In 6^th Grade, I was a problem student. I didn’t realize it at the time. On the contrary, I thought I was a teacher’s dream, a tremendous addition to any class. I thought this because I did every assignment, thoroughly, and when finished and bored, I extended it trying to go above and beyond as much as possible. I further 'contributed' to the class by making a big show of how frustrated I was when anyone else was slower than I was at the lesson.  Now that I am a teacher, I can only imagine how obnoxious I was. I was still years away from realizing the responsibility that came with intellect, realizing just how much bigger the world was than Ft. Ross AND realizing just how much I still had to learn. Math was the worse; I would blaze through any multi-step problem set and than complain loudly when any other student struggled with a times table question. At my tiny forest school, 6th, 7th and 8th grade were combined, so it was clear the problem would only increase in coming years. 

Basically, I was this kid. How shocking that this kid isn't more popular.  

Most teachers would have just told me to shut up and read a book. Fortunately, the talented Sylvia Murphy (still the most extraordinary educator I have known) had a better idea.

 She gave me John Sperry. 

In 7th grade, John started coming to our small school each morning. John was a small man with a radiant smile and a mane of thin wild white hair; a wonderfully kind retired college professor who pulled me out of class for two hours each morning. Along with two of the more advanced 8th graders, he taught me Algebra. 

I remember the first day, where it was like a curtain was pulled back and I suddenly realized how vast and intricate the world of mathematics was. I would never coast through math class again. I would struggle, listen, consider, and ultimately understand a concept, again and again, as far and fast as I wanted. 

 John not only taught me Algebra that year, and Geometry the next, he taught me how to teach math to myself. So I would no longer be bored, so I would always be able to push myself. 

When I graduated high school and was given the top math award, it was thanks to John for laying the foundation.

When I took my first major midterm in college (Calculus II) and got a 22%, I was advised by that professor to drop the course. After all, that score could have been doubled, put on the curve, and still would have been an F. But I was John Sperry's student, and this was math. I re-committed to studying for the class, got deliberate, scored the highest grade on the next midterm and ultimately earned an A- in the class. 

When I decided in my sophomore year to major in Physics AND political science, I was told that Quantum Mechanics would be the biggest challenge, because taking it on schedule would require teaching myself enough Linear Algebra and Differential Equations on my own outside the course to be able to keep up. It was John's tutoring in those formative years that gave me the confidence to try such daunting academic adventures, and to fight through them until I succeeded. 

Like many students, I lost touch with my early teachers. Even when I entered the education world, I didn't think to get back in touch with my old mentor. I knew he had been rather old when he taught me, so I thoughtlessly assumed he had was dead or diminished and thus unreachable. In August of 2010, I had returned to my college town of Portland to celebrate the wedding of a childhood friend. Basking in the sunny afternoon warmth in the pre-festivities, I was surprised and delighted to see a familiar small figure come striding across the lawn of Reed College. 

"John! Wow! You're here." 

"Hey Tim, good to see you. My wife Jodi and I hadn't been to Portland in a decade or so, so we figured the wedding was a good excuse to visit." 

That was how I re-met John Sperry as an adult. Getting to know him from this new vantage point, I came to realize just what a remarkable human he was. John refused to let the passage of year slow him down. At an age when many are buying walkers, he and his wife would take vacations to Alaska to go kayaking in the frigid ocean. Every time I saw him, he was bubbling over with curiosity and excitement about new thoughts, connections or adventures. 

He would talk about showing the southern hemisphere constellations to a 'lovely young lady' in Argentina after leaving his hotel room in the middle of the night with as much enthusiasm as when he took myself and a bunch of middle school buddies on a river exploration field trip in 1998. Steady, boundless engagement in the world and the universe, from the minute to the cosmic, maintained over almost a century. 

Gualala River - 1998

When I joined the Board of Directors of Ft. Ross Conservancy (the state park near where I grew up), John was already in his 90s. Yet every time I saw him, he re-amazed me with his enthusiasm and wealth of experience. 

At the Ft. Ross festival: "Tim, you must come by and get this new physics book from me sometime soon. Not tonight because my wife and I just got back from Italy yesterday and we're a bit tired." A bit? I was exhausted just driving up from SF. 

At the Stanford/Russian SURF event my 29 year old self played second to my 92 year old mentor as we led a group of college students in clearing a trail through the woods. John was handily wielding axes and saws, and only let me carry the heavy chainsaw if I promised to keep pace with him and not fall behind. 

John is waiting for me AND laughing at my toe shoes. 

Later that month, Tracy and I stopped by the local Timber Cove inn to see some live music. There was John, animatedly enjoying dinner with his wife, sipping on a glass of wine, bobbing his head to the tunes. 

When I began our Marine Mammal camping program this past year, bringing inner city schools into the woods, John was there to watch me teach and cheerfully point out the notable biotic factors and geological features I missed on our nature hikes. 

At one board meeting last semester, John stopped by afterwards and complained, "You know, that step over the fence on the Coast trail is still broken! State Parks is supposed to maintain it." I gave a small inward sigh and thought to myself, "John's finally showing his age, and acknowledging that he needs that step." I was proven wrong again, when he continued. "I know they don't like other people making repairs but I got sick of it, so I repaired it myself, and was thinking of signing it 'Citizen Fix' with a design of a middle finger." 

John did a lot more around Ft. Ross than fixing fences and clearing trails. He dreamt up, planned and masterfully executed an incredible new event at the Park called Alaska Native Day. Last year, we held this incredible event for the first time. 

If you spend your nineties organizing a race of these guys, you know you are a badass.

This year, he expanded the conception of the event for the second year. Unbeknownst to the rest of us, this seemingly immortal, Bilbo Baggins like figure had just received the news that he had advanced lung cancer. He shouldered through the event before sharing the news. 

Now, just a few short weeks after receiving the diagnosis, John is gone. I like to think he is still somewhere ahead on the trail. Still excited, still curious, still inspiring. 

Thanks to Sarah Sweedler for this awesome photo.