Category Archives: Education

A Eulogistic Tribute to Alderson-Broaddus University

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Legacy is not leaving something for people.
It’s leaving something in people. 

–Peter Strople (b. 1958. motivational speaker, author, and entrepreneur.

Sometimes, significant historical moments are not known, valued, and understood until time has passed, and future generations look back, reflect, and measure.

Consider, for example, the founding of Massachusetts Bay Colony (1630). More specifically, think about April 8, 1630, when 140 or so Puritans left England on the Arbella, the flagship of the fleet led by John Winthrop, as they sailed away to the New World, seeking religious freedom and hoping for a new life. To be certain, they sailed forth with a clear mission: to establish a colony within the area of New England, “being in the bottom of a certain bay there, commonly called Massachusetts, alias Massachusetts Bay.”

To their chartered mission, Winthrop added a much-needed vision, articulated with great clarity in his sermon, “A Model of Christian Charity,” delivered to the ship’s passengers. In his sermon, he emphasized the principles of Christian charity as well as the importance of unity, selflessness, and community in their endeavor. One passage from the sermon is quoted often:

“The Lord will be our God, and delight to dwell among us, as his own people, and will command a blessing upon us in all our ways. So that we shall see much more of his wisdom, power, goodness and truth, than formerly we have been acquainted with. We shall find that the God of Israel is among us, when ten of us shall be able to resist a thousand of our enemies; when he shall make us a praise and glory that men shall say of succeeding plantations, ‘the Lord make it likely that of New England.’ For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill.” [bold emphasis supplied]

Today, as I look back upon the voyage of those early pioneers and Winthrop’s powerful vision, I am impressed by a profound symbol: “a city upon a hill,” a beacon of hope and light.

Today, in my mind’s eye, I turn my gaze to a different “city upon on a hill,” one that will always stand as a testament to the enduring pursuit of knowledge, character, and community. The city is in West Virginia. There on a hilltop, above the Tygart River and above the town of Philippi–I see Alderson-Broaddus University, whose spirit and pride are commemorated in song:

Far above the winding Tygart
With its banks of green
Stands our noble Alma Mater
Fairest ever seen.

Swell the chorus!
Let it echo
Over hill and dale;
Hail to thee, our Alma Mater,
Alderson-Broaddus, hail.

In our home among the mountains,
With our little town
May we ne’er forget the memories
That still gather ‘round.

Swell the chorus!
Let it echo
Over hill and dale;
Hail to thee, our Alma Mater,
Alderson-Broaddus, hail.

Alderson-Broaddus–a shining “city upon a hill”–boasts a rich Christian heritage cherished by generations of students, faculty, and staff.

Initially, however, it was not located upon a hill. It traces its roots back to 1871 when Reverend Edward J. Willis, a Baptist minister, founded Winchester Female Institute in Winchester, VA. In 1875, the institution was renamed Broaddus Female College in honor of Reverend William F. Broaddus. In the following year, it relocated to Clarksburg, West Virginia.

In 1893, the institution embraced co-education and underwent another name change, becoming Broaddus Scientific and Classical Institute. In 1909, it moved once more, this time to Philippi. Other changes followed. Notably, in 1917, college-level classes were introduced, leading to a new name: Broaddus College and Academy. By 1926, the institution had expanded its offerings to include four-year degree programs. Following the challenges of the Great Depression, the Baptist Conference (sponsor of both Broaddus College and Alderson-Junior College in Alderson, WV) made a significant decision to merge the two institutions in 1932, giving rise to Alderson-Broaddus College.

Just as Massachusetts Bay Colony was a “city upon a hill” to Colonial Americans and their families who remained behind in England, so, too, Alderson-Broaddus College was the college on a hill, a beacon of light and hope to all of its students and their families from all over the United States and, eventually, from countries all around the world.

It became a beacon of hope and light for me in 1965 when I was a senior in high school, beginning my college search. I applied to the University of Richmond and to Marshall University (my first choices), as well as to Alderson-Broaddus College (my fallback choice). Ironically, Alderson-Broaddus offered me a scholarship package too attractive to resist, though I tried my best to do so. As if to convince myself that I would not pursue my education at my third choice, I decided to prove the point to myself by making a college visit.

I will always remember that summer day when we drove on campus and I caught a glimpse of Old Main, the college’s iconic, landmark building, constructed in 1909 as a four-story building with two wings. It was built of locally fired brick over locally quarried stone, paid for with monies raised by the citizens of Philippi.

I stood there on the hilltop plateau–in front of two canons on the site that marked the first land battle of the Civil War–looking below to the winding Tygart River spanned by a covered bridge and looking beyond the river to the little town of Philippi, seat of Barbour County.

As I stood there, beneath the expansive sky and surrounded by the serene beauty of the campus, a profound sense of peace and belonging washed over me. In that timeless moment, as the sun cast a warm glow upon the college upon a hill, I felt an undeniable connection. It was as if the very essence of the place whispered to my soul, assuring me that I had found my home.

Indeed, it was my home from the fall of 1965 until the fall of 1969 when I graduated cum laude with a Bachelor of Arts Degree, with a major in the Humanities and a concentration in English Literature. Just now, I nostalgically opened an envelope containing a copy of my transcript, released to me in February 1983. I had forgotten that I earned 125 semester-hour credits with a GPA of 3.48. I had forgotten that I passed my Comprehensive Examination with distinction. As I folded the transcript and returned it to its cacheted envelope, I noticed to the left of the postmark an affirmation (stamped in red, just as the words of Christ are printed in red-letter editions of the Bible) that captures with great power and brevity the guiding principle of Alderson-Broaddus:

A CHRISTIAN COLLEGE EXPERIENCE IS NOT EXPENSIVE–It Is Priceless!

I knew during my four years as a student at Alderson-Broaddus that I was being molded and shaped into the person that I was becoming. The transformation was taking place in every aspect of my being: intellectually, spiritually, socially, physically, psychologically, and even existentially.

Looking back–especially as an educator–I smile, saying to myself: “Of course. An education always transforms lives. Of course. At the heart of Alderson-Broaddus College were its faculty, administrators, staff, and students–always exemplifying the highest level of excellence.”

Looking at my freshman yearbook, The Battler, I see anew that the lives we lived on the Alderson-Broaddus campus were rich, robust, and celebratory. The “Foreword” touches my heart even today:

The spirit of A-B is many things–the beauty of our hilltop, the warmth of friendship among students and faculty, the tradition of Homecoming and May Weekends, the sportsmanship of athletic activities. But most of all, the spirit of Alderson-Broaddus is people, those of us who live and work and strive to reach the tomorrows of which we dream.

As I journey through the pages, pausing to look at all the photographs, memories come back as vividly and as alive as if I were reliving them now, all over again.

● Organizations. Student Government. Student Union Board. Men’s and Women’s Dorm Councils. Columns (newspaper) Staff. Battler Staff. WCAB (radio) Staff. Student Education Association. Student Religious Education Association (SREA). Kappa Delta Chi (KDX). Alpha Beta Nu (ABU). ZAG. Choir. Management Club. International Club. Megaphone Club. SMENC.

● Homecoming Weekend with the queen and her court as well as the student production of Jean Anouilh’s Antigone. Pageantry and parades and prizes.

● Faculty, Administration, and Resident Directors, all of whom I knew, several of whom mentored me as a Work-Study Student and as a Resident Hall Counselor, most of whom I had the privilege to study under in various divisions: Humanities, Business and Professional Studies, Natural Science, and Social Sciences.

● Students, by Class. Seniors. Juniors. Sophomores. Freshmen. So many of them, my friends, so close and so personal that they seemed like my very own brothers and sisters. Tucked in amongst the pages, an 8 x 11 glossy photo of me as a freshman standing proudly with my 32 fraternity brothers and our advisor, all of us wearing jackets and ties. We look as spiffy and smart now as I thought we did then.

● Sororities, Fraternities, and Clubs. Alpha Omega Delta. Chi Sigma Nu. Phi Kappa Delta. Epsilon Tau Eta Sigma. Lambda Omega Mu. Sigma Delta Nu. Circle K. Circle Ketts.

● Sports. Varsity Coaching Staff. Soccer. I-M Football. Basketball. Wrestling. Baseball. Softball. Ping-Pong.

● Activities. Freshman Week with Hazing, Capping, Talent Show, and Kangaroo Court. Sadie Hawkins Day. Crowning Miss Battler. Valentine Dance. Student production of The Fantasticks. SMENC sponsored Arts Series, featuring acclaimed pianist Bonnie Joenck, the Ballet Chafee Company, and The Bishop Players performing St. Joan. Christian Emphasis Week. May Day Royalty. Student production of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. Honors Convocation. Junior-Senior Banquet at Blackwater Falls. Senior Seminar. Alumni Banquet.

Aside from all of those yearbook highlights, something else looms in my mind larger than a giant. At the end of my first semester, I was waiting for the bus to take me back home. I had worked incredibly hard all semester, but deep down inside, I was feeling that perhaps I would not become the first in my family to go to college after all. I just wasn’t certain that I was college material. I had worked especially hard in my Honors English class, but I was even uneasy about its outcome. How’s that for a guy whose dream since the third grade had been to become an English professor? My honors English professor was well aware of my angst. As I waited for the bus, she drove by in her station wagon and stopped fast when she saw me there. She hopped out, gave me a hug, and told me that I had earned an “A” in the class. She did not care at all that she had been cleaning house and that she was at her disheveled worst. Her only concern was to share the good news with a more-than-anxious student. Little did she know—though, afterwards I made a point of telling her—that when she stopped that day to share the good news, she kept me (the son of a West Virginia coal miner and his wife, a fundamentalist preacher) from becoming a college dropout.

Several other moments loom large in my memory, too. Aside from the strengths of its academics and activities, Alderson-Broaddus required two off-campus experiences. I had the option of studying in Austria or in Mexico, but I chose to take another path by pursuing two internships, both in Washington, DC. I had never lived in a city before, and I was convinced that our Nation’s capital was calling me. My first internship was with the late Senator Robert F. Byrd (West Virginia). The second was in the Division of Two-Year Colleges at the former Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. As that internship came to an end, my supervisor suggested that the Library of Congress might be the perfect place for me to work as an editor. He was the one who nudged me to Capitol Hill to submit an employment application. Without his influence and without Senator Byrd’s recommendation, I would never have enjoyed my twenty-five-year career at the world’s premier research library.

After that career, I finally became the Professor of English that I had always wanted to be, teaching for twenty-three years at Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College) in Middletown, VA. My Ph.D. in American Literature gave me the necessary in-depth subject matter knowledge. Equally important, however, I tapped into a golden nugget that I had mined as an undergraduate at Alderson-Broaddus. It was something that I remembered from Gilbert Highet’s The Art of Teaching, a book that I read in one of my education classes:

Know your subject; Love your subject.

Know your students; Love your students.

Those lines became the cornerstone of my teaching philosophy. The approach is a simple one, but it is honest and sincere, and my students respond affirmatively. It’s an approach that I owe to Highet specifically but to Alderson-Broaddus generally because of what I saw in the faculty there. In them, I saw traits that I believed effective educators should embody. They were student-centered and celebrated student successes. They were passionate about their disciplines. They never hesitated to be academically rigorous and to raise the bar high. They were effective communicators and listeners. I came to realize ultimately that although they might not have talked about Highet, they had impressed me because of their knowledge and love, of subject and student. I wanted to be like them. It is little wonder that Highet struck a chord in me.

Clearly, Alderson-Broaddus was a major influence in my life. Clearly, I am grateful for my four years being a part of that “city upon a hill,” my beacon of hope and light.

I take great pride in sharing my story of how Alderson-Broaddus touched me, transformed me, and helped make me who I am today. At the same time, I am joyed in knowing that similar stories could be told by every student who had the privilege of studying there, by every student who went forth and pursued their own careers in their own respective walks of life, by every student who went forth into their corner of the world, prepared and poised to be change agents in others’ lives.

Alderson-Broaddus’ impact is so profound and so far reaching that when the university officially announced its closing, effective Friday, September 1, 2023, because it lacked sufficient income to remain open any longer, I wept not.

Without a doubt, a long and heavy sadness fell upon me. But it was washed away as I recalled my four years at my alma mater, my “city upon a hill,” far above the winding Tygart. It was washed away as I reflected on generations of lives changed because they chose Alderson-Broaddus. It was washed away as I reflected on all the dedicated faculty, administrators, and staff who served selfishly, tirelessly, and with commitment.

Alderson-Broaddus has closed its doors, and its history has come to an end. However, the legacy of transformation, knowledge, and unwavering commitment to excellence will live on in the hearts and minds of every student who had the privilege of studying there. The city upon a hill has dimmed its lights, but its beacon of hope will forever shine in the countless lives it has touched and the countless futures it has shaped.

The Final Cake

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Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes
the outmost—and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of
the Last Judgment.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON (1803-1882; AMERICAN ESSAYIST, POET, PHILOSOPHER, AND LEADER OF THE TRANSCENDENTAL MOVEMENT; from his seminal Transcendental essay  SELF-RELIANCE [1841])


Dayum! I just realized that the title of today’s post might lead you to believe that I’ve baked my last cake. Not to worry. I haven’t. I mean, after all, I’ve been stacking cakes for layers on end, and I have cakes to bake before I sleep and cakes to bake before I sleep. (Frost and I have our own thing going.)

Let me count the cakes. (Barrett–Elizabeth, not Robert–and I have our own thing going, too.) I’m thinking something like around the world in 80 cakes. (Well, dayum again. It looks as if movies and I have our own thing going. Maybe I have my own thing going with everything. No doubt. I do.)

But imagine that. Baking 80 cakes from around the world. Well. I have never, not yet at any rate. But I wonder: will I be the first? BRB.

Well, triple dayum. Every time that I have a brilliant idea, someone goes and steals it from me–right here in plain sight for everyone to see–and manages to get away with it years before I even manage to speak up and declare it in my post.

Yep. You read it right. Famed pastry chef Claire Clark has already done it: 80 Cakes from Around the World. 6 continents, 52 countries. What adventures. What delights.

OMG! I just had another brilliant idea! Forget my idea of around the world in 80 cakes. Well, actually, we can’t forget it, can we? It’s published as a book already, enjoying life everlasting to its fullest.

Fine. Since Clark’s book focuses on countries, here’s another idea. I will remove that which defines countries as countries. I’ll take away all the borders. Is that a stroke of genius or what? Then I can bake what I want to bake and not be boxed in. BRB. I have to go Google.

Well. Dayum nearly flew out of my mouth again, but I’m getting tired of saying dayum because I’ve said dayum three times already. So, dammit. I Googled, and, once again, someone stole my idea even before I had a chance to speak up and declare it here in my post.

Yep. You read it right. Jennifer Rao has poured the batter already and is baking it up as eBooks. Cakes without Borders. Volume 1: The Maiden Voyage. And she’s added another layer. Cakes without Borders Volume 2: The Journey Continues.

Fine. No problem. Since the baking borders are gone, let’s call it like it is. One World. How’s that for a simple-syrup solution? I’ll bake up One World Cakes. Forget cakes without borders. BRB. I have to go Google again.

Well, as I live and breathe. I have been duped again. What I found was not a perfect match, but it was close enough in spirit and intent that my conscience would never ever let me move ahead with what I know would become my One World Cakes empire. I can’t because Oksana Greer started her One World Cafe in 2007.

Well, I’ve gotten over the repeated theft of my ideas before I even had the chance to speak up and declare them, but now “one world” is floating around in my head. We are, you know, One World. More and more every day. One world.

But if you had asked me when peopled started talking about one world and the heightened responsibilities that we face as one world, I would have credited Pearl S. Buck, who alluded to one world in her 1950s essay “Roll Away the Stone,” contributed to NPR as part of its “This I Believe” program:

I take heart in a promising fact that the world contains food supplies sufficient for the entire earth population. Our knowledge of medical science is already sufficient to improve the health of the whole human race. Our resources and education, if administered on a world scale, can lift the intelligence of the race. All that remains is to discover how to administer upon a world scale, the benefits which some of us already have. In other words, to return to my simile, the stone must be rolled away.

But I’m glad that you didn’t ask, because I would have been wrong. Buck was not the first. Credit for the first use of one world goes all the way back to 1919:

The English idealists have followed Hegel rather than Fichte … in striving for a one-world theory, for seeing ideal values realized in the actual (Political Science Quarterly, 34: 610).

Gracious me. Have I gotten side stacked or what? If I keep this up, my post might well compete with a Smith Island Cake. Please tell me that you know about this famous cake from Smith Island, Maryland. Say whaaaat? You don’t. Well, let me take just another crumb or two to bring you into the cake know. The Smith Island Cake has been honored a mighty stack of times for the defining role that it has played in American culture. It is a super-sweet confection, consisting of at least seven thin layers with cooked fudge icing between the layers and on top. The side of the cake is often left unfrosted. (I made one once with 15 layers. Talk about a show-stopper.) Give yourself the baking challenge. Here’s Mrs. Kitching’s Original Smith Island Cake. Or, if you prefer, buy one online: Smith Island Baking Company.

Enough of Smith Island Cakes. Enough of one world and one world cakes. Enough of cakes without borders. Enough of around the world in 80 cakes. Enough of my nonsense.

It suits me just fine to let it all go. Enough is enough is enough. Besides, those who know me well know that I have baked the good bake and that I will continue to do so (The Bible and I have our own thing going, too.)

I suppose, then, that the best thing for me to do is stop salivating over the gazillion cakes that I have yet to bake and start putting the frosting on the final cake that I baked, the one that got me going with this post.

Let me tell you all about it. I promise: I’ll make it no more than a three-layer cake.

During my twenty-three years at Laurel Ridge Community College (formerly Lord Fairfax Community College), I always baked cakes for my classes, especially my Creative Writing classes. They were smaller than my other classes. Plus, I usually met with Creative Writing classes on Fridays. Bringing cake seemed perfect for a three-hour class like that.

Baking for my classes became a standard. If it was a Kendrick class, there would be Kendrick cakes. Word traveled fast. Once I walked into class on the first day and discovered that one of my students had written on the board:

We heard there would be cake.

Is that sweet or what?

I continued baking for my students throughout my teaching career, all the way through Fall 2022, my final semester as a full-time professor at Laurel Ridge. However, that semester I treated my students, week by week, to various types of sourdough muffins.

As I prepared for our final class–which turned out to be my final class, too–I had in mind my usual: celebrate my students and their writing successes.

Muffins didn’t do it for me. It just had to be a cake. I had many of my favorites lined up as possibilities, but it seemed to me that my students should get to choose.

So, for our final class, I’m baking a cake to celebrate. And here’s the deal. You get to decide what kind of cake. What would you like? Just name it. You’ll get it.

Silence fell over the very same room that I sometimes thought could never be silent.

But I learned decades ago that the best way of breaking classroom silence is to remain silent.

It always works. After a minute of silence that felt as long as a semester, one student spoke up:

German Chocolate.

Robbie, thank you very much. German Chocolate it shall be.

I was silent for a moment, pondering why Robbie was the only one bold enough to speak up and declare a preference. The others sat there as if they could not speak. The others sat there, as if they had no preferences whatsoever. I knew otherwise and started laughing a little, as I started asking why no one else spoke up. Typical responses followed:

● Social anxiety

● Didn’t know what others might think.

● Fear of being wrong.

(Hello. How can you go wrong with cake?)

● Wanted to hear what others had to say.

But here’s the thing, and it’s rather ironic. When I walked into class and asked my students what kind of celebratory cake they would like, I stood there before them ready to honor whatever they wanted.

It could have been my 15-layer Smith Island Cake. It could have been a Lady Fingers Cake–Торт “Дамские Пальчики”–from One World Cake. It could have been a Bolo de Fuba from Cake without Borders. It could have been the scandelicious Carrot Cake from 80 Cakes from Around the World. It could have been whatever their taste buds desired to taste, whatever their minds dreamt to dream.

With greater irony, they could have had more than one cake. I stood there before them ready to honor whatever they wanted.

But only one student spoke up. One lone voice prevailed. German Chocolate.

I didn’t want to turn the situation into a lecture, yet I felt that I had a responsibility to seize this moment and make it a sweet learning one.

In a flash, I thought of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay “Self-Reliance.” With greater speed, I found the essay on the Internet, projected it on the screen for my students to see, and read the following passage:

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men—that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost—and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton is that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they thought. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this.

When we met the next week, my students were majorly impressed by my show-stopper German Chocolate Cake. Three 9-inch layers of light chocolate cake. Coconut-pecan frosting slathered between the layers, all around the sides, and on the top. Delightfully sticky. Delightfully sweet. Delightfully decadent

When the final class ended, Robbie left–cake carrier in hand, delighted to be taking home what remained of the final cake, his own sweet indulgence to share as he saw fit.

I like to believe, however, that everyone left class that day with an even sweeter realization that might serve them for a lifetime if they will only listen: the influential power of a lone voice surrounded by silence.

Growing Up More than Once

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When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.

Lao Tzu (Ancient Chinese philosopher and writer; founder of Taoism.)

The idea for today’s post exploded magically in my head one Friday morning last spring as I drove to campus for a Creative Writing class. I started thinking about the fact that Fall 2022 would be my last semester as a full-time Professor of English at Laurel Ridge Community College. In the midst of my reverie, I had an insight. I’ve been blessed with the luxury of growing up more than once.

Now I’m writing about that epiphany of many months ago. Candidly, until I started working on this post, I hadn’t given a lot of thought to the meanings that the expression “growing up” can have.

The most common, of course, relates to the challenges that we all face as we progress from childhood through puberty into early adulthood.

That meaning goes all the way back to the Coverdale Bible of 1535:

“The childe Samuel wente and grewe up, & was accepted of the Lorde & of men” (1 Samuel ii. 26).

Sometimes, however, the expression can be used to criticize someone who is being silly or unreasonable. I’m thinking of that memorable line in J. D. Salinger’s 1951 novel, Catcher in the Rye:

“For Chrissake, grow up.”

I’m not certain that anyone has ever told me to “grow up.” When I was young, people told me that I was old for my age. Now that I am older, people tell me that I am young for my age.

Be that as it may, I’ve never considered “growing up” as a once-in-a-lifetime rite of passage where we make it to adulthood. One day, we arrive. One day, we’ve grown up. Voila!

For me, “growing up” has been an ongoing journey from Point A to Point B, where Point B is never the end. Instead, it becomes the starting point of another journey.

Let me explain.

Many people might assume that since I was born in the coal fields of Southern West Virginia my Point A of “growing up” was related directly to “getting out.” Even today, West Virginia is the fifth poorest state in the nation. Without doubt, I remember vividly and well the hardships of poverty–the challenges of living from paycheck to paycheck.

What I remember far more are the values and hard work ethic that my dad (a coal miner) and my mother (a fundamentalist minister) instilled in me. What I remember far more is that they taught me to appreciate, value, and celebrate diversity. What I remember far more is that they taught me to embrace and accept everyone.

What I remember far more are the educators who knew the subjects that they taught and who taught those subjects with passion. What I remember far more are the educators who loved their students and took personal interest in us. They were living witnesses to everyone in the coal camp: we could transform our lives through education just as education had transformed their lives.

For me, my first “growing up” had nothing to do with “getting out.” It had everything to do with getting educated. It had everything to do with going to college.

By the third grade, I was telling everyone that I was going to be an English Professor. Looking back, I wonder what planted that idea in my head. I had never met a professor. None lived in my coal camp or in the slightly larger town where we moved when I started the third grade. I had no idea whatsoever what an English Professor did. I had no idea what I would have to do to become one. But I minced no words about it. I was going to become an English Professor. Yet, how could that ever happen? I would have to go to college and that would cost big bucks that my parents didn’t have. Where would the money come from? My teachers and my parents had answers for me. “Work hard. Do your best. Get good grades.” After a few years of seeing my commitment to academic success, they expanded their answer: “Keep it up. You’ll get scholarships. You’ll see.”

And that’s exactly what I did. I went forward with faith, and, as a rising high-school senior, I started the college-application process. Acceptance letters came one by one but without any scholarship offers. I felt good–really good–about being accepted. Sure. Feeling good would pay tuition. Sure. Feeling good would pay for textbooks. Sure. Feeling good would pay for room and board. Yep. I felt good.

Doors were opening for me to get educated, but, ironically, I couldn’t pay to cross the threshold.

Then, just a month or two before graduating third in my class, I received a letter from Alderson-Broaddus University that changed my life forever. I had been accepted with a comprehensive financial aid package–scholarships, Work Study, and student loans–that covered all expenses.

Can you imagine. Me. A hard-working, coal-camp kid with a dream, going off to college. Me. The first in my family to go to college. I pinched myself, and off I went to college.

As part of my studies at Alderson-Broaddus, I had two academic internships in Washington, D.C. One was with Senator Robert Byrd, doing administrative tasks in his office and delivering mail to United States Senators. The second was with the former Department of Health, Education, and Welfare–Division of Two-Year Colleges.

When I graduated cum laude from Alderson-Broaddus in 1969 with a Bachelor’s Degree in the Humanities, I landed a position at the Library of Congress, as an editor in its MARC Project. After a year, I moved up and became an editor in the National Union Catalog, Pre-1956 Imprints, hailed as the bibliographic wonder of the world.

Can you imagine? Me. The hard-working, coal-camp kid with a dream and three books in his early childhood home–the King James Bible; Webster’s Dictionary; and Sears Roebuck Catalog–working as an editor in the world’s largest library, the place with all the books.

I pinched myself over and over again. I was living in my own apartment in the shadow of the Nation’s Capitol. I was working in the world’s premier library. I was a federal employee with a handsome salary and first-rate benefits.

I had grown up. Or so I thought.

Three years into my federal career, I got hooked on research. The yearning for more learning descended upon me, and I realized that I needed to grow up again.

Off I went to the University of South Carolina where I earned my Ph.D. in American Literature, where I became a Mary E. Wilkins Freeman scholar, and where I experienced, for the first time, the joy of teaching.

I was armed with credentials, but I had only one college professorship offer, with a salary so low that I could not afford to accept the position.

I went back home to the Library of Congress where I remained for a total of twenty-five years. I continued my Freeman research and published my The Infant Sphinx: The Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (Scarecrow Press, 1985). I worked with the best professionals in the federal sector. I continued my earlier work as an editor in the NUCPP-Pre-1955 Imprints. I became the Training Coordinator for the United States Copyright Office and then Director of the Library’s Internship Program and after that Special Assistant for Human Resources, giving HR advice to department heads as well as to two Librarians of Congress.

I spent a total of twenty-five years as a federal employee, as a researcher, and as a scholar.

Surely, I had grown up. Or so I thought.

But when I turned fifty, I started feeling antsy about that childhood dream of becoming a Professor of English. I started feeling antsy about that childhood dream of long, long ago. I started fussing with myself every day and throughout the days:

“If not now, when.”

On a leap of faith that I would find a college home, I took advantage of a 1998 early retirement from the Library of Congress. I sold my Capitol Hill home, bought myself a Jeep, and relocated to my weekend home in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

In August 1999, Lord Fairfax Community College (now Laurel Ridge Community College), opened its doors to me, first as an Adjunct Professor of English and then as a full-time Professor of English.

Some might say that my childhood dream was deferred for a long, long time.

Others might say that I had to grow up twice before I was ready to grow into the professor that I would become.

I tend to agree with the latter group. My education, my research, my scholarship, and my federal service positioned me to move into academe at the perfect moment. I was prepared for my teaching journey. I was ready for my teaching journey.

Now I have come full circle to where this post began. After twenty-three years, this semester was my last one as a full-time professor at Laurel Ridge Community College. On Friday, December 9, I taught my last class there as a full-time professor.

What an incredible journey it has been! I am so grateful to my Laurel Ridge family who have journeyed with me. And I’m even more grateful to more than 7,000 students, who believe —no, more than 7,000 students who know—that an education will transform their lives just as my life was transformed by education. I am pleased beyond measure that they let me be their learning coach. Every day, they gave me one more chance to do it better. Every day, they gave me one more chance to get it right. Every day, they let me be, me. Every day, they let me be a part of the magic. 

Surely, I am grown up now.

I daresay that you have guessed it already. I’m not. In fact, I just heard someone say:

“The good professor is going to grow up again.”

Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do, for the fourth time in my life. I just did some quick and dirty math. It seems to me that each time I grow up takes nearly twenty-five years. With a little luck, the next growing up will take about the same number of years and will be filled with lots of scholarly research, writing and publishing; lots of teaching; and lots of service. Who knows. Only time will tell.

But here’s how I see things right now. By the time I reach 100, I might have grown up. And, if I haven’t, I’ll keep right on with the important work of becoming what I might be.

Why an Education Matters | The Softer Side.

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“If a man empties his purse into his head, no man can take it away from him. An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.”

Benjamin Franklin (Poor Richard’s Almanac)

This week I’m thinking about education, far more than usual. The reason is simple. Exactly one week from today, I’ll be meeting a new group of community college students who have decided wisely that getting an education is their best move. With them, I’ll be standing on the brink of now and the future. It’s a new beginning for me and a new beginning for them.

As an educator, my role is to provide students with the knowledge base they need in English, especially American Literature, Appalachian Literature, and Creative Writing.

Aside from equipping them with the needed knowledge base, my goal is to turn them on.

“Turn students on to English? No way!”

“When pigs fly,” someone else squealed.

I understand. I have understood since I started teaching. From the first day that I enter a classroom at the start of a brand-new semester, mine is an uphill battle. But that’s perfectly all right. I love challenges. I have every confidence in the world that by the end of the semester my students will see that language and literature can help them discover their own worlds and the worlds around them. I have every confidence in the world that by the end of the semester my students will see that language and literature matter. “He can inspire a rock to write,” wrote one student in my early teaching career at Laurel Ridge Community College.

Nonetheless, I am aware that I may not have one student who is majoring in English. So, while I am passionate about language and literature and while I know that I can turn my students on to those subjects, I feel an equal responsibility to be passionate about education. I want my students to believe that education–their education–matters.

Sometimes getting them to believe that is an even greater challenge than turning them on to English.

I have to meet that challenge, too, right from the start, because I know that the community college graduation rate nationwide is about 62%.

I celebrate the students who make up that percentage. And I celebrate the 30% of community college students nationwide who transfer to four-year colleges and universities.

Yet, while celebrating all those students, I want to do my best to reach out to the others who might not be part of the 62% graduation rate or the 30% transfer rate unless I convince them that an education–their education–matters.

Why an education matters is abundantly clear to those of us who are educated. Career options. Job security. Expanded earnings. Networking. Professional connections. Increased happiness. Friendships. Better health. Even longevity.

I could include statistics to support those claims. I won’t. Candidly, they don’t do much for me.

And, candidly, when I talk about the practical benefits of an education–and I do–eyes glaze over and my students search for imaginary exits, especially when I start bringing in statistics to support my claims.

On the other hand, when I switch my focus to the softer side of why an education matters–the side that allows me to be personal and passionate–vision returns to glazed eyes and students return to the classroom that they just fancifully exited.

Sometimes–actually almost always–I’ll start the soft-side conversation by asking my students how many of them are the first in their family to go to college.

Usually about one third of their hands go up–a response that’s consistent with national data for community college students.

They seem to take notice when I tell them that I am a first-generation college student, too. They really take notice when I share some personal information about me. Son of a West Virginia coal miner and his wife, a Pilgrim Holiness minister. Grew up with three books in my home—the King James Bible, Webster’s Dictionary, and Sears Roebuck Catalog. Made it to the halls of the Library of Congress, which for 25 years became my home, with more than 20 million books. Then to the halls of Laurel Ridge Community College which for the last 23 years has been my home, where I’ve taught more than 7,000 students. Without being boastful, I want them to hear and see firsthand how an education transformed my life. I want to convince them that an education will transform their lives, too.

They get turned on more when I tell them that with an education they can go anywhere because they will be experts in their field. These days, I seem to have more and more students in health sciences, so I make a point of emphasizing that they can go wherever their credentials are recognized. Their eyes light up when I talk about the option of being a traveling nurse or a traveling surgical technologist. Their eyes really light up when I talk about the bonuses and salary increases that go hand in hand with adventuresome, free travel.

I remind them as well that an education empowers them to become their own knowledge navigators. I share with them what Robert Frost once wrote: “We go to college to be given one more chance to learn to read in case we haven’t learned in High School. Once we have learned to read the rest can be trusted to add itself unto us” (“Poetry and School,” The Atlantic Monthly, June 1951). Frost, of course, is talking about developing critical reading skills and critical thinking skills, both at the heart of all education.

Or perhaps I help them understand that an education matters because books matter. Emily Dickinson says it best: “There is no frigate like a book / To take us lands away.”

Some days I emphasize that an education matters because it emboldens you to follow your passion. I share with them my own undergraduate struggles as English, Pre-Law, and Pre-Med messed around with my head. One day, after switching majors several times, I allowed my passion to take hold of my heart. From that point forward, English prevailed.

Or what about the notion that an education enables us to be anchored and hopeful amidst the storms of life that are certain to come our way? I’m thinking again about Robert Frost and his poem “One Step Backward Taken.” The speaker in the poem is shaken by a universal crisis, “But with one step backward taken / I saved myself from going. / A world torn loose went by me. / Then the rain stopped and the blowing, / And the sun came out to dry me.”

And how about this one that I like to use when students wonder whether an education is worth the cost, especially as their student loans grow larger and larger. I remind them that an education is one of their best investments. No one can take it away, ever. Perhaps even better is the way that the investment keeps on growing through lifelong learning.

Those are just a few of the “soft” reasons why an education matters to me. They are the ones that are on my mind this week as I anticipate next week’s new beginnings.

There’s one more, though, that’s always on my mind. It’s the University of South Carolina’s motto surrounding the seal on my doctoral class ring. It’s a quote from Ovid, “Emollit Mores Nec Sinit Esse Feros,” which translates to “Learning humanizes character and does not permit it to be cruel.”