Wood's Words: The Egon Years
Jim F. Wood ‘64
Late August 1960, the summer sun was still warm against the sand at Jones Beach West End, and the afternoon breeze caused you to shiver just a little after one final day of soaking up rays. The sand bar 150 yards off shore was exposed at low tide and the westward rip current could drag you toward Point Lookout in the blink of an eye. The lifeguards lounged on their white wooden stands. Bronzed from a summer of work, they were big muscular men with sun-bleached hair. No one was allowed into deep water today; the guards were quick to blow a deafening blast from their whistle if you even attempted to wade in over your waist.
We lay face down on an old blanket listening to the growl of waves crashing on the beach. Bill Mazeroski’s ninth inning home run against the Yankees’ Ralph Terry, winning the World Series for Pittsburg was still six weeks away. The blanket smelled of summer: salt, sun tan lotion made from iodine and baby oil, beer, hot dog relish, and various cosmetics. The beach was nearly empty at 4 PM and we tried hard to begin the process of saying our goodbyes. Jay was off to Lehigh, Pete to Colgate, and me to Clarkson. We played varsity soccer and lacrosse together in high school and had been pals since 1948. It was the last time I would see either of them.
Screams of laughter could be heard from the dunes behind us. We looked up to see five girls run past kicking sand in every direction. They ran by the lifeguard stand and just as their feet hit the surf two guards began blowing their whistles as loud as they could against the onshore breeze. One of the girls must have heard them because she turned and waved- but didn’t stop. In they went, powerful strokes, directly toward the sand bar. The guards were off their stands instantly, running toward the surf, life preservers over their shoulders.
It was no contest. The girls reached the sand bar, stood up, looked toward the shore, swam back before the guards had even reached the halfway point, then waited in shallow surf for the guards to return, kidding with each other. They were pretty girls, tall, with broad shoulders and short hair. Each wore a blue one-piece swimsuit with a USA patch on the back. The guards were not happy at all, but were won over by the girls’ playfulness and they talked softly as they walked together back to the lifeguard stand to towel off. This was the 1960 USA Women’s Olympic swim team enjoying themselves after the Rome games. They smiled at us as they walked by, but the best we could do was stand up, smile back and say congratulations. Then they were gone. And so were we.
My father drove Roger and I from Baldwin to Potsdam the next day. The roads from Long Island to Albany were full of cars, trucks, delivery vans and Greyhound busses. It seemed a college migration was underway. At Albany, we turned north into the Adirondacks. Neither of us had visited Potsdam before accepting admission to Clarkson, and neither of us had been in the Adirondacks before, so we were unprepared for its beauty, the fresh smell of pine needles baking in the summer heat, the picturesque towns of Glenns Falls, Blue Mountain Lake, and Tupper Lake, and the deep blue sky that framed the soft green mountains and was reflected in rivers and lakes.
We arrived at 7 PM after 13 hours in the car, hungry and nervous. A map of town had been provided with the admissions package, so we knew enough to drive to the dormitories on the Hill Campus. The sun in the western sky burned on the Raquette River and lit up the locally quarried rough-hewn sandstone and stained glass windows inscribed with the Founders’ names of Trinity Episcopal Church on Fall Island. Hill Campus in 1960 consisted of two dormitories, plus Holcroft Hall, Woodstock Lodge, the Alumni gymnasium and the athletic fields. The balance of the Hill Campus was deep woods where early fall was encouraging the leaves to turn. We parked the car in front of the dorm now known as Reynolds House and walked into the center office space where we received room assignments, book lists, and read “Orders of the Day” pursuant to the hazing that would begin when the sophomores arrived on campus two days hence.
No one slept that night. Room doors were left open against the waning summer heat and to encourage budding friendships. There were quiet hall conversations; you heard Canadian, Brooklyn, and New England accents- and the flat Utica dialect- late into the night. On this floor lived a future All-American hockey player, several future company presidents, and students who would start successful businesses, two Korean War veterans, a transfer student from Lehigh who made me feel for my friend Jay, and many who would become successful engineers and businessmen. On this floor lived no women: Women would not join Clarkson for another 4 years, after an absence of almost 60 years.
Some of the first weeks’ memories are lost in time, but I remember- and still retain- the beanie we all wore. I remember the hearty arguments about the kind of slide rule to buy; bamboo or mahogany- K&E or Post, the scary calculus and physics books, and of course the formidable freshman chemistry book. There were Daily Orders pinned to a bulletin board in each dorm and in the cafeterias: wear only green and gold, carry all books, wear your overcoat backwards, walk backwards across the Raquette River bridge, know the address of every fraternity, know the name of every varsity hockey player, what year did Clarkson start, call every upperclassman “Sir”, sing the alma mater at the top of your lungs while walking down Main Street, and always wear the ubiquitous green beanie with the gold 64 above the short bill. Everyone knew freshmen by that little cap and by week 2 it became either a badge of unity or loathed and despised. Woe to the freshman caught not wearing the cap. For this and other infractions, members of the Varsity C club would break into the offending freshman’s dorm room late at night, pin him down, and shave his skull clean but for a “C” on the top. Mysteriously, his photograph would show up the following day on the front page of the Integrator.
And so I joined the other 475 students in the class of 1964, and during our orientation was told to “look right, then look left, for one of you will not make it to graduation”. We soon yearned for the push ball game that would end freshman hazing. An 8-foot diameter inflated leather ball sat in the middle of a field with a “goal line” at either end: Freshman class on one side, sophomores (and probably a few upper class ringers as well) on the other side. At the whistle, each side pushed and strained to move the ball across the facing goal line. It was a winner-take-all proposition; if the freshman won, hazing stopped; if the upper classmen won, hazing continued another week. The ball first moved slowly forward, then in reverse, then slipped left and right, where 150 more students on each side raced to control its movement. Much foul language was heard, and many attempts at blocking pushers from the other side. It lasted 25 minutes, but hazing ended that cool Saturday afternoon at 3:45 PM. Beanies were thrown into the air, freshman and upperclassmen shook hands and a life-long attachment to an institution was welded with a hundred new friendships.
Classes and homework dominated our week: 21 credit hours, 8-5 Monday-Friday and 8- 12 on Saturday. Chemistry, and Physics classes were held in large windowless lecture halls. Saturdays were devoted to labs, and most lectures were Monday, Wednesday and Friday. For the first week, just a review of high school senior year, then things started to accelerate. A wonderful amalgam of professional instructors, such variety in their backgrounds, accents, teaching styles and dress. Some of the text books helped- many did not. And those freshmen less prepared could be seen lined up in the halls during office hours.
Dr. Egon Matijević did not merely instruct on the subject of chemistry, he embraced the subject. And while he might have preferred a comparison to Luka Sorkočević, it has always seemed to me that Egon’s mastery of his profession is similar to the way Chopin played music whenever he placed his fingers upon a piano: An adagio here, a legato there, then tempo and reverberation, affection, humor, and above all, passion. Egon joined Clarkson in 1957 as a research associate in physical and colloidal chemistry. It was our great fortune that he was promoted to associate professor of chemistry in 1960, and deigned it agreeable to lecture a section of freshman chemistry. The large lecture hall, poorly lit, neutral of color, full of young men struggling with the concepts of ions, moles and atomic weights, was a perfect venue and did not upstage a man seriously engaged in creating a passion for his chosen field.
Maybe it was the thick accent, or the ramrod straight back. Perhaps the fluidity with which he wrote formulae on the blackboard, or answered a student’s question that seemingly suggested the student probably had absorbed nothing over the preceding 25 minutes. Maybe it was the European air he brought to the classroom, the tweed jacket, nicely cut at the waist, the subdued tie, and the white starched shirt. Maybe it was all these things. But he commanded his class; he injected himself into the subject. Even as Potsdam fall gave way to winter and the walk from the Hill Campus in ear numbing weather became a challenge for morning classes, his 9 AM lecture on chemistry was respectfully- attended. For me, at least, the idyll days at Jones Beach now were as forgotten as yesterday’s newspaper.
He was, of course, a disciplinarian: Took attendance, required homework to be turned in, and created tough hour exams and snap quizzes. Students with lesser interest in chemistry attended his class because they suspected he would be fair if they tried hard. And he was. A student who sat in the back of the lecture hall, let’s call him Joe E. Bushey, was completely bored with chemistry, tried hard to get friends to do his homework and struggled with the exams. Egon, no doubt knew this, sensing it from fifty feet away as he lectured the class while observing the expressions on each student’s face. Often, he would ask “Mr. Bushey” a direct question, I am certain, just to enjoy the squirming that went on at Bushey’s desk. But rain, snow, sleet or minus 30 F, Bushey showed for each class. In fact one particular Monday morning, Bushey appeared much more attentive that usual. His eyes were wide open, eyebrows arched and pencil on paper. Again 10 minutes later you noticed the same. But wait, there were no notes on the paper and the expression was precisely as it had been from the beginning of the class. Bushey’s breathing was slow and rhythmic and you had to wonder if a man could actually sleep with his eyes open. Had the professor seen it too?
Egon was facing the blackboard, writing and describing the subject of pH. Without changing the level or tone in his voice, he asked if Mr. Bushey understood the math behind the pH scale. Everyone held his breath- except Bushey, who continued to breath slowly and deeply. Egon continued with the lecture while climbing the stairs toward the rear of the lecture hall. Standing next to Bushey, and continuing to speak, Egon put his hand on the student’s shoulder. Never since has a human levitated as high as Bushey. In that vertical motion and amid the unsightly contortions his body made, a piece of something exploded from each eye socket. Later, it was determined he had manufactured an eyelid cover for each eye from pieces of eggshell. Carefully trimmed with a nail clipper, and colored with magic markers, each appeared exactly as would an open eye, except for the fact that neither could blink nor move. Egon had, of course, noticed the unusual prosthetic at the beginning of the period, but waited until Bushey was completely asleep to foil the student’s plan. The lecture hall was in uproar. Bushey was asked to leave, but as Egon walked back to the front of the class, you were sure there was a crinkle in the corner of each eye; he had thoroughly enjoyed the entire episode. Bushey returned to the class on Wednesday, to a special front-row seat. If recollection serves, he passed the course too.
Midterms arrived with what passes for a fresh breeze in Potsdam. Just enough wind-chill to remind you winter is coming, so break out the long johns. Many freshmen were in a panic about exams, but surely the largest group with the most fear was the freshmen chemistry cohort. About two weeks before midterms, a large blackboard appeared in the Hill dorm cafeteria. Carefully lettered on it was, “freshmen having difficulty with chemistry are suggested to meet here each evening from 7 PM-9 PM where a chemistry professor will be available to answer students’ questions.” How extraordinary: Socratic teaching here at Clarkson in the style imagined by Thomas Jefferson when he laid out the Quad at UVA. Sure enough, each evening, after the meal, when dishes had been put away and tables straightened, students from the freshman dorms would gather slowly in the cafeteria- afraid to show their ignorance in such a communal environment, but more afraid of the mid-term exam. Some would arrive early, and find a seat at a table in the rear, but increasingly many young men, probably away from home for the first time, wandered in wearing PJ’s or sweats, slippers and robes, carrying homework, text books and a few sharpened pencils- and sat at the foot of the blackboard. Evening after evening, including Saturdays, professors would arrive promptly at 7 PM and review the semester’s course work. If you attended all these refreshers, you could see the world of chemistry from each professor’s point of view.
Then it was Egon’s turn. He arrived a little early on a cold Thursday evening. No leaves remained on the tall oaks and the wind cut across the Hill landscape, numbing the face of any who dared go outside. It was the kind of evening that could freeze a bath towel to the window if you were not quick to remove it. He was dressed casually, a pair of corduroys and a turtleneck sweater, his face a bit ruddy from the wind but his hair neatly combed back. He carried no books, no papers, and no notes of any kind; only several pieces of white chalk and an eraser. The cafeteria was packed. Probably 200 students stood, or sat around the end of the room where the blackboard was placed. He looked out into the faces of those 18-year old students, smiled and said, “I will answer every question you have tonight, and stay until we are done, but I require your attention and your silence.” He got both. First one hand raised, then another, then five, or ten; absolute silence except for the student asking the question- or the answer. His understanding of the poorly asked questions was formidable, his answers clear and concise: no condescension. Two hundred pencils moved with each word, copied each formula, and heads began to shake up and down as concepts once hidden were revealed. By 9:30 PM, most of the questions had been asked and answered and his steady gaze peered into the mass of students beneath him. Then it got better.
Slowly, Egon pointed his hand- not his finger- at one student and said quietly, “Bob, I remember you had a confused look on your face last week in class when we went through this subject. Do you understand it now?” Panic! Bob knew if he said yes, he would be asked a question and be embarrassed, and if he said no- also embarrassed. But Egon knew this too and said, “Look, many of you have asked no questions and my fear is you remain confused. So I have asked Bob this question in the hope he and I can help you overcome any shyness and get you the answers you need. Right, Bob?” Bob, sitting on the floor, not ten feet from Egon, stood up and said, “Sir, I really do not understand this concept in a way that would make me confident to answer it on the exam.” Egon invited Bob to approach the board, to stand with him and work out the concept in front of the others. This was all done in ten minutes with such care and understanding that Bob felt compelled to shake Egon’s hand as he returned to his seat on the floor. Egon was to appear two more times at these refreshers before midterms, and each time he stayed as long as it took, and each time, the cafeteria was full. Often, students just wandering from one dorm wing to another would stop and listen and stay. The sensitivity with which he answered questions in this forum was wonderful. Students left each refresher more confident and more convinced they could pass the exam.
And so began the Egon years: They have stretched now to a half-century and surely thousands of graduate and undergraduate students have studied and learned from this remarkable craftsman. Also, in that time Egon has garnered many awards and distinctions: Among them the Kendall Award, the highest prize awarded by the American Chemical Society, which he won in 1972 for outstanding achievement in the field of colloid and surface chemistry. At that time, no U.S. University had more than one faculty member who had won this award; Clarkson had three. In 1985 CAMP was established to draw together all the materials research being done on campus. One of the motivations that convinced New York State to fund this research institute at Clarkson was the pioneering work Egon was doing in micron and sub micron particles. That early research became what, today, is called nano-technology- a rich and substantial advancement in materials processing that holds much promise for mankind.
In his seminal history of Clarkson, A Clarkson Mosaic, Brad Broughton describes a “Last Lecture” series, begun in 1977, in which campus faculty lectured students on a subject of their choice as if it was the faculty’s last lecture. Egon began with “Dreams”, saying dreams are for the young. He said as a youth in Yugoslavia, his two dreams were to come to America and to succeed in an academic career. He said he knew he had achieved his first dream, but unfortunately it would take another 20-30 years to determine if he would reach his second dream. Those 30 years now have passed. They are filled with dedication to his art and to the University where he practiced and perfected it. He has brought honor on Clarkson, on his profession, and on himself. Surely there is no doubt this man has achieved his second dream.
Try and make time in 2007 to meet Egon as he travels the U.S. refreshing his acquaintance with old friends, students, and colleagues. His hair is a majestic white, and still neatly combed back. He stands straight and proud and looks right at you when he speaks. His handshake and voice are strong, his tweed jacket still has a rakish cut. And, if you are lucky, and look closely into those clear blue eyes, you may see crinkles in the corners. For Egon is a man living his dream…and dreams are for the young.