Show talking about the impact she’d had over her decades of covering her small Texas town. Her grit, humor and love for community had put stars in my eyes, and I’d set my heart on majoring in print journalism.

But this gray-haired, bearded fellow (with no mustache) had put together a different curriculum.

If I attended Gardner-Webb, I wouldn’t be majoring in traditional newspaper writing, but would be required to complete this evolving major that required four concentrations. Why would a girl who wanted to write for newspapers need training in radio, TV and photography? (Well, maybe the photography made sense to me even then!)

I’d read the literature and fallen in love with the school from afar, but now this interview was standing in my way. I’m sure we waded through the traditional waters of questions about dreams and my background, when finally the moment of truth came. The head of the department I so wanted to be part of peered at me through his glasses and asked, “What’s the first thing you read when you pick up a newspaper?”

My mouth went dry, and I blinked several times. My mind was racing with all the possible answers, but which one would earn me the most points? I’m guessing the conflict was plainly written on my face because a bemused voice added, “I’ll put my pen down way over here. Just tell me.”

He saw me for the people-pleaser I was in that moment and would spend the next four years trying to toughen me up always encouraging me to “not let the bad guys get you down.”

His lectures walked me through the Norman Invasion and birth of the English language in 1066 through the deep waters of Milton’s Paradise Lost and John Donne’s poetry, and onward to begin to plumb the depths of communication theory.

He taught me new ways to love the Lord with my mind as well as my heart and actions. Always, always requiring excellence and depth of thought.

And, oh, those deep questions followed me throughout those years. “What did I think of Dan Rather’s critical confrontation of President Bush (the first)?”

What did you think, sir, of the fact that kind of interaction is now more commonplace than not?

But, back to that first meeting. The pen – I’m guessing it was purple based on what I know now although I surely don’t remember that detail – was out of reach, and I drew in a deep breath and answered with the great sincerity of teenage honesty:

“What do I read first when I pick up a newspaper? Bloom County.”

Imagine my shock when immediately I heard another of the committee members exclaim as he jumped from his seat: “That’s it! That’s It! She gets all ten.”

Little did I know this professor’s office was practically wallpapered with Bloom County comics. But his exuberant response released the tension of the moment, and I saw a smile spread across the department chair’s face.

I only got one of the scholarships that day (not all ten), but equally valuable was the entry into the sphere of influence of this man – this Dr. Bill Stowe – who would become professor, newspaper advisor, mentor and friend. My four years of college, two majors (I added English and several of his classes there too to the mix), three-year career as a print journalist and nearly 30 years as a writer for higher education have all been built on the foundation of his teaching and influence.

I found out today that this world lost him a few days ago. But, oh, how thankful I am that he was here and that I had the privilege of learning from him. I hope I can make him proud.