Office Hours

The sign outside his door must have listed his office hours, but I don’t remember paying much attention to it. Instead, I’d follow the well-traveled path from The Times-Delphic newspaper office to the northeast side of Meredith Hall and crane my neck to assess the situation: was the sturdy brown wood door closed, or was it open?

Sometimes it was closed, and I'd wander around the north wing of the building, in case he was talking to a colleague in the hallway. Sometimes his door was open and another student was there, usually someone I knew (the J school was not large), and I'd have to wait my turn. But in my memory, when I really needed him, like the room of requirement in Harry Potter, he was there, ready and willing to listen to my problem or piece of news. He'd motion for me to sit in the guest chair, which was surrounded by near-toppling towers of books, newspapers and magazines, he'd lean back in his desk chair, and he'd look at me, expectantly.

When I delivered good news, his eyes would crinkle at the corners, his mouth would curve in a smile, and he'd say, "Wonderful, that's wonderful." When I posed a concern or described a problem, he'd stroke his long graying beard (made grayer, no doubt, with the help of those accumulated student concerns), and ask a series of thoughtful questions. He'd also listen, intently, to my answers. He was a masterful listener.

Every time I sat in that chair with a problem to solve, I hoped he'd simply tell me what to do. He never did. That was not his way. He would listen and elicit responses from me until I had thoroughly analyzed the situation and arrived at my own conclusion. He had a gift, a sometimes maddening in the moment but ultimately generous gift, of teaching us how to not need him.

No, that's not quite right; we do still need him. But he knew we would move on, into our professions and our adult lives, so he taught us how to think critically, to trust our instincts, to remain curious, and to learn from our failures. Because of that gift, a part of him will always be with us.

Amy Ryder, Randy Brown, Professor Woodward, and me in spring 1990

Robert Woodward (1936-2020) arrived on the Drake University campus in 1972 and taught there until 2004 (and he continued to teach Honors classes after his retirement). As my friend and classmate Randy Brown says, when we attended Drake in the late 1980s, Woodward seemed timeless. He wore sport coats, collared shirts, and ties; he had a mane of brownish gray hair and the aforementioned beard; and he had numerous and varied interests including politics, baseball, and monarch butterflies.

I didn't piece it together until after he died that I am now the age he was, 52, when I was a college junior. I didn't know until I read his obituary that he wrote more than 200 songs in his younger days, that he had learned Swahili, that he served as editor of his own student newspaper.

As my friend and classmate Amy Ryder Butters says, "I don't think we knew how lucky we were to have him."

We do know, now.

Regrettably, I can't go back to his office and have one more chat with him. When I return to Meredith Hall tomorrow (Saturday, Jan. 10), to celebrate his life, it will be difficult to walk those polished floors and know that his office door is permanently closed. I won't find him there, physically, ever again.

Instead, I will look for him in the faces of the people who knew and loved him as I did. I will picture him there in the crowd, smiling at the legacy he has left, nodding his approval while saying, "Wonderful. Just wonderful."