I am not sure how you possibly do justice to Don Oscarson’s life, and his 50 years of teaching at Taft. Fifty years—a half-century, ten presidents, three wars, four headmasters, several thousand students. The facts are simple, if also astounding: Born in Baltimore in 1929, Don Oscarson came to Taft as an upper middler and graduated in 1947. From there he went to Yale, where he
For the last few years he did not teach but instead served as a tutor for some 10 to 20 students a year. Those are the facts. Even unadorned they tell of a remarkable career: Who these days works at the same place for 50 years? But they do not come close to capturing the life of this man, a man who taught for more years here than anyone in history, a man who served his school with a great heart, uncommon
I think about how I knew Oscie for more years than I knew my parents. How he was adviser to my three children, one of whom he called in Maine to chat two weeks before he died. How he provided me with clarity and purpose without sermonizing. How during my senior year he happened to be on a soufflé kick and we cooked chocolate and cheese soufflés every night trying to decide which was best. How during my college years I returned often for direction. How his mark resulted in my decision to embark on a teaching career. Other memories: the green Jaguar, blueberry picking in Snowville, his devoted Mom, his temper that failed to scare
Joanna Wandelt, Anne Romano, and Susan Everett were on hand to help Oscie celebrate his 70th birthday.
received a B.A. in 1951 and a master’s in 1953. In 1954 he came to Taft to teach remedial English, and soon after he began teaching Latin. He became the chair of the Classics Department, dean of the Middle Class, holder of the Edwin C. Douglas Chair, and for over a decade was the dean of students. 46
Taft Bulletin Winter 2004
intelligence, and fierce loyalty. So you may not have known him, and indeed even those among us who did never really did; he didn’t let you in that far. We all had glimpses, like eager children peering through the windows of some vast mansion. If you were lucky, he let you hang around his yard.
me, his adjustment to old age and poor health, that damn blue loden overcoat, walking Cassius. So much, yet not enough.
—Phil Miller ’65