Class News

Twelve ’64 classmates attend David Plimpton’s memorial service

On April 25, 2019, twelve 1964 classmates attended a memorial service for David Plimpton, who died on February 7, 2019. See the program and his Writings and Photographs, and see the In Memoriam page for his obituary. The memorial service, organized by his wife Barbara, was held at the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church in Brooklyn. In attendance were the following classmates:

Will Elting
Bob Kaiser
Doug Loud
John Nields
John Postley
Pete Putzel
Bill Shields
Laird Smith
Tom Trowbridge
Joe Wishcamper
Jeremy Wood
John Wylie

Both Pete Putzel '64 and Joe Wishcamper '64 delivered remarks at the service, as did John Wylie '64 vicariously, via a letter to Joe. Also reproduced below are remarks by Barbara Plimpton, his wife, and by Russell Needham, a colleague.

Barbara Plimpton's remarks
Pete Putzel's remarks
Joe Wishcamper's remarks
John Wylie's remarks
Russell Needham's remarks

Remarks by Barbara Plimpton, his wife

David and I were lucky to have grown up in the same community since it was the crossing and re-crossing of our paths there that eventually brought us together. Although our parents were friends, and his brother Tom was in my class at school, David and I only connected in our 20’s. It was 1968, summer was ending and dandelions had completely taken over the Plimpton’s lawn, so the solution was a “Weed-In.” Beer was bought, neighbors invited, and I came down the hill. David was there, just back from the Writers Workshop in Iowa, about to start his 2 years with VISTA in East Harlem. I’d been in Rome for a year on a Fulbright and was about to start teaching second grade. Neither of us had yet found a new place to live. It was oddly disconcerting to find ourselves back where we’d grown up and we started hanging out together, ex-pats in the land of our childhood.

Fairly quickly we both moved to Manhattan, were together for several pretty fun years. We talked about getting married, but I was too anxious. David quite rightly told me I was messed up and should go into therapy. He was right and I did. It was one of the best things he ever said to me, though it took awhile and three years apart for me to finally come to my senses.

When we did get married in 1977, I moved in with him and Angus, his black Labrador, to his fifth-floor railroad flat with a bathtub in the kitchen. It was a funky wonderful place — five rooms without any closets, or as David often said, five closets without any rooms. We acquired a gecko named Chomp to deal with the cockroaches, and on our first anniversary, bought two doves whom David named Cessna and Beechcraft even though it soon became apparent neither could fly. Then friends handed off a street cat that purred like a motor and David named her Eveready. As the livestock kept increasing and I became pregnant, we clearly had to move and I began to wonder what on earth he might name our children.

We needed a place within 26 miles of South Beach so David could keep training for marathons by running to work on Staten Island. We found our house in Fort Greene where we’ve been happily ever since.

Those of you who‘ve ever lived or worked in close quarters with David know that his tolerance for chaotic clutter exceeded that of the ordinary human. Piles of books toppled by his bed; his desk and his cars were an unholy jumble of papers, cast-off clothing, empty coffee cups, and ominous lurking fishhooks. Once when he was away I tried to clean up, put things in folders, and organize him. He was horrified and it was clear that he regarded alphabetical order and the dark interior of a file drawer as inventions of the devil. There were exceptions, with things that really mattered to him: within minutes he claimed he could lay his hands on any intake interview he had ever written up at South Beach. And he did love cleaning his boat.

But during much of our lives together I was not happy about the mess. After he died, however, that changed. As I roamed the house grieving in the vast emptiness of his absence, the chaotic mounds became treasure troves, like ancient middens in which I was desperately searching as if I could bring him back from these fragments of the past. Old photographs, tool catalogs, building plans, paper money from fishing destinations all over the world, and everywhere bits of his writing — notes to self, quirky observations, Spanish vocabulary, and stories — stories he was working on as well as ones written years ago. Two are printed in your program.

"Bare Feet," the first, was published as David was graduating from college. It’s about memories of childhood evoked when he returns to a family summer home as a young man. The memories are poignant and exquisitely rendered. Somehow, I had never seen this story before. And it made me weep for just as David reaches in the story to hold fast to the boy he once was, I found myself reaching just as hard to hold onto him.

But it was not just the emotional impact of the story that struck me. It was how much of who David was throughout his life that was right there when he was so young: his love of the ocean, his lifelong admiration for craftsmen who made things work, his curiosity, patience, and quiet pride in learning by watching. But at the painful heart of the story is his very different experience with schoolwork. No one recognized or named it back then, but David was dyslexic. School was a struggle for him as a kid. He worried what was wrong. Was he stupid?

Clearly he was not stupid. He went on to success at Yale, earned graduate degrees in three fields, learned languages, became a voracious reader and a very good writer. But he always had to work at it incredibly hard and he never did completely master the list of 100 spelling words he was required to learn before they would let him out of Exeter. He had to go to a special class for that along with his wrestling buddy and fellow dyslexic, John Irving. Being a gifted athlete helped, because when the chips were down David knew how to work himself hard. But he never ever lost his sense of what it was like to feel vulnerable, discouraged, and full of self-doubt. His empathy and respect for fellow travelers struggling with daunting challenges in their own lives was genuine and immediate. I think it was this — along with his wry sense of humor — that made him such a good therapist.

Being dyslexic is tough in school, but if you survive — and realize you’re in the same club as Leonardo, Einstein, Whoopi Goldberg, and Steve Jobs — you don’t have to feel too bad. Like them David was a visual guy. He learned to roll a kayak from a video without even getting wet. He could build anything he could see. He liked words the way a carpenter likes wood. No problem if you couldn’t always spell them, you marry a wife, nickname her Spellcheck, and carry on. He was brilliant at coming up with verbal zingers that nailed the essence of things. His nicknames were a case in point. Many of you had them and you know. Sarah, the teenage Viper, has shared hers. One of my all-time recent favorites was given to our grandkids, Elizabeth and Stella, whom he named “The Trojan ponies” after we were taken down once too often by the germs hidden within them during their early years in daycare.

"Waypoints to Heaven," the other story in your program, is there not just because its title is so appropriate today, but because it too says so much about who David was. His wry sense of humor, his love of the water, and above all his passion for fishing and deep pleasure in sharing that with others are all there. But so too is something else. For all that I called him out for being messy and disorganized in so many areas of life, he had a real sense of decorum when it came to honoring a life that had come to its end. He also knew that heaven could be found not just in a life everlasting but right here on earth. It was there for him in that day of fishing and in crafting that story. And if he were here today, looking out at all of you here in his honor, well, that would be heaven too.

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Remarks by Pete Putzel '64

Perhaps fifteen years ago, David Plimpton asked me to spend the day fishing with him and our classmate Straughan Donnelly off of Montauk Point. I can't recall the year or date but I vividly remember that our expedition fell on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. I am not a practicing Jew, but I soon received a serious lesson in atonement.

David and Straughan were seasoned fishermen. As we unloaded the car, each donned his fishing vest laden with what seemed to me to be an endless number of hand-tied fishing flies, and they reviewed their assortment of special knives, gaffs, fly rods, and all manner of other gear. It was a scene straight from an Orvis catalogue. By contrast, I had never fished before and didn't know enough even to bring my old Swiss army knife.

I won't burden you with every detail from that memorable day except to tell you that it was one of the finest days I have ever spent and, at the same time, among the most miserable. In choppy swells off of Montauk, David and Straughan whizzed their flies in glorious arcs a few inches above the sea and caught an incredible number of striped bass, bluefish, and the like, and they also worked earnestly but unsuccessfully to teach me their art. My most notable catch of the day was my left earlobe. They stood tall in the rocking boat, easily adjusting to the swell of the sea. I succumbed to terminal seasickness and spent much of the day watching the proceedings with my head over the side of the boat.

But it was an incredibly beautiful time. For David — and for Straughan — fishing was a true joy. After I had snagged my earlobe they were, of course, merciless, but at the same time they communicated the beauty of being outdoors engaged in a pastime that each of them loved. David never easily expressed emotions. But, as I'm sure Sarah and Lizzie will tell you, spending such time with good friends and family was a profound way of expressing his love, and I am sure that you will hear from others this afternoon about his incredible enthusiasm for wind surfing, mountain biking, kayaking, sailing, snorkeling, bonefishing, and the like.

As you may know, David was a gifted writer. Among the many marvelous pieces he wrote was his whimsical account of a true experience when, after he had become a licensed fishing guide, a client hired him to scatter the ashes of a deceased friend into the waters of New York Harbor. Barbara has thoughtfully reproduced this piece for each of you, and I warmly encourage you to read it in its entirety. I can only recount brief excerpts:

After his introductory paragraphs, he wrote as follows:

"[The client] arrived, an urn tucked under one arm, a four-piece fly rod in a tube under the other. We set the urn on the center console, in a place of respect, next to the compass, fish finder, and GPS, all instruments which might provide the ashes with useful waypoints for the next leg of the journey ... "

He described their fishing activity. And then he wrote this:

"Is it time?" [I said]. He nodded, and I handed him the urn and ducked down to rummage in the center console, where I had stashed a bunch of flowers I had picked up at a bodega on my way to the dock. He had the urn which he was holding over the rail. 'Whoa', I said. 'All due respect, this is like peeing. You do it downwind."'

You will want to read the rest of this wonderful story for yourselves, but I must read one particular stanza from the superb Tennyson poem “Crossing the Bar” that concludes his piece:

"Twilight and evening bell
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark ... "

I will honor David's thought that there should be no "sadness of farewell" on this occasion. I miss him intensely, but I am left with a kaleidoscope of joyful memories:

of our early college French classes;
of many beautiful nights spent with David at the opera;
of innumerable golden Labrador retrievers;
of celebrations of our common birthday;
of intense discussions of the many books that he read;
and of countless dinners spent with David, his special wife Barbara, and his wonderful daughters Sarah and Lizzie.

And, of course, I even find myself, with love and nostalgia, recalling our unforgettable Yorn Kippur fishing trip.

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Remarks by Joe Wishcamper '64

David and I connected at our 35th Yale reunion in 1999. Despite having known each other only slightly as undergraduates, we become extremely close friends and remained so for the ensuing 20 years. We shared numerous interests including a love of opera and of reading, and a passion for fly fishing. We took over a dozen extended fishing trips together to amazing places in this country and abroad. We visited each other frequently, both in New York and in Maine, and we talked by phone weekly. Our families become close.

Aside from our commonalities, what drew me to David were those qualities of his that made him such an endearing person to others and so effective in his professional work as a therapist: namely, that he was totally accepting and nonjudgmental, open and curious. People liked David. They liked to be with him. You didn’t feel like he had any personal agenda with you. He didn’t want anything from you. He was interested in you and eager to connect. He was this way with everyone, no matter whether they were prominent figures or everyday people.

One of his other endearing qualities was how modest and unassuming he was. You’d never hear him mention that he came from a prominent and influential family. He didn’t flaunt his educational credentials. He was not materialistic. I was always fascinated with the fact that he marched to a different drummer than most of our classmates, including me: no airs, no pretense, and without the need for outer embellishments. David was as authentic as they come.

Speaking of David’s unassuming nature, he would be reluctant to tell you that he once disarmed a crazy knife-bearing patient in the clinic where he worked, or that, serving on a jury, over several days he convinced 11 other jurors to change their votes to his position, and in doing so delivered a unanimous verdict. To me, this is illustrative of his quiet, even-tempered authority.

David was an intellectual at heart. He read prodigiously and widely, on topics ranging from science to history, from politics to poetry, from literature to philosophy. He spoke French, Italian and Spanish. He had masters degrees in chemistry, creative writing, and psychology, and a PhD to boot. There was a good chance he could engage knowledgeably with you about whatever your field of interest might be. And oh, by the way, he taught for a while at a local college in Brooklyn. True to stereotype, he could be a bit of an absentminded professor. I like to tell the story of our agreeing to meet in Jackson, MS for a ribbon-cutting at one of my housing projects, to be followed by a few days of fishing in Louisiana. We timed our flights so we could meet up at the Starbucks in the Jackson airport. After arriving and waiting patiently at Starbucks, I got a call from David. He was at Starbucks too, but in Jacksonville, not Jackson. Fortunately, he rerouted to New Orleans and we salvaged the fishing leg of our trip.

Despite his warmth and despite being a therapist, David was private about his inner life. Surprisingly, he rarely spoke about what I imagined to be the defining issue of the last third of his life, namely, his struggle with cancer. Before his illness, David was preternaturally strong. He was a physically imposing, large, athletic man. He was a wrestler and played football and lacrosse at Exeter. At Yale, according to our classmate, Will Elting, David was perhaps the best college wrestler in the eastern US, winning the eastern championship in his weight class his sophomore year. In midlife, he remained physically robust, running some 17 marathons and becoming an elite wind surfer. It’s no wonder he attracted such a beautiful wife.

Once he contracted cancer, some 23 years ago, his physical strength gradually waned as he fought the effects of the cancer and the body-sapping medications. I watched as his body shrank, shriveled, and become crooked over time. The physical strength gave way, but he retained all the courage and mental strength that had fueled his athletic success, and he called on it to live 23 more years with cancer eating away at his body. Moreover, he really lived those years, not just survived them. Never once, until the final months, did I hear him complain of pain or show any self-pity. I didn’t realize until after his death how figural the cancer was all those years, and how, despite his rarely mentioning it, it took his incredible resolve and strength to carry on without conceding control to the illness. As a result, he was able for the most part of 23 years to dictate the terms on which he would live his life.

David took up fly fishing after he became ill and it came to be an important part of his therapy. It was his passion and his defiance of the cancer. It soothed him and demanded his mental and physical concentration, providing him with countless rewards, including an intimate connection with the beauty and mystery of nature and its creatures.

So I will end with these observations: David Plimpton loved his wife and his daughters. He was a loyal friend, a sweet, kind, considerate, compassionate man. He was an authentic man, a decent man, a gentle man and a gentleman. I have found myself thinking of him literally every day since his death and remembering all our adventures together. These memories are sweet and emotional to recall, alongside its sadness of knowing there will be no more.

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Remarks by John Wylie '64 (read by Joe Wishcamper)

Hi Joe,

I have many memories of Dave, the most dramatic of which relates to his extraordinary delivering of a letter given to him by Albert Lutuli, the then head of the ANC in South Africa under house arrest, whom Dave had sought out with a friend. Lutuli asked Dave to personally deliver a letter to MLK in Atlanta, which he subsequently did. Although Dave told me all this, I didn’t think much about it until early one Sunday morning at Yale, when I was still clueless about the civil rights movement, Dave says to me, “John-boy, just trust me on this one. Get your ass out of bed and follow me.” (He had a special name for everyone and mine was “John-boy.”) As we walked over to Bethel Chapel, I was astounded to see crowds of African Americans streaming in from the city . . . and, of course it was MLK. After being floored by the scope and vision of his sermon (which was played back at our 50th reunion), I followed Dave up to meet him. MLK obviously recognized Dave and warmly greeted him, and Dave responded to him, “I want you to meet my friend.”

I first met Dave when I walked into his basement at about 9 years old. He and Tommy Winslow were mounting a gas lawnmower engine onto a wooden frame that Dave had constructed. They were making a motorized go-cart, as I watched in awe. That sense of awe was repeated many times, such as at Yale by his diverse social interactions with prominent civil rights figures. I remember being stunned when he off-handedly mentioned that he had been down at “Smalls Paradise” the night before, which was Wilt Chamberlain’s ultra-hip jazz club in Harlem. It was just a throw-away comment. There was never any boastfulness about Dave.

Two amusing memories:

Dave danced to rock-and-roll music by simply hanging his large body into a cool, crouched, elbows-in position and letting his two index fingers do all the dancing for him as if they were on a miniature stage in front of him.
Bleary-eyed, in the wee hours of a miserable morning, I encountered Dave in someone else’s bathroom after a blow-out party. He was drinking glass after glass of water. “What are you doing, Dave?” “I’m ‘fizzing down’ two Alka-Seltzers stuck in my throat.” He had forgotten to put them in the water first.

Joe, I’m sure you have lots of material, but if you want more, let me know.

Dave talked about you often when I saw him over the years. He admired you and was proud to have you as a friend.

With affection for your friendship with Dave,

John(-boy)

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Remarks by Russell Needham, a colleague

Thank you, Barbara, for inviting me to talk about David’s professional career as a psychologist for over 30 years at South Beach Psychiatric Center in Staten Island and Coney Island, Brooklyn. I’m Russell Needham, a social worker who worked closely with Dave for over 15 years in the Coney Island Day Hospital in the 1980’s and 1990’s. Dave’s first 7 years at South Beach were at our in-patient unit in Staten Island. In-patient units are typically filled with patients in acute stress, often marked with yelling, laughing, and mania. Sometimes the staff also exhibits behaviors of yelling, laughing, and mania. I don’t doubt Dave participated in such joyous antics, but I always found Dave to be the adult in the room when necessary. He was older than most of his peers, having started his career at South Beach in his early thirties.

In the outpatient department Dave was the Director of the Day Hospital. I was the Assistant Director. We had an interdisciplinary team of social workers, nurses, psychologists, and a psychiatrist. Our offices were open to the patients at all times. We called each other by our first names. It was always David or Dave, rarely Dr. Plimpton. We engaged the patients individually, in groups, at meals, and often in home visits. The staff had almost daily team meetings as well as socializing outside of work with parties, holiday events, and family occasions. I knew Dave well and have been entertained at his house as well as running into him and Barbara at cultural events, particularly at BAM.

Therefore, I wish to offer a brief psychosocial assessment of David Plimpton. First of all, Dave was a handsome and charismatic man. As a gay man myself, I have decades of experience in observing and evaluating how such men operate. You might ask, what do Dave’s good looks have to do with his professional conduct. Precisely, I say. David never traded on his looks; he was no empty suit. He was not vain or narcissistic. Rather, he was almost oblivious to his appearance. His hair was often a little awry; he preferred to come to work in cargo pants, sometimes old polo shirts or shirts with a slight fray at the collar. Dave knew that in treating the mentally ill how you looked mattered less than what you said or didn’t say, how you connected, and how you made someone feel. Dave was a good listener, never judgmental, open, warm, and empathetic.

Dave’s office was nearest the patients’ day room across from the chart room. As his office was open I overheard him once engaging with a chronic paranoid schizophrenic male who often was stressed by hearing voices. Dave said, “Oh my … those voices sound weird. How’s about we try to ignore them and concentrate on the good voices you sometimes hear.” The patient said, “What good voices are you talking about?” Dave replied, “Oh, those voices that told you to get up, get dressed, and come in to see me today … and those voices that tell you to go to McDonalds after our session and have a Big Mac and a Coke.” Younger patients I’m sure saw Dave as a calm, steady, benevolent parent figure. Older patients saw him as a responsible, wise, friendly adult role model.

As a boss, Dave and I got along well. We were sort of like the Odd Couple — remember Felix and Oscar? No one could accuse Dave of being obsessive compulsive, neat, or well-organized as I am. I would remind him to turn in the time sheets or the staff won’t get paid next week. Or I’d remind him that the Medicaid auditors would be coming tomorrow for an audit. I’d tell him, “Don’t wear your clogs and polo shirt … surely you have an old Brooks Brothers blue blazer in your closet you can wear. He would chuckle and say, “Thanks. Promise I’ll look my best.” I never heard Dave raise his voice or lose his temper to any of his staff. I’m sure he did have bad moods and bad days like all of us humans. But Dave always kept his internal struggles — his baggage, if you will — in check. He knew that when working with emotionally disturbed clients one’s own emotional disturbances needed to be kept away from the workplace. He was always aware of limits, boundaries, and propriety.

Everybody who worked with Dave would undoubtedly recall his great sense of humor, his clever use of language, and apt phrasing to pinpoint an event or personality. He had pet names for some of the staff. Two of the in-patient doctors named Cruz and Morales he referred to as Pina and Colada. A beautiful blonde nurse with an upbeat personality he called Doris Day. Dave sometimes referred to me as “The Goat.” That’s because I would indiscriminately eat anything the patients would cook or food brought to the staff room. Once I tried to kid Dave by saying that I’d prefer a better nickname. “Like what?” he said. I replied, “What about being called the Queen of Coney Island?” He chuckled and replied, “Russell, have you been to the boardwalk on the weekend and noticed all the queens you’d be competing with?” Then he added, “But the last time I looked, I never saw a goat in Coney Island; you’d be the only one!”

I saw Dave for the final time last May when many of us gathered in a Staten Island restaurant to visit with a former unit chief who had lived all his life in Brooklyn and then had the audacity to retire to Las Vegas. He flew in for Dave’s service today. As in countless times when we worked together, Dave would offer me a ride to his neighborhood where I would get a quick subway ride into Manhattan. Dave looked thinner; he said he was undergoing some treatments. He asked about my health as ten years previously I had had a prostate procedure, less complicated and severe than his. He smiled and said, “That’s good news, Russell … I think you may be one of the lucky ones.” If I had known this would be the last time I was to see him, I could have replied, “Yes, Dave, I am one of the lucky ones. Lucky to have worked alongside you for so many years … lucky to have experienced your warmth, wisdom, and total acceptance of me … lucky to have known such a beautiful man.

Rest in peace, David Lewis Plimpton. Thank you.

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