Bill and I were acquainted from our days at St. Andrew’s, a (then) boys’ boarding school (now co-ed) in Middletown, Delaware. He was a “master” who taught history; I was a student, but not one of his. He was dorm supervisor on my hallway; he was fascinated by the adolescent goings-on. We became friends. I was entranced by his deep knowledge of art, his brilliance and accomplishment as a writer, and his overall sophistication. Unbeknownst to me he wrote a laudatory letter to the admissions office at Wesleyan University, where I had applied, exhorting them to accept me (he told me years later about this). I was accepted in spite of low SATs and unremarkable grades, and I attribute that acceptance to the glowing letter that Bill penned on my behalf. What a generous gesture! I’ll never forget the man, he was “one of a kind” — charming in his southern manner and genteel ways.
Bill and I were acquainted from our days at St. Andrew’s, a (then) boys’ boarding school (now co-ed) in Middletown, Delaware. He was a “master” who taught history; I was a student, but not one of his. He was dorm supervisor on my hallway; he was fascinated by the adolescent goings-on. We became friends. I was entranced by his deep knowledge of art, his brilliance and accomplishment as a writer, and his overall sophistication. Unbeknownst to me he wrote a laudatory letter to the admissions office at Wesleyan University, where I had applied, exhorting them to accept me (he told me years later about this). I was accepted in spite of low SATs and unremarkable grades, and I attribute that acceptance to the glowing letter that Bill penned on my behalf. What a generous gesture! I’ll never forget the man, he was “one of a kind” — charming in his southern manner and genteel ways.