October 24, 2024
by Richard Goodman, former creative nonfiction faculty
There he was, beaten leather briefcase under his arm, stepping out of the elevator. I would meet him in the lobby of the Brown Hotel to walk to campus for the morning session of our workshop in creative nonfiction. He looked to me, in his khakis, work shirt, old vest and un-new hat, like someone about to go birding. Add to that, beard, with flecks of white and gray, glasses perched on his nose, and all that was missing was a pair of binoculars suspended from his neck. (He was, indeed, a birder.) As we walked the Louisville morning, we would talk about the work we were going to discuss that day and anything else that came to mind about the upcoming workshop. I can still hear his voice, a woody instrument, maybe somewhat like an oboe, that pretty much stayed at the same level. Those walks with him were a fine way to start what was, as all you readers know, a very long day.
This was Bob Finch, nature writer extraordinaire, former faculty member, who died September 30 and who gave much to Spalding. Some of you reading this knew him, may have even taken a workshop with him, but I suspect many of you have not had that experience, since Bob left Spalding in 2012. So I hope some of those who did know him will leave an impression of Bob in the comments for others to read.
I can see him now in workshop, sitting at one of the large Viking-sized tables we gathered around, his head slightly tilted, listening acutely, poised to make a remark, drawn bow, an expert archer. Words would come out, deliberate, measured, precise. Nothing wasted. I always saw the students’ work more clearly by listening to Bob’s insights. In his comments, as in his writing, he was deliberate, candid. I told him more than once I learned as much from him in workshop as did the students. True.
He was not a memoir writer. He was a nature writer. He wrote mainly but not exclusively about Cape Cod, where he lived for fifty years and about which he wrote ten books. Many of the nonfiction students were attempting a memoir, but, as I say, his subject was not himself, except as a witness to something in the natural world. But memoir writer or not, his insights were applicable to any form of writing. It’s all there in his books, the purity of his calling, the care and exactness, the economy—there was not a wasted word in Bob’s prose—and the sly humor.
I might say that I can only rely on students to describe what it was like to have Bob as a mentor, but that wouldn’t be true. I have direct knowledge of that. Spalding has a policy that gives their faculty members a monetary break if they want to get their MFA through the program. I took them up on it. Like anyone else who gets their MFA at Spalding, I had to choose my mentors. I wanted the most candid, keenest and rigorous mentors. Naturally, one of the writers/teachers I chose was Bob. I wanted Bob because, simply, he knew writing, and he knew words. He understood them. He treated each word as an individual, understanding its virtues, its shortcomings, the melody it made, how it looked on the page and what it would convey to the reader.
So began the process that all of you who’ve studied at Spalding are familiar with. I sent my work out in packets to Bob and, like you, waited anxiously for his response. But what an education I got! This is from a letter to me dated October 11, 2007, in response to an essay of mine in my packet about my mother:
“A couple of things here. You expand on the recognition you made earlier in the piece about why you became a writer, but you imply that it was mostly because of the ‘thrill’ you got from seeing ‘How she [my mother] uses words.’ To be convincing, however, I think you’ll have to give some persuasive examples of how your mother was ‘a brilliant negotiator of words.’ It’s not really there in what you give us. O.K., I’m going to break my resolution and merely suggest that one possible interpretation of how your mother gave you the desire to become a writer was that your becoming a professional writer was a way of vicariously letting her become the writer she might have been, but never had the chance to.”
Now, that’s an insight that made me sit up straight. This is the kind of acuity his students received in their packets and in workshop. Yes, along with callings out. All of which came from a pure, passionate devotion to language.
At the end of that long day at Spalding, we’d meet once again in the lobby of the Brown. We’d sit among students and faculty alike, hierarchy left behind. Bob would hold his own court, beer in hand, cheerful and expansive, talking and listening, engaging one and all. I am reluctant to leave that memory of him there. I want to keep it as long as I can. Sometimes Bob would play the piano. He played well, and he enjoyed it, and we would sing to his playing, and what better thing is there than to sing? He was hard to resist and why would you?
Note: this essay sprang from a conversation with Katy Yocom who suggested I write about Bob’s time at Spalding. I had written about Bob, his work and our friendship in my October 8 newsletter, which has links to some of Bob’s books and to his excellent radio pieces. I’m grateful to Katy for this opportunity.
Richard Goodman is the author of French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France. He is co-editor of The Gulf South: An Anthology of Environmental Writing. His website is www.richardgoodman.org. He writes a newsletter about living in Louisiana, https://richardgoodman.substack.com/.