In my last Chronicle I expressed my delight at seeing Emerson Johnson, Charlie Cumiskey, John Tucker, and Bill Harvie sitting around a lunch table at Homecoming.  They were chatting and laughing like they must have done every day 50 years ago. In those days the four of them, together with Arthur MacConochie and a few others, were the core of the Upper School Faculty.  They lived together in “the Apartment,” a four-unit building owned by the school and rented to faculty.  Each was a vital part of what we called the Norfolk Academy “family.”


J.B. Massey

"Each boy must accept that hard work is a condition of life." J.B. Massey, 1953.

All of which got me to thinking about the head of that family, James B. Massey, Jr.  As Headmaster from 1950 -1978, Mr. Massey brought this school from barest survival to regional powerhouse.  But he should not be remembered primarily for the growth of the institution he headed.  The legacy of Red Massey walks around Hampton Roads (and elsewhere) in the lives of his students and their families.  It would not be possible to count the number of people who were made better human beings by their lives having intersected with Mr. Massey.  You can count me squarely as one of them.


It takes me twenty-some pages in the Academy history to describe Mr. Massey fairly, so I will not spend any such time here.  Let me simply say that together with Patty Masterson, about whom I chronicled last year, JB Massey was the single most dynamic human being I have met on this planet.  The son of a devout Presbyterian who taught the required Freshman Bible course at Hampden-Sydney College, he had sewed a few wild oats as an adolescent but soon came to adopt the values of his father.  Above all, Mr. Massey saw work as what we were called to do.  It was not that he was a “workaholic” – he was a great poker player and a famous practical joker.  But he never tolerated laziness or even inactivity.  He did little things, like always stopping to pick up trash whenever he saw it on campus, that communicated a total commitment to his school.  He practiced a kind of fierce Christianity, abhorrent of moral compromise but dedicated to purest charity.


He was the kind of man who terrified you, but whose opinion of you mattered more than anything. This was true for faculty and student alike.  In the early days, faculty meetings were held at his dining room table, with lemonade and Pepperidge Farm cookies provided by “T,” his wonderful wife.  Lemonade and cookies remain a staple of Academy family get-togethers.  But at those meetings and then in the school halls faculty began to regard him, with all the accompanying positive and negative emotional baggage, as “Dad.”  Almost everyone found his example of integrity and dedication to be inspiring, and those who didn’t were not with the school for very long.  In the end, although he seldom used the word, he was full to the brim with love.  He loved God, he adored his wife, he treated his faculty like his own family, and above all he loved Norfolk Academy and every student associated with it.  Those exposed to that love felt happily compelled to return it.


Mr. Massey upon his arrival in Norfolk in 1950.

The school Red Massey inherited in 1950 wasn’t much. (They called him Red not only for the color for his hair but for the scarlet he would flush when he was angry.)   In 1950 Norfolk Academy had about 150 boys (remember, just boys) in grades one through twelve, a transient faculty, and little spirit.  Over the next ten years Massey, by dint of effort and personality and with the support of a dynamic Board of Trustees, tripled the student body, built three new buildings, and completely revitalized the school.  His most singular and significant accomplishment for the school was the assemblage of a faculty of great teachers. Of the sixteen upper school teachers in 1960, four would become distinguished headmasters elsewhere and another six would remain at the Academy for the rest of their teaching lives


But as tough as Mr. Massey was – trust me, he could be tough – he also had vision.  Education of boys in the early to mid-1950’s was about right and wrong and honor and discipline and finishing your peas. Massey was perfect for that task, instituting the Honor System and other daily habits meant to teach basic core values.  But with the coming of Sputnik and the computer the demands on actual scholastic excellence began to explode.  Standardized tests grew in importance.  Science classes needed actual laboratories.  The completion of application to selective colleges no longer effectively ended at the line marked “Father’s Occupation.”  Massey didn’t just adapt to these changes, he led. In just a few short years Norfolk Academy morphed from sleepy private school sending out “gentlemen” to a place committed to excellence.  This was not easy on families whose children were not similarly committed.  Many of them, including children of Norfolk’s most prominent families, were shown the door if they would or could not toe a more demanding academic line.


Mr. Massey with B Lovitt, Head of Country Day School, and Bill Pressly, then Head of The Westminster Schools in Atlanta. It was Mr. Pressly who suggested that the "merged" school open as a "coordinated" school, not a co-educational one.


Through the merger with Country Day School for Girls in 1966 and the accompanying move to Wesleyan Drive, Mr. Massey continued to lead by example. By the time he retired in 1978, he was truly a legend, respected across the country and beloved by the Norfolk Academy family.  And if he almost never visited campus again (he wanted Mr. Tucker to have as much “space” as possible), he remained through letters and phone calls a counselor, advisor, and friend.  Whenever any Bulldog team was in shouting distance of Farmville, where he and T had retired, there would be Mr. Massey in the crowd, rooting as hard as he could without calling too much attention to himself.


We like to make reference to the date of our chartering – November 13, 1728 – but the truth is that the school that is now Norfolk Academy really began to take shape upon the arrival of James Buckner Massey, Jr. as Headmaster on July 1, 1950.  When you mention his name to those folks sitting around the lunch table at Homecoming, their body language and their tone of voice change. They become quieter, even a little wistful.  Many decades since he was last their Headmaster, he still calls them to attention. And 62 years since his arrival at this school, his presence is still keenly felt, even by those who could not have known or even met him.


Thank you, Mr. Massey.

Mr. Massey at Field Day, in 1970. Is there a bit of mischief in the works?

Coming Home


  The dust has settled and we now look back on what has to be one of the most successful Homecoming weekends ever.  Among other things, the weather cooperated wonderfully. Cool, clear, and breezy, this was Virginia fall at its finest. From the opening bars of The Connells’ “Still Life” to the last person leaving the last class reunion, the festivities were a complete pleasure.

            First, The Connells.  For those of you who aren’t fans, The Connells are a bunch of Carolina guys who formed up into an “alternative rock” band in the mid-1980’s.  As redundant as it may sound, they are exceptionally musical, combining outstanding guitar work, interesting chord progressions, and tight vocal harmonies.  They share a number of connections with the Academy, one being married to Jane Kollmansperger (Liza Needham’s sister) and another being Allan Parrott’s fraternity brother at Chapel Hill. And with the healthy persuasion of Andy Walker, we managed to pry them out of semi-retirement to play for us at the Friday night opening general reunion gathering.

They were great.  They survived having a tent blow onto the stage – didn’t even miss a beat, as they say.  And when asked, some incredibly kind attendee lent his Academy coach’s jacket to the lead guitarist.  I even got it back the next day!  But the music was tuneful and familiar, and we all sang along, enjoying every minute of it.

Saturday morning brought two presentations, one by new Athletic Director Aubrey Shinofield, and another by some of our civic and global leadership fellows. Then it was time for cookout lunch with pumpkin-painting for the kids and warm hugs and handshakes from long-separated classmates.  Of particular pleasure to me was the arrival of four of the “old guard” gentlemen that started with Mr. Massey and touched the lives of thousands of students.









To see John Tucker, Bill Harvie, Emerson Johnson, and Charlie Cumiskey (the best teacher I ever had) sitting around a lunch table talking and laughing like they did as teachers 55 years ago was high privilege indeed.  It is hardly overstatement to say that those four were charter members of the faculty that literally made the school what it is today.  In those days they lived together, worked together, ate together, and played together.  Like me, countless grown men and women owe them a great deal of gratitude.  It was nice to have the opportunity to once again share that sentiment.

And then the football game.  Before it even started, the lower schoolers, led by a drum corps of older students, paraded on the track in front of the crowd.  Bearing class banners and waving to the crowd, they were obviously enjoying themselves.

They finished by gathering on the field and welcoming the senior fall varsity athletes and their parents on to the field.  All of them – students, faculty and parents – standing at attention while Kailee Cunningham sang the National Anthem made you proud to be a Bulldog.  If that was the future out there in the sunlight, then our future is very bright indeed.

As to the game itself, one person called it “the most important win in the last decade.”  Challenged by a strong and physical Nansemond-Suffolk team, our guys got pushed around a little at the start but then regrouped and outplayed the Saints for the rest of the game.  More importantly, we out-toughed them.  For every hard lick they put on one of us, we responded with a bigger hit on one of them. 

While one may rue the violence, to watch these young men be issued a physical challenge like that and respond so doggedly was to watch something important take place.  One of the better Saints players had been particularly aggressive, looking for someone to hit right up to the whistle on every play.  When a pass intended for him was intercepted on essentially the last play of the game, he stayed on the ground for a few seconds, got up, and shook hands with our guy.  From up in the booth it looked like the honest bestowal of respect.  Then out on the field sprinted a bunch of our students, jumping, whooping, and waving their arms.  Important win, indeed.

The five-year reunion parties happened that night and old acquaintances, if ever forgot, were once again brought to mind. Although I was unable to attend any of them, the word is that they all went swimmingly.

The folks who planned and executed the weekend deserve a lot of credit and have my personal gratitude.  It takes a great deal of work to put on such a show.  But I hope they do not take offense when I say that there was so much good will running around this place that once it was underway, the weekend sort of ran itself.  This was one of those times when the total was greater than the sum of all parts.  There was a synergy created here, every bit of it positive.

Sometimes the magic works . . .

The Luckiest Faculty on the Face of the Earth


Each August, Gary Laws has student leaders, mostly ninth graders, over to his house for an “orientation.”  This normally occurs on the Saturday before faculty meetings begin.  Gary’s house looks out over a branch of the Lafayette River in Norfolk from underneath the shading branches of majestic old pines and magnolias.  If any place in Norfolk can manufacture and then catch a breeze on a hot summer’s day, this is the place.  Returning members of the Honor Council begin at 1:00 pm, followed by the Royster Student Council, this year with the leaders of the Middle School Happy Club. They talk about their goals for the upcoming school year and break up at about 5 o’clock.

On a Saturday.  In August.  At the Principal’s house.       

I attended the first hour with our Honor Council guys and girls, and as I sat there with these five wonderful students, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was.  They were all happy, smiling, excited to be together with each other and with two old teachers.  They had interesting insights and made provocative and promising suggestions for improving the state of honor in the Middle School.  Gary told me that the ten student leaders that followed them were equally positive, equally cheerful, and equally focused on making our school better.

We have sixteen new “Fellows” this year to follow up on last year’s first class of Chesapeake Bay Fellows.  They have split into three groups, dealing with the Bay, with issues of Global Health, and with International Relations.  Ninth graders all, they are legitimately and seriously trying to make the world better, not just the school.

Their 350-odd peers that make up the Royster student body may not have been so publicly recognized for their leadership, but they by and large share the same upbeat attitude about school.  The joy of being here extends in age-appropriate ways to every grade level – except perhaps second-semester seniors.  For instance, when I was Head of the Upper school, I would ask applicants for admission in those grades whether or not they actually liked school.  If they didn’t, I would warn, they would be awfully lonely here, because such an overwhelming percentage of our students really do enjoy school.  Oh, he may grumble a little bit for show, but the young man who walks into Mr. Kidd’s English class is actually looking forward to it.  If deep down inside you prefer the mall or the waves, you won’t have an easy time here.


Which means that we members of the faculty are very, very fortunate.  Don’t let me get out of control here – there are plenty of students who from time to time grow legitimately unhappy.  There are always some who would rather try you than work with you. There’s always the kid who will let you down and break your heart.  My glasses are only slightly rosy.  But more than any other faculty I have ever known, we have the absolute luck of getting to work every day with the best and the brightest students this region has to offer.  Nothing could be more rewarding.

Add to that an incredibly supportive Board of Trustees and parents who want only the best for their kids, and the serendipity is complete.  So as I sat out on Gary’s back yard I made myself a promise not to take any of this for granted.  The presence of a willing and eager student body requires that each faculty member be equally so.  These boys and girls deserve nothing less than our “A” game.  That is an obligation with some definitive weight.  But the demand is every bit worth it.

There may be some reading this who don’t know of the day that Lou Gehrig, the “Pride of the Yankees,” was welcomed back to Yankee Stadium after having been diagnosed with ALS.  In those days doctors didn’t know much about the condition except that it was universally fatal.  How tragic, people thought – how cruel and unfortunate that of all people Lou Gehrig was suffering. They sat, silent in sympathy for this poor, poor man who had played in so many games over so many years in this old ballpark but now could barely walk.  Instead, Gehrig stunned the crowd and absolutely grabbed their hearts by gazing around the stadium and saying, “You may have read about me having a bad break.  But today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.”

Well, the alternative for us on the Norfolk Academy faculty is obviously nowhere near as tough as what was facing Gehrig.  But given what is going on in our local schools, our nation – and with the state of education facing so many seemingly unanswerable challenges – we should look around our own place of work on our first week back and conclude the same thing that Gehrig did.

Today, we consider ourselves the luckiest faculty on the face of the Earth.


Beginning Again


Every August, Dennis Manning concludes our week of faculty meetings by reading an essay written by Father Timothy Healy, President of Georgetown University. The reading of this piece has become ritual, the sine qua non of opening the school. I enjoy the moment not only for the substance of the essay but also for the obvious emotional significance it has for Mr. Manning. Mood swings do not become a Headmaster, and Dennis is by nature reserved. So it is simply nice to see him let down his guard a little. As much as anything, I appreciate seeing other members of the faculty notice how much he is moved by the words. Like me, many of them cannot help but be moved as well.

The best and simplest way to communicate the meaning in Father Healy’s essay would be to reprint it here, but limitations of space and copyright laws prevent that. So I will try to convey its message as best I can.

Healy discusses two aspects of schooling. The first is the formation of relationships, both between members of a faculty and between faculty and students. He calls the coming together of a great faculty the formation of a “quiet conspiracy,” a benevolent plot to educate young people and to help them mature into whole adults. I find a satisfying ring to the notion of conspiracy because it conveys the sense of each teacher’s belonging to something independently alive and bigger than the individual. In this concept, students become the beneficiaries of the scheme rather than its victims. Each year, in their exit interviews with Mr. Manning, students invariably list relationships with faculty as the most important and best thing about Norfolk Academy.

Healy’s second point has to do with the cyclical nature of the school year. He talks about the seasons, about how the ebb and flow of each school year affects us, even during the time we are apart for the summer. I like this part particularly. Very few of life’s other activities periodically stop and start like a school year does. There is something particularly reassuring about there being more than one beginning. T. S. Eliot once wrote that “the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” No one’s knowledge is ever perfect in this life, but with each reunion of the faculty in August I feel as if I know this place just a little better.

But it is the same place, and teachers will ply their craft with the same talent and enthusiasm as always. Diane Wallace will invest herself in the lives of her fourth-graders this year every bit as much as she did in 1968. Cecil Mays will decline nouns and conjugate verbs with the same zeal as she did thirty-five years ago. And Richard Oberdorfer will still hold each of his students mesmerized with the ideas of people whose bodies turned to dust centuries ago. Each August the energy flows back into the faculty and sweeps up our students in very meaningful ways.

Father Healy concludes by bringing the notions of community and cycle together. At the very end he hesitates in anticipation of February, with its dark days and cold skies. But then he shrugs them off, declaring that they will “take care of themselves” when their time comes. Now is the beginning of the year. Here Mr. Manning pauses, looks us collectively in the eye, and reads Healy’s final sentence.

“It is good to begin again.”

Welcome back to all of the members of the Norfolk Academy family. Let’s get started.

Summertime … and the Livin’ is Busy


            The seniors and the sixth graders have graduated, and the rest of the student body has concluded its studies.  The thermometer rises a little higher every day.  Time for the school to lie down for a nice, summertime nap, right?  Wrong.  If anything, this place gets even crazier after the school year formally ends.  The days of self-directed play for the young, and jobs like waiting tables for the older have come and gone.  The machine that is Norfolk Academy may change gears a little, but it continues to hum.

            The official brochure for “Summer Programs at the Academy” is 36 pages long.  By my count there are 103 programs being offered.  Some of these overlap in purpose, so on the one hand this number is artificially high.  On the other hand, many have more than one session, so the number may at the same time be artificially low.  Suffice it to say that in June and July it’s a madhouse around here.  You can do anything from Abrakadoodle ® to bike camp to Dr. Seuss to lacrosse to golf to geometry to “Faberge, Tiffany, or Cartier.”  You can play rock and roll or you can play Mario. You can become a Jedi Knight or a Wizard.  You can build breakaway boxes or statues made of duct tape.

And Summer Programs is only a part of what is going on.  The entire Royster building becomes the domain of the Breakthrough at Norfolk Academy.  Now in its 20th year, this program, formerly known as Learning Bridge, brings 60 middle school children of promise from Norfolk Public Schools to an intensive academic program run by Norfolk Academy faculty and high school students from here and around the country. The students don’t spend every minute of every day sequestered in classrooms.  There are breaks for lunch and lots of play, both planned and spontaneous, from time to time.  So add three score active adolescents to the mix every day.

The other end of the campus is “jam up and jelly tight” as well.  In addition to accommodating 32 camps, each dedicated to a particular sport, the fitness center becomes overrun with students getting in better shape.  Many are there in connection with a coordinated weight training program put together by the football coaches, but many others are there at their own accord.  Summer is hardly a time where strength and conditioning coach Larry McCarthy can relax and catch up on his reading.

All this activity is not without cost.  Until recently, summer was the time when school buildings rested and recovered.  Stewart Howard will tell you that many items of maintenance, repair, and restoration are best done when buildings are empty.  He will also tell you that like human beings, buildings simply need rest.  They need time to lie empty and silent.  That’s not happening here on Wesleyan Drive.  So it becomes a more daunting task for our staff to get things done to make the succeeding August startup feel new and polished and ready.

John Tucker, quoting his predecessor and mentor J. B. Massey, used to say that the primary purpose of Summer Programs was to provide faculty with summer employment and thus supplemental income.  With some pride he used to guarantee that he could find a job for any teacher who wanted one.  He saw it as the responsibility of an independent school to its faculty.  Well, we have certainly moved on from that simple goal.  While many school folks do take advantage of the opportunity (last year 119 of 132 summer programs employees had a direct connection with NA), we are now about the business of serving the community.  For campers who are not students here, we provide the means to find out about us as a school, and for us to learn about them as people—and for us all to have fun in the process.

I sometimes lament the loss of the permitted languor of summer. It’s what Evelyn Waugh called “the repose of yet unwearied sinews.”  When I was a young boy, the old garage down the street had two sets of double doors, each hinged on the outside.  The space marked by the two pairs of old iron hinges on the inside doors formed a pretty decent strike zone.  I used to throw a tennis ball against that garage for hours at a time, trying to hit the strike zone while inventing World Series games in my head between the Yankees and the Cardinals.  Only my mother’s call could end the game.  These days, I would be on a van traveling to Raleigh with my AAU league team for a three-day tournament.  Although I didn’t have travel baseball in those days, I think I had it better.

But those days are long gone.  Our corner of the world wants and needs organized activities.  Well folks, we have 103 of them this summer.  Step right up.  Take your pick.

The Divine Ms. M


              Every day, ninth graders sit in their designated lounge area under the watchful gaze of Edith Pratt Masterson.  Her oil-on-canvas likeness hangs on the plain white drywall without fanfare or even announcement.  And every time I look at her, and the children studying or giggling in her presence, I think to myself, “If they only knew.”  The painting does not capture Patty’s greatness, not because it is a poor painting, but because Patty was too big a force of nature to be contained inside any frame.  The words that follow here must similarly fall short because prose is by definition inadequate to the task.  But her memory deserves revelation every now and then. If you only knew.

              Living with Patty was like living with the Mistral.  She was stronger and more insistent than anything in her path.  Sometimes she would be so great as to cause minor damage, knocking to the ground some impediment not fully secured.  You just had to learn to recognize how impressive and, yes, beautiful was this phenomenon that the elements had so artfully contrived to create.  You also had to learn how to duck when the wind blew particularly fiercely in your direction.

              Patty was born in the Low Country of South Carolina, and was the first woman accepted to the University of South Carolina School of Law, as well as the first woman to argue a case (and win) at the Supreme Court of South Carolina.  She was a devoted wife and the mother of five. Her intellect was matched by her will to embrace life for all it was worth.  She smoked like a chimney and ate Vidalia onions whole and raw.  She loved the Beach in the winter and detested handguns, working tirelessly to convince citizens and legislators alike to ban them.  She lobbied to beautify the North End of the Beach while staunchly opposing commercial development.  To say that she was fully immersed in her community is a vast understatement.

Patty Masterson

Patty Masterson

But it was in the classroom that she reigned supreme.  Patty started teaching English at the Country Day School for girls in 1958.  She retired from the merged Norfolk Academy in 1991.  In those 33 years she taught thousands how to appreciate literature, and more than that, how to write.  She was a merciless critic of students’ writing and a passionate lover of literature.  She considered Moby Dick to be America’s most perfect novel.  For all of this she was not uniformly loved by her students, but each of them respected her.  She was as indefatigable at grading papers as she was tough on their contents and style.  And she was never, ever, less than full bore with her classes.  Most days, students left exhausted, sometimes even stunned.  Today, a large majority of her kids will say that she was the sine qua non of their ability to communicate effectively in writing.  She ran the speech program, she advised the honor council, she flipped burgers all day at Field Day.  Nothing was beyond her reach.

Patty's 'Bat' Masterson now hangs in the school archives

She was also relentlessly creative.  At one point she adopted the persona of “Bat” Masterson, the western sheriff of 1960’s television.  Her students adorned her room with all manner of bat paraphernalia, including one very frightening stuffed version she suspended from the ceiling.  Then for a while she converted her classroom into a “garden of words,” complete with green shag carpet and flowers everywhere.  There were no chairs in this garden, only the green grass to sit on.  And it was Patty’s idea to fill the Pit with water, converting it into a beach for senior prank in 1986.  Check out YouTube if you don’t believe me.

First Common Wealth Conference 1986

She never stopped exploring, she never stopped trying to make herself better.  She pioneered seminar-style teaching, urging (some would say forcing) it on her colleagues.  It was Patty, together with Rachel Hopkins, who produced the Commonwealth in Education conference in 1986 that forever changed Norfolk Academy and its faculty.  The story of those four days in August will be told here sometime soon.  For now, suffice it to say that this event, with over fifty presenters from all around the world (literally!) examining every aspect of education, was unprecedented.  But for Patty, every day was an opportunity to learn.  As such, she taught our faculty every bit as much as she taught her students.

And not just about the techniques of education.  Patty taught lessons of love and of dedication.  She taught us about hard work and the unlimited quality of promise.  And in the end, she taught those of us close to her life’s most important lesson.  She fought a long and difficult battle against cancer.  She bore her final days with undaunted courage and dignity.  She took time to say her goodbyes, one at a time, with honesty and love.  For her last lesson, Edith Pratt Masterson taught us how to die.

There may be those reading this now whose memory of Patty is not so complimentary.  Anyone who holds opinions as unrelenting as she did will inevitably leave bruises that never fully heal.  Betsy Guzik, who as Elizabeth Wardell had Patty for English in 1987, characterized this truth as “the curse of the strong woman.”  Betsy is absolutely right.  Let us remember, however, that the word “strong” should do nothing to obscure the word “woman.”  Patty was both.  The ninth graders who sit beneath her image every day have no idea of what they missed.

But I do.

Arch Rivals, Best Friends


            One of the criticisms you often hear of independent schools is that they exist as a result of “the old boy network.”  That is, a great many people see schools like Norfolk Academy as out of touch, relying on traditions made easier to maintain by wealth.  At our worst, a tiny bit of this may be true. Many years ago, a student in my 4th-grade class at The Gilman School in Baltimore, upon seeing in his geography book a picture of the crowded slums of Calcutta, asked, “Where do they keep their horses?”  But I have learned since that day in 1975 that the network of associations formed by independent school teachers and administrators is anything but out of touch and has nothing to do with money.

            Take for example the lifelong bond between our Tom Duquette and Doug Tarring, former lacrosse coach and present athletic director at St. Anne’s-Belfield School in Charlottesville.  Their paths first crossed as opponents in a Junior Varsity basketball game between Gilman, where Tom was a ninth-grader, and St. Paul’s School, where Doug was a sophomore.  They knew each other then only as opponents and parties to a post-game handshake.  They would oppose each other on the lacrosse field for three high-school seasons and join forces as summer counselors at Camp Blackrock, a venture sponsored and run by Bob Scott, legendary lacrosse coach at Johns Hopkins College.  Scott was trying to ease mounting racial tensions in Baltimore by bussing inner-city black kids and mostly suburban white kids out to a day camp where both could share the traditional outdoor activities of swimming, capture the flag, and slip-sliding on rain-soaked hills.  To this day Tom is unsure if Blackrock actually changed any of its campers, and it is sadly undeniable that racial positions in the greater community hardened and intensified over those three summers from 1967 to 1969.  But it is also true that Tom and Doug learned a lot about life and became inseparable friends.

            So, the year after Tarring went to play lacrosse at the University of Virginia, Duquette followed.  Together at UVa the two would win two national championships. When Doug moved on to coach JV lacrosse at St. Anne’s, Tom followed a year later as the Varsity coach.  In those days, lacrosse was well on the periphery of high school sports in Virginia.  But coincident with Duquette’s move to Norfolk Academy (or probably because of it), lacrosse exploded in popularity.  With Tarring moving up to Varsity Coach at St. Anne’s, the rivalry was on.  Over the 29 years they coached against each other they won 14 state championships – seven each.  Their head-to-head matchup over the years?  Eighteen wins each.  And as close as their records have been, their friendship has grown even closer.


            They even created a champion’s trophy, the Massey-Bishop Cup, to be presented to each year’s victor.  Named in honor of the two independent school legendary Headmasters, STAB’s Ham Bishop and our J. B. Massey, it represents all that is good about high school sports.  Several years ago, it happened that STAB and NA faced each other in the last regular-season game one Saturday and in the state tournament the following Saturday.  Gene Arnette, quarterback of the UVa football team in the late 1960’s, happened to see both games. He took the time to write Doug and Tom and said that the games were “physical, hard-fought, and well-played. Your boys represented themselves, their team, and and their school proudly.  They were gentlemen in victory as well as defeat.”  That note is one of Tom Duquette’s most prized possessions.


            Tarring has recently relinquished the post of Varsity lacrosse coach, although he has stayed on as Athletic Director.  Duquette shows no sign of giving up another of his prized possessions – his coach’s whistle.  And even though the one-on-one coaching rivalry has ended, the relationship between these two old soldiers (Tom’s words, not mine) has done nothing but deepen.  And the students at both schools are its direct beneficiaries.  The spirit of the Massey-Bishop Cup, we hope, lodges somewhere in the hearts of our kids.  It’s bigger even than “sportsmanship.”  The kind of competition that Gene Arnette described should create and render permanent lifelong respect for the opponent.  Too often these days we tend to permit rivalry to deteriorate into contempt.  That’s not the point of competing, and that’s not what we are after at Norfolk Academy.


            We lost 16 – 9 to STAB ten days ago.  It wasn’t any fun losing.  But you know what? Neither Tom nor Doug can remember who won that JV basketball game in 1967.  They do remember the handshake.

Don’t Make Me Go, Mom


 This chronicle is published with the permission of Adrienne Pruden Ashby.  She has reviewed its contents but has not participated in its writing.  I am deeply grateful for her assistance.

Adrienne's Senior Yearbook Photo
Adrienne’s Senior Yearbook Photo

         When in August of 1986 Adrienne Pruden arrived for her first day of school at Norfolk Academy, it wasn’t her idea.  In fact, she fought her mother tooth and nail not to have to go to a new school.  Being African-American and attending her local elementary school, she believed she would have nothing in common with the students at this high and mighty private school.  She had been doing very well in the classroom and had a nice set of friends around her.  From her perspective, changing schools at the beginning of seventh grade was the equivalent of moving to a new continent.  But Mom was unruffled by her objections, and insisted that she start going to school on Wesleyan Drive.  You see, Mom knew something about Adrienne that Adrienne had not yet learned about herself.

         Of course Adrienne had been here before, attending an open house and taking the admissions test.  In that process she had met and interviewed with Gary Laws.  Being a veteran at such things, he quickly saw what Mom saw. This was a young woman not only possessing an uncommon intellect but also, already, beginning to reveal a big heart.  He muttered to himself his characteristic “whoa!” and wrote, simply enough, “take her!!” on the cover of her admissions folder.  The offer of admission was extended and after some family discussion accepted.  Adrienne was a good girl, and somewhere inside she hoped that Mom actually knew best.

         She will readily tell you that the first few months confirmed her fears.  Her old friends were gone, and she had no immediate way to get “in” with her new classmates.  There were days in September and October when she felt very, very lonely.  But sometime in that fall, Kate Hofheimer Wilson became, in today’s lingo, her new best friend.  Now there was somebody to walk to chapel with and to sit beside in class.  Soon, athletics became another entrée. She made JV Basketball (girls then played in the fall) and JV Volleyball in the winter, the only seventh-grader on the team.  “Big Lefty,” her coaches called her, more for her drive than for her size.  As the weeks passed, “Don’t make me go” evolved into “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”  By January the morning refrain was, “Come on, Mom, I’m late!”  When the fall of 1987 came around she could not wait to get back to school.

         That fall also saw the arrival of Maryam Nowroozi.  Adrienne remembered her own struggles at the start of the previous year and extended her hand in friendship to this new girl.  It didn’t happen right away, but by senior year they were joined at the hip.  They made an impressive pair, strong, brilliant, funny, and assured.  That year your humble chronicler was the proud parent of eight-year-old twins and a two-year old, all girls.  They were a handful.  Pruden and Nowroozi joined forces to form an imposing baby-sitting team.  On those nights when my wife and I were out, the children were at home having a ball (and then going to bed on time) while Mom and Dad had absolutely no worries.

Adrienne and Maryam in 2011

          Adrienne Pruden Ashby has gone on to do many great things, far too numerous to list here.  Suffice it to say that she is the only alumna whose picture has made the cover of the Wall Street Journal, and above the fold at that. That’s because as a lawyer in Atlanta she decided to leave her well-paid position at Kilpatrick Stockton, one of Atlanta’s largest law firms, and thereafter almost single-handedly brought down a corrupt and usurious lending operation that was preying on the poor in that town.  Subsequently she turned her attentions to doing what she could to improve public schooling in the region.  Again, her resumé is far too lengthy to detail here.

          And as impressive as they are, it is not at this moment her achievements that demand our attention.  Rather, we should focus on a shy but warm-hearted young girl who had the tenacity to work through an abrupt change in her adolescent life and make the most of it.  We should focus on a young woman who did in fact come to understand what her Mom knew all along.  Once she grew in confidence, she also recognized that this school could provide her opportunities she might not find anywhere else.  More important, she realized that, beginning with the Morehead Scholarship at the University of North Carolina, taking advantage of those opportunities could put her in positions where she could do great good.  As corny as it sounds, Adrienne went to law school not to make money but to seek justice.  Twenty years later she remains a role model for our students.  She teaches them that you can do great things if you are ready when the chance comes.

          She and her family have recently moved back into our area. She misses Atlanta, the place where her children were born, but does like being closer to her extended family.  And in our school and in our community we are all surely better for her return.  Welcome back, Ms. Ashby.  Nice to see you again.

Springtime for Royster


For some twenty-five years now Gary Laws has been quoting from Dickens in an effort to describe our Middle School.  “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .”  Mr. Laws’s choice from the opening of A Tale of Two Cities is particularly apt, for it captures the wild swings of the emotional pendulum that accompanies the journey through adolescence.  In trying to describe the joys of acting as a tour guide on that journey, teachers must not minimize the accompanying agonies.  But all of us working in this wacky place called Royster have concluded that the smiles greatly outnumber the tears.  As proof of that, consider that the mean tenure of Middle School faculty is between 12 and 13 years and that almost half the faculty has taught here for more than 15 years.  In this age of mobility those numbers are astonishing.  Something must be bringing us back year after year.

Woody Poole entertains a rapt Middle School science class.

          Most of the allure is obvious.  Earlier this year we witnessed a ninth grade student give her required speech to the middle school.  This young woman, who twelve months earlier considered her herself homely, academically inferior to her classmates, and worst of all, unpopular, stood up in front of 350 adolescents, 25 teachers, and her extended family, and presented a well-crafted, reasoned argument with confidence and even a little style.  Utterly self-assured and poised, she held her audience captive for seven minutes and then resumed her seat to prolonged and genuine applause.  The smile on her face as she exited the stage to meet her family was enough to sustain us for another year.  Even those who had never taught her could not help but swell with pride at her triumph.  So, to paraphrase Bill Murray from Caddyshack, we got that going for us.

Middle School boys, doing what they do.

            But there is another reason to remain as a teacher in Royster.  The kids, particularly when spring arrives, are just so completely “out there.”  The unpredictable silliness and downright goofiness of a middle school student can, if you are looking carefully, provide you with hours of entertainment and even joy.  Consider the following absolutely true episodes:

  • When asked why he broke the glass face of one of the hallway clocks with his face this particular young man responded, “I wanted to show my friends that I could kiss it.”

Note how much "air" the young man needed to get to kiss said clock.


  • When told by his baseball coach that this seventh grader had his shoes on the wrong feet, this young man became confused, stared down at the backward cleats, and after a few seconds looked up and said, “No I don’t.  These are my feet.”  
  • When reminded with two minutes left in class not to forget the handout that had fallen to the floor under his desk, this young man said, “Thanks, I won’t.”  As he left the class without retrieving the handout, the teacher called, “Billy, you forgot your handout!”  Billy turned and with a quizzical look said, “What handout?”

Are they really THAT lost in thought?

  • When asked to pass the mashed potatoes, this ninth grader reached into the bowl, grabbed a massive handful, leaned across the table and deposited it on the appropriate plate.  The recipient merely uttered a polite and unconcerned “Thank you.”
  • When a ninth grade girl was asked to find the grammar error in “The committee gave the award to Carlos and I,” she was initially unable to answer.  So the teacher said “Just take Carlos out of it – does ‘the committee gave the award to I’ sound right?”  The girl frowned and said, “but that’s so unfair to Carlos!”

And so it goes.

Middle School girls can act just as goofy as their male counterparts.

  Teachers have to be able to identify those moments when a student might be placing himself in physical or emotional danger (like trying to kiss a clock face seven feet in the air) and those in which the student is doing something silly and ultimately endearing.  The line between those two is not readily apparent to an eighth-grader.  I have often heard the only partially humorous suggestion that we simply pad the Royster walls.  As a faculty we try to provide protection that we hope will be better than foam rubber.  I have also heard repeatedly over the years parents ask, in earnest supplication, “When will my child stop being so goofy?”  The answer is that he will – sometime.  Each of us grows—and grows up—at a different pace.  In the meantime, it’s okay to appreciate the silliness for what it is, knowing that somewhere beneath it are serious, mature beings waiting to emerge.

Once, when I was conducting a review game in my Ancient History class while preparing for the upcoming Egypt unit test, I decided to break the monotony and ask a few trivia questions.  So I gestured toward my beloved poster of the “Fab Four” and asked a student if she could identify two of the four Beatles.  She scrunched up her face and offered, “Scarab and . . . dung?”

 I could not possibly make this stuff up.

Carpool Quadratic


So I’m out in front of the athletic pavilion the other morning, supposedly greeting seniors as they arrive.  This is my week for traffic duty.  I look down the sidewalk to my right to see Chris Runzo manning a similar duty in front of the main entrance.  A group of children has gathered around him, and there appears to be some sort of game afoot.  So I abandon my post to walk over to see what’s going on with Mr. Runzo.

What's going on here?

                   As each Middle Schooler unloads from his car (and 90% of them who don’t ride the bus disembark at this spot), Mr. Runzo asks one of two questions.  The eighth-graders are called upon to recite the quadratic equation before they are allowed passage into school. The ninth-graders are asked to repeat the law of cosines in order to gain access.  Every single student tries his best.  In the five or six minutes that I am there, not one single kid shows any sign of impatience or intolerance.  Not one adolescent considers the question annoying or “geeky.” With great good cheer each accepts the challenge, rolls the eyes skyward and takes a fair shot at “x equals negative b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4ac, all over 2a.”  Some get it right, while others get halfway there. There are even two or three students—those who can recite the quadratic formula in their sleep—hanging around trying to coach their classmates and simply reveling in the whole experience.

Mr. Runzo and today's "partner in crime."

There are about twelve things right about this situation, but I’ll limit myself to two or three.

First, a sizable number of kids, in March of their eighth-grade year, can in fact recite the quadratic equation.  Others get pretty close.  We must be teaching them something.  Wait, I take that back – they must be learning something.  We faculty have the privilege of working with the brightest group of kids around.  What an incredible pleasure it is to be teaching kids who overwhelmingly want to learn and are very, very good at it.  It can also be a real challenge when a whole lot of kids in the room are smarter than you are.  I once had an Ancient History student who would not hesitate to correct me publicly if I said something false in class. I took him aside and said that I didn’t mind, but that he shouldn’t do so “in front of the children.”  We are kept on our toes, but it is absolutely worth it.

Another cheerful “victim.”

           Second, the students are uniformly polite, even cheerful.  At 7:55 in the morning, no less.  I’m still grumpy and need a few more minutes charging my battery.  What is it with these kids?  Maybe they are just playing off Mr. Runzo, who is having more fun than he should be having by challenging his students as they arrive.  And the unofficial student coaches are smiling and giggling as each classmate makes his attempt.  You cannot help but be buoyed by what is transpiring here. This is happy medicine indeed.  Of course in a few hours I might be barking at seniors for the profundity of their second-semester slump (which, in fact, I was) or at some eighth-grade boy for playing keep-away with a classmate’s pen (ditto).  But at this precise moment there is enough goodwill to chase away the less than perfect moments to come.

More important than anything else, this is ultimately not about intelligence or optimism or even math.  Take a close look at the attached video.  This is about Mr. Runzo, or more precisely, the relationship that has been forged between Mr. Runzo and his students.  Check out the kids’ body language.  Look at the ease with which they respond to the challenge.  It’s not that they are friends with him – some may well have felt the sting of his rebuke from time to time.  The relationship is deeper and more important than friendship.  For lack of a better word, they respect him.  They know in their hearts that he wants only the best for each of them.  For a few, he is also their coach who works them senseless in practice because he wants so desperately for each to succeed.  And so when he throws a little brainteaser at them as they arrive, they are delighted to respond.

Mr. Runzo’s traffic duty doubles as a math quiz. Middle Schoolers know that when he’s on duty no one gets past without reciting the quadratic equation or the Law of Cosines.

At the end of each school year Mr. Manning conducts exit interviews with each senior.  One of the questions he asks is “What is the best thing about Norfolk Academy?”  The overwhelming majority response is “relationships with teachers.”  This creates a wonderful symbiosis. Teachers here love working with kids and crave success for them.  When the students realize this from Ms. Beloved English Teacher or Mr. Respected Science Prof, they respond with their best shot at trying to fulfill the expectations.  Which makes us love them even more.  Which makes them try to live up to our expectations even more. The feelings on each side can last a lifetime.

While lunching at No Frill Grill last weekend I ran into two young women I had taught in the 1988 – 1989 school year.  One of the two I know well and see often.  The other I don’t recall having seen since graduation those many years ago.  Since it has been so long, she supplied her name even though in this instance it was not necessary.  The pleasure she took at saying hello was obvious, not because it was Mr. Savage, but because my face reminded her of all the teachers that had worked with her twenty or thirty years ago. She bore precisely the same expression as those kids greeting Mr. Runzo.

But to any alumnus or alumna reading this, allow me to let you in on a little secret.  For all those years, you have meant every bit as much to us as we may have meant to you.