A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [15]
Over a long weekend, when the other boys were off to their family retreats and overseas junkets, Mr. Smith invited me to go with him and his family to Cape Cod. The land on Pleasant Bay in South Orleans had been “in the family” (another new expression for me) for generations, and the Smiths had built a weekend home near the water a few years earlier. When I asked the housemaster for permission to go, he raised his eyebrows in surprise and told me this was an “important invitation.” Mr. Smith was revered among the faculty. I should appreciate the honor and significance of being asked.
Of course, this did nothing to help me relax. When Mr. Smith picked me up at the dorm in his battered green Ford station wagon, with his slightly younger children in the backseat, I was a bundle of nerves. Katherine and Peter were just as awkward at first, but we loosened up with games on the drive down. The Smiths had a tradition of competing to be the first to glimpse the Sagamore Bridge when coming around the last bend south on Route 3. The winner got to decide whether to stop for ice cream. Mr. Smith usually won, so the stops were rare.
At the very end of a long, narrow road, which offered glimpses of the bay as we got closer, we arrived at their driveway, which wound down a hill to their simple, lovely home. It was dusk on a cool, cloudless evening, and the glow was warm through the big glass doors leading into the huge central room with a cathedral ceiling and massive brick fireplace. Aubrey had gone down ahead to open up the house and start dinner. The smell of the wood fire and marinated chicken charring on the grill mixed with the sea breeze coming off the bay. There was red Bordeaux, of which A.O. was a connoisseur. He showed me how to hold the glass, judge the “legs” as a measure of the tannin, open the wine up with air, smell for different fruits and elements, and taste it on different parts of the tongue. Who knew? I was all of fourteen, and my sole experience with wine had been Mogen David at Christmas dinner. We were studying the Odyssey in class, so when I mentioned a “libation” to honor the occasion, A.O. beamed with a teacher’s delight. Their welcome was so warm and natural, and their interest in both finding out who I was and telling me who they were was so genuine, that I still think of them and that weekend as a model of hospitality. A.O. and Aubrey were urbane and conversational with me in a way that no adult had ever really been before. I was supposed to respond and engage, not just say “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir.” But all I really wanted to do was listen.
That first weekend, we were all turning in on Friday night, and A.O. was saying good night to his own children while Aubrey was making sure my bed was comfortable and the towels were fresh. He said “Good night” to Katherine and Peter, adding whatever pet name he conjured for the moment, then told them, “I love you.” He then said the very same words to me. He was matter-of-fact, natural, authentic, neither more nor less than he had been with his own children seconds before. It was the first time any man had ever told me he loved me. I had never heard this from Poppy or my own father. For that matter, I had rarely heard it from Gram or my mother. They felt it and expressed it in various ways, to be sure, but saying so out loud and offhandedly was a new experience. I let it wash over me. I did not know what to say in response, but I think my desire to emulate A.O.—his emotional candor, his generosity of spirit—started then and there.
A. O. Smith deeply influenced many students over the years, forming bonds and lighting intellectual fires. In my case, I think he recognized that I needed someone to help me navigate my new world and that I was eager to learn everything about it. That I respected authority and tradition in an era of rebellion and defiance surely strengthened our friendship (which lasted