— By Jack Spafford '39

It is hard to imagine that any alumnus could hold Exeter in greater affection than I do, having performed as badly there as I did. (As I write this, I can almost hear my English instructor Darcy Curwen remarking, "As against goodly, Spafford?") Not that spurned opportunities produce many fond memories, but by now my memories are rich ones, and the residue of my Exeter experiences could not be happier.

For reasons I have never understood, I was a total rebel at Exeter. I availed myself of almost every opportunity to screw up. Not only was I delinquent in my studies, I managed to fail in nearly every other endeavor as well. Ralph Lovshin, our track coach, seemed to see in my 155-pound, 6-foot, 3-inch frame the makings of a successful runner, and drafted me as a miler. I went on to set what must have been an all-time record for the slowest mile in school history. In the wintertime the suffering continued on the indoor track, with its sharp curves and close quarters-that is until I stepped on another runner's foot during a race and ended up in the infirmary with plenty of deeply embedded cinders and a broken collarbone. The latter I took as God's will that I be delivered from classes for a few weeks, and possibly as an excuse for subsequent substandard academic performance. Not that there wasn't a plethora of reasons already.

The only possible record I might have set at Exeter was the number of English muffins with raspberry jam and peanut butter (known to connoisseurs as the Garbo Raz) I consumed at the Grill.

Ultimately, having spurned most legitimate activities, I contrived to bring about almost certain destruction by placing a horseracing bet at an off-campus watering hole. The speed with which this came to the attention of Dean Kerr was absolutely breathtaking. The next thing I knew, he was demanding to know who my bookie was-which, as I think about it now, he must have already known. In any case, I did have certain standards, so I refused to answer, whereupon the dean announced that I would be on the next train if I didn't. So I did, and suddenly wondered why almost-certain expulsion was somehow less desirable than I had imagined.

What followed my session with Dean Kerr was largely unknown to me, but the result was almost incomprehensible: I even failed at failing out. I later learned that my housemaster, Bob Kessler, and my German instructor, Herr Paul Gropp, went to bat for me. Evidently, they saw some sort of promise in me-or at least a modicum of hope-that was indiscernible to others. Perhaps Dean Kerr and Dr. Perry saw it too. In any case, I was miraculously permitted to finish my senior year.

Now comes the happy part. I was barely off the campus, having failed to graduate, when I began a tough, summer-long self-appraisal that turned my life around. A year later, having repeated my senior year at another preparatory school and done well, I entered Swarthmore College-possibly over my head again, but eager for another glimpse of excellence. (It has long puzzled me that more Exonians haven't made this same choice, since Exeter and Swarthmore are so alike, not only in their academic standards, but also their non sibi philosophy. The notable exception was John Nason '22, who was president of Swarthmore during my time there.)

The consequences of my Exeter education continued to unfold, even accelerate, as time went by. After serving in World War II, I entered Chase Bank's first executive training program on Wall Street, along with 39 other hopefuls, mostly from Ivy League colleges. Among them were Jim Sloane '39, John Shattuck '39 and Dick Detweiler '40, all of my era at Exeter. Their presence prompted me to work especially hard.

In New York City at that time there was a remarkable men's residence named Rainsford House. Perhaps some readers have heard of it. It had been donated to St. George's Episcopal Church, located near Gramercy Park, by J.P. Morgan, and designated as a residence for "advantaged" young men who were starting their careers in New York and willing to take an active role in the city's affairs. It was a very inexpensive but rather luxurious place, accommodating 18 young men and staffed by a butler, cook and upstairs maid. It also enjoyed such a long waiting list that admittance was a very long shot, unless you had a special connection. So imagine my relief when I arrived for an interview and was greeted by Jack Holt '39 and Dave Burt '36, both of Exeter.

I met my wife-to-be at a Rainsford House party. And it was through Rainsford House that I became very active in the New York City Young Republican Club, where I came to know Ross Traphagen '40 and became a close friend of John Lindsay, who later became mayor. It was John who convinced me to raise my family in Cold Spring Harbor, Long Island, where he then lived. Finally, it was because of Rainsford House that I went to work for Time & Life Publishing, and spent many happy years working at their offices in Rockefeller Center.

And thus is the neck bone connected to the ankle bone. In 1989, my classmate Jim McBrier and I returned to Exeter with our wives to celebrate our 50th reunion. We had a truly wonderful time, and I began to realize just how much Phillips Exeter Academy had, in a truly quirky way, influenced my life and my character. I will always be grateful. lnl

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