By Les O'Dell
In the 1995 film "Mr. Holland's Opus," Richard Dreyfus portrays a high school music teacher who, early in his career, confesses that he feels he is failing to reach his students and is basically wasting both his time and theirs. At the end of the movie, however, he is surprised by a gathering of current and former students with a retirement performance in which his students remind him of the difference he made in each of their lives.
"Mr. Holland's Opus" is one of our family's favorite films. I've seen it dozens of times. I think my wife actually was so moved by the movie that she saw it in the theater on six or seven occasions. I only went with her to the cinema once, but it was a time I will never forget ― not because of the film itself, but what I was able to do as the ending credits rolled.
As if by divine appointment, one of my mentors was also at the screening that evening, sitting with his family right in front of us. As the movie ended, I leaned forward, put my hand on Dr. Doerr's shoulder and, with tears forming in my eyes, told him that he was my Mr. Holland and I was part of ― to quote the film ― the "words and the melody of his life."
I am glad that I was able to share that with him nearly 25 years ago and regret that I hadn't told him the same thing recently, especially since I learned last Friday that Dr. William Doerr had passed away that morning.
I first met Bill Doerr when I was a freshman agricultural communications student at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Dr. Doerr was semi-retired, having already finished a career as a high school agriculture teacher and, I believe, manager of SIU's farms. At this point, he was an assistant to the dean, working with alumni events and the School of Agriculture's growing scholarship program. I don't recall how our paths crossed, but we soon became great friends.
He would share wisdom and experience with me, and I'd bring youthful enthusiasm to projects we worked on together. I always remember his idea of finding old, charred pieces of floor joists recovered from the 1969 fire at SIU's Old Main to auction as a fundraiser for scholarships. The wood was stored inside a former grain bin at University Farms. He knew where it was...my role was to get it ― inside what was basically a metal thermos in the August heat. We made a great team.
A few years later, he taught me the elaborate scoring system he used to analyze scholarship applications and how he made sure the school awarded the most money to the most students possible. He gave me lots of other great advice, too.
I remember during one particularly busy semester I mentioned to Dr. Doerr that I had "too many irons in the fire." He had me sit down, looked me in the eye and told me to simply, "pull out one iron at a time and work on it. The others will still be there." I remember that almost daily.
He taught me the importance of thank you notes, looking at all of the angles and of the value of a quick post-lunch nap. I learned a great deal from him and I was not alone. Many of my classmates and decades of agriculture students benefitted from knowing the man who answered his office telephone with a quick and efficient "Doerr."
When I entered graduate school, we shared many projects ― I was a graduate assistant and he was a very part-time, semi-retired staff member. A couple of years later, it was an honor to be hired full-time as his replacement, and I was careful to use the same personal touches in planning alumni events and the exact same formula to score scholarship applications (although I did mine on a computer, compared to his pencil and notepad).
Even today, some 30 years later, I still recall everything else that I learned from him and I'm grateful that on that one occasion in 1995, I was able to scoot to the edge of my seat and tell him thank you for all of it.
I wish there would have been a sequel, both to the movie and to expressing my gratitude.
Thank you, Dr. Doerr for the legacy you left in each of us.
Les O'Dell is a reporter and columnist for the Southern Illinoisan. This article was published in the Southern Illinoisan, Ill., and distributed by Tribune Content Agency.
In the 1995 film "Mr. Holland's Opus," Richard Dreyfus portrays a high school music teacher who, early in his career, confesses that he feels he is failing to reach his students and is basically wasting both his time and theirs. At the end of the movie, however, he is surprised by a gathering of current and former students with a retirement performance in which his students remind him of the difference he made in each of their lives.
"Mr. Holland's Opus" is one of our family's favorite films. I've seen it dozens of times. I think my wife actually was so moved by the movie that she saw it in the theater on six or seven occasions. I only went with her to the cinema once, but it was a time I will never forget ― not because of the film itself, but what I was able to do as the ending credits rolled.
As if by divine appointment, one of my mentors was also at the screening that evening, sitting with his family right in front of us. As the movie ended, I leaned forward, put my hand on Dr. Doerr's shoulder and, with tears forming in my eyes, told him that he was my Mr. Holland and I was part of ― to quote the film ― the "words and the melody of his life."
I am glad that I was able to share that with him nearly 25 years ago and regret that I hadn't told him the same thing recently, especially since I learned last Friday that Dr. William Doerr had passed away that morning.
I first met Bill Doerr when I was a freshman agricultural communications student at Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Dr. Doerr was semi-retired, having already finished a career as a high school agriculture teacher and, I believe, manager of SIU's farms. At this point, he was an assistant to the dean, working with alumni events and the School of Agriculture's growing scholarship program. I don't recall how our paths crossed, but we soon became great friends.
He would share wisdom and experience with me, and I'd bring youthful enthusiasm to projects we worked on together. I always remember his idea of finding old, charred pieces of floor joists recovered from the 1969 fire at SIU's Old Main to auction as a fundraiser for scholarships. The wood was stored inside a former grain bin at University Farms. He knew where it was...my role was to get it ― inside what was basically a metal thermos in the August heat. We made a great team.
A few years later, he taught me the elaborate scoring system he used to analyze scholarship applications and how he made sure the school awarded the most money to the most students possible. He gave me lots of other great advice, too.
I remember during one particularly busy semester I mentioned to Dr. Doerr that I had "too many irons in the fire." He had me sit down, looked me in the eye and told me to simply, "pull out one iron at a time and work on it. The others will still be there." I remember that almost daily.
He taught me the importance of thank you notes, looking at all of the angles and of the value of a quick post-lunch nap. I learned a great deal from him and I was not alone. Many of my classmates and decades of agriculture students benefitted from knowing the man who answered his office telephone with a quick and efficient "Doerr."
When I entered graduate school, we shared many projects ― I was a graduate assistant and he was a very part-time, semi-retired staff member. A couple of years later, it was an honor to be hired full-time as his replacement, and I was careful to use the same personal touches in planning alumni events and the exact same formula to score scholarship applications (although I did mine on a computer, compared to his pencil and notepad).
Even today, some 30 years later, I still recall everything else that I learned from him and I'm grateful that on that one occasion in 1995, I was able to scoot to the edge of my seat and tell him thank you for all of it.
I wish there would have been a sequel, both to the movie and to expressing my gratitude.
Thank you, Dr. Doerr for the legacy you left in each of us.
Les O'Dell is a reporter and columnist for the Southern Illinoisan. This article was published in the Southern Illinoisan, Ill., and distributed by Tribune Content Agency.
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