November 26 and 27, 2007
I first met Fr. Galvin 22 years ago when I came to Georgetown Prep in search of a position teaching math. I well remember his interviewing me—after the interview he gave me an antique algebra book—and it was in large part due to him that I was able to find a home here teaching at Prep.
In time I was appointed Chairman of the Math Department, basically because Fr. Galvin could not do it. He was already doing the work of four people. He was the sole college counselor writing a letter of recommendation for each senior and typing them himself. He was teaching three sections of Algebra. He was on the Admissions Committee. He was chaplain of the football team. He said Mass every morning. And he was the Recording Secretary for the Corporation, the corporation formed by the Society of Jesus that owns and oversees the school on behalf of the Society.
At any rate, the appointment technically made me Fr. Galvin's supervisor. Hah! He kidded me about that, but was very gracious and encouraging. We became better acquainted over the years and got in the habit of going out to dinner every few weeks. One summer he and Fr. Elliott came up to my old family farmhouse in Maine for a short but memorable visit.
I would hear about his family, his brother John, and sisters Ella and Helen, and bits and pieces about what it was like to grow up in a loving Irish family in Baltimore. I was always fascinated to learn about how he chose to enter the Society of Jesus, and what seminary was like—about his first teaching experience, and stories about his time as Academic Dean at Loyola-Baltimore, and then, later, as President of the University of Scranton.
Fr. Galvin loved being in the classroom with his students. He was a great teacher. He knew how to get his students interested in mathematics and how to make learning fun. He was an energetic and lively teacher with a commanding presence, "All right, men, today we're going to tackle factoring." He would emerge from the classroom sometimes looking like he'd been in a rugby scrum—his black clericals covered with chalk dust. He had a device called a flipper made for each student in which everything you needed to know about algebra was printed on 20 or so 3 x 5 laminated cards. There were all sorts of clever mnemonic devices, acronyms like DART and TRAP for remembering how to do word problems. He wrote a poem that helped you to remember a process called completing the square. I know many of his students will remember it.
He had the idea for starting a Summer Geometry Course so that promising students could accelerate and eventually take an AP Calculus course. He constructed the Math Placement Test given to all incoming freshman, graded the tests by hand and contacted their parents to talk about the results. It became a standing joke that each year he would find some change that needed to be made to the test. So we have 19 or so different Placement Tests. He kept school wide statistics on AP scores, wrote an annual report for College Counseling, the Headmaster and Admissions Office. He was immensely pleased to see that each year the school improved.
We shared in common the experience of military service—he was a veteran of World War II, I was a Viet Nam veteran. One of our last outings together was a trip down to Washington to see the World War II Memorial. I'm so glad we did that. While we were there, a man approached Fr. Galvin and asked if he had served in World War II. Fr. Galvin said that indeed he had. The man shook his hand and earnestly said, "I want to thank you so much for your service." Fr Galvin was visibly moved.
We would on occasion assume that ironic stance so common in the military where certain things or events in the world were FUBAR: Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition. We would laugh and tease one another especially on days when we could see a FUBAR around every corner. I would call him "Admiral" and he would call me "Lieutenant." And then sometimes we'd switch ranks—Colonel , Ensign, Private, Bosun's mate. We stayed in touch over the summers and every so often I'd get a call up in Maine that went something like this, "Otisfield, Maine? This is Ensign Galvin here slaving away in the Engine Room. And how are you enjoying your vacation, Lieutenant?"
Fr. Galvin took an intense interest in all parts of the school. He had a keen intellect and he was always looking forward, looking to the future for ways to make the school better. He knew everyone at the school by name—all the folks from the Kitchen, from Buildings and Grounds and from Security, as well as the coaches, administrators, faculty, staff and students. And of course everyone knew him. He went to almost everything there was to go to—the games, to the plays, to the concerts. He was a man of deep faith and humility, honored to be a member of the Society of Jesus, delighting in the company and friendship of his brother Jesuits and proud of their many accomplishments.
At public events he was a magnet. Alumni, parents, and students gravitated to him to say hello, to say thank you. He was an inspiring presence. He was such a big-hearted man and he had a way of conveying to you, to you personally, that he cared for you—in the Jesuit lexicon cura personalis. St. Ignatius was looking for men like this, men who would care for souls. Fr Galvin was such a one. Fr. Galvin gave you hope, encouragement and love—hope that you can make yourself a better person, encouragement to get out there and do it, and, above all, love.
I would like to conjure up an image for you. Picture Fr. Galvin striding across the campus. He encounters a student who appears to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. Fr. Galvin smiles that huge, luminous smile of his and says, "Hey, John how are you doing?" How's the play going?" John says "Not so good right now, Father; I'm having trouble with my lines." Fr. Galvin gives John a punch in the shoulder and says, "Well, you keep at it, John. You'll get it. Love ya." Each person who knew Fr. Galvin has his or her own variation of this encounter.
I know that Fr. Galvin's spirit will remain with me always and with the many people whose lives he has touched. Fr. Galvin—love in action at work in the world.
Timothy R. Wisecarver