Walter Schwab, my St. Mark’s classmate, Yale roommate, wedding usher, colleague on the School’s Board of Trustees, and dear friend over the years, did what no St. Mark’s student could do today: spend six years at the School. During the decade of the 1940s, St. Mark’s had six forms. The First Form was the smallest in number: when our Class of 1948 graduated 47, there were 14 boys in the First Form. Walter entered the School three months before his 12th birthday: an early start on that passageway from childhood to near-adulthood we traverse during the boarding school years. Walter was a leader of our Class: in Sixth Form, a letterman in football, hockey and baseball, the President of the Athletic Association, a Brantwood counselor, and a Monitor. He continued to render devoted service to the School as an alumnus, Class Agent, and Trustee. Walter was a Trustee during the transition from the tenure of Tony and Elsa Hill to that of John Warren, thereby ensuring the continued excellence of St. Mark’s.
The positions Walter played to earn his varsity letters foretell the calling that he followed during the last 28 years of his life: enhancing the lives of others. In football, he led the undefeated St. Mark’s team in offensive blocking, enhancing the lives of ball carriers and the quarterback. In hockey, he was a defenseman, enhancing the life of the goalie. In baseball, he played right field and led the team in hitting, enhancing the lives of the pitchers. In the 1948 Lion, the storied Bill Barber, teacher of Greek, varsity hockey coach, and destined Headmaster, enlarged upon his review of the hockey season and wrote that Schwab “tried tirelessly, effectively, and as was the case in every sport, most courageously.”
To live life courageously is not given to us all. A manifestation of that courage is the ability to speak honestly about ourselves. On the occasion of our 50th Reunion at St. Mark’s, we were asked to compose accounts about where we were in life, how we had gotten there, and with whom. Our inclination is to describe uninterrupted pathways to success, omitting any reference to bumps along the road or personal imperfections. Walter’s 50th Reunion self-portrait departed from that mold. He wrote:
One of the expectations from our era was that we were being prepared for a straightforward journey in life. As I went through the years, there seemed to be a number of false turnings, and not at all clear as I was led to expect. Since my own expectations weren’t well thought through, my early efforts at my career and life were haphazard. Throughout it all, there seemed to be missing pieces. I began to look in earnest for what might feel “wholing” and attended a wide range of programs that challenged the self and the image of one’s personal journey.
It requires courage, in middle age, to refuse to lead what Thoreau calls “a life of quiet desperation,” turn from familiar paths, and start down new ones. Walter’s courage was rewarded. As he told us in his 50th Reunion account, he was brought to a different and unanticipated place when he found his wife Judy. She was an established human relations therapist. Walter found out that he also had great strengths in that field. Seek, and sometimes you really do find. Judy and Walter worked as joint counselors of individuals, couples, and families, more recently with young clients who had encountered significant difficulties and more traditional resources had failed. They acquired clients across the country and authored a book describing the process they developed. In myriad ways, they enhanced the lives of people who brought their problems to them.
Those who love Walter celebrated his epiphany on the road from Southborough to Damascus because it made him so happy. Look at his photograph appearing on these pages. It is not a posed studio portrait, but a snapshot taken at a gathering after Walter and Judy’s marriage. Walter had his prickly moments as a boy and younger man – who doesn’t? – but that picture reveals him as transformed by happiness. I know because I was there; by virtue of my judicial office, I performed the marriage service. Many of the occasions over which a trial judge presides are melancholy for someone. This one was joyful for all. And it happened for Walter after searching for years, and having the courage to set sail on uncharted seas. I look at this wedding picture, and C.S. Lewis’s autobiographical phrase comes to mind: “Surprised by Joy.”
Earlier I quoted part of a line of Thoreau’s. I conclude with the full quotation: “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.” That Walter found the song he was born to sing, and the partner to sing it with him, gives some comfort to those who loved him, even as we mourn his death.
Terry Haight, ’48
August 30, 2010
