Dear Lindsay,
We lost of number of classmates (link) this year, and we lost a special friend to the Class of 1979.
He was President Rhodes. Dr. Rhodes. Professor Rhodes. We all called him “Frank.”
But not to his face.
He was passionate scholar, towering leader, and melodic speaker.
He walked onto campus in fall 1977. Then he walked with us for the next 43 years.
He led Cornell for a rare 18-year run and then kept on leading – for another 25. He entered and shaped the lives of nearly all living alumni. But, we knew deep down he was our Class of ’79 President (because he told us so at our commencement and at our 35th Reunion).
It’s hard to describe a man who at times seemed super-human. His ideals, wisdom and spirit seemed unattainable by mere mortals. His charm, class, and style were inspirational and aspirational. As close as we felt to him, we felt unworthy to call ourselves equals or partners. We strove to be worthy friends. But he was our friend. Definitely.
That voice. His euphonious accent merged with thoughtfully selected words – almost always including a perfect quotation that succinctly captured a whole lesson in 10 or 15 words. Like a beautiful piece of music that we yearn to embrace, we hated when his brief welcomes, succinct introductions, tributes and presentations came to an end.
I often fantasized about marrying into the Rhodes family, if only to hear daily a distinguished and distinct cadence asking “Pass the mashed potatoes, please” or “Did you wash your hands before dinner?” I imagine his early morning request for “eggs sunny-side up” lofted into the quiet morning air like a breathtaking phrase from a brilliant Mozart serenade.
Frank was the consummate fundraiser, not only when his magnetic personality bore down on the helpless (and suspecting) donor, but by increasing our own irrational love for Cornell. Even when the campus was an extended construction zone, he prodded a graduating senior class and their families not to lament the loss of campus vistas but to travel to any other Ivy League campus and compare: “Count the cranes,” he implored. “Cornell is on the move, growing, improving, and readying itself for the next age of learning.”
One of his brilliant acts was encouraging all Cornellians to sing a second verse of our Alma Mater. Singing the first verse was a rote obligation; in singing the second stanza we simultaneously reached for harmony and connection.
I was in Ithaca having morning coffee with friend and life trustee Ezra Cornell ’70 when he took a call. I could tell it was sad news from the consolation in Ezra’s voice. I did not expect this news.
Even at 93, his death on February 3, 2020 was a shock. He did seem immortal. He certainly is eternal. To all whom we remember and to all whom we hold dear.
