University of Georgia - Pandora Yearbook (Athens, GA)

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Now you notice we are beginning to use social security numbers and all new students next year will not have an ID, but will have social security. Within a year or two there ' ll be a law that every baby when born will have to have his social security number tatooed on his right buttocks and that man ' s social security will also have to be put on his tombstone. Dean William Tate March 22, 1971 17

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» • r-«6 Dean William Tate During this Spring quarter of 1971, when we all are celebrating my retirement after fifty-one years in and around the Athens campus, my academic biography has been fully presented. First, my campus career was written for the Alumni Record by Dr. John Stegeman, son of my track coach. His father was also dean of men, and I first worked under him as dean of freshmen. Second, for the University Self-study, I did a long and involved comparison of undergraduate life then (1920-1924) and now (1966-1970). Third, the Alumni Society at its May meeting presented The Ballad of Wild Bill , with music and words and sound effects, a masterful skit that rocked our sides. However, none of these more than touch the legendary but powerful figure of Chancellor David C. Barrow ( Uncle Dave as we called him) who dominated in his quiet way the campus when I was an undergraduate in the early 1920 ' s. Heeding my mother ' s admonition, that I go to church and Sunday School regularly, I was in the Freshman Bible Class at the First Methodist Church (then called The Methodist Episcopal Church, South ), and Uncle Dave was my teacher — about 25 of us freshmen in the upper balcony of the sanctuary, with me as secretary-treasurer. Our heads all glistened, for the sophomores had cut our hair , but Uncle Dave was bald-headed, too, despite a flowing beard like Santa Claus. About a month later, say October 1920, I got a note, written I think in his own longhand, to see him in his office, which was on the first floor of the Academic Building near the Arch. As a freshman, I was scared stiff, began to wonder what sins had caught up with me, imagined myself sent home to Fairmount and the Salacoa Valley. As summoned, I appeared, to find Uncle Dave sitting at his desk. He gestured me to a nearby chair, smiled in his matchless way, a beautiful smile under twinkling eyes. He was not a big man, just average in height but sturdily built; but his distinctive white beard, his kindly smile, his twinkling eyes, his easy, leisurely ways — all students and all faculty respected, even revered him. I sat down, scared of course, and he began to doodle, as often he did, sketching a geometric pattern on a pad on his desk. Where are you from, Mr. Tate? Are you from Tate? No, I ' m from Fairmount. My father ' s family established Tate, and Father was born there. They ' re all my folks, but I live sixteen miles away at Fairmount, where my grandmother, Mary Byrd Tate, was born. What kin are you to Sam Tate? He ' s my father ' s first cousin, sorter head of the family . And he doodled some more, filling out a figure, shading it in. He ' s helped the University. He raised some money for an institute here, to study Georgia economics. And is Sam Sibley kin to you? Not exactly, but I claim it. He and my uncle married sisters, the Hart twins from Union Point. He ' s a federal judge, and we all look up to him. But we call him Uncle Hale, not Sam. Maybe he has the best legal mind ever developed in Georgia — he and Logan Bleckley. 18