In Memoriam

John B. Davis Jr. '44 He knew how to mend broken organizations By Lois Shea '95G

John B. Davis Jr. '44 listened. When he agreed with you, he listened. When he disagreed, he listened. Lincoln Davis says of his father, "He was someone who was always curious, and interested in whomever he met. When you were speaking to him, you were the only person in the room. He made you feel completely at ease and comfortable—he fully engaged."

Davis, who died in July from a rare brain disease at age 89, had many skills. Thoughtful dialogue was one of his greatest. "The world is less well off, because we've lost one of the few people who was really able to engage in civil discourse," says his daughter Susan Flygare.

He majored in political science at UNH, and earned a master's and doctorate in education from Harvard. Davis met his first wife, Barbara Burns Davis '42, at UNH, where in the late 1940s and early 1950s, he served as assistant dean of men and then acting dean of men. Barbara died in 1983. Davis married Joy Lee in 1986.

Davis became the superintendent of schools in Worcester, Mass. In 1967, when school systems in many American cities were in tumult over desegregation, Davis was hired as superintendent of schools in Minneapolis, Minn. Many have credited his leadership for making that period go smoothly, and the Minneapolis Board of Education recently named a building in his honor.

In 1975, Davis became president of Macalester College. The school was in financial distress, and Davis again applied his intellect and skills to ease the crisis. He would go on to assist many other organizations through crises and difficulties.

"Leaders lead, most importantly, by example," says Brian Rosenberg, the current president of Macalester. "He set an example of patience, civility and thoughtfulness, and I think other people began to follow his example.

"He was, in all my interactions with him, modest, generous, thoughtful—all of the things you associate with a person of character," Rosenberg adds. "He was known in Minnesota as a kind of rescue artist. He would come into organizations that were imperiled and leave them much stronger. It was never about him—it was about the people he was trying to help."

But he was proudest, says his brother King Davis, about the "achievements of his children"—two sons, six daughters and two stepchildren.

Davis' interests extended to the English language. He loved words, and loved to recite poetry—great swaths of Wordsworth and Whittier's "Snow-Bound"—in a dramatic style that transfixed his children. He once took his entire young family to hear Robert Frost read. A teacher once told the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, "He could give somebody directions to the corner drugstore and it would come out sounding like the Gettysburg Address." When the family travelled, they sang "The Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night," "Loch Lomond" and the UNH football victory song.

Susan remembers how her father had a mischievous side. When one of her or her sisters' suitors rang the doorbell, their father would sometimes waddle to the door like a duck, answering from the duck-crouch—just to see how the young man would react. It was "horribly embarrassing and not appreciated at the time, but it's funny in retrospect," she says.

Davis retired to his farm in Wisconsin, where he happily set himself to outdoor tasks with his small tractor. He rarely sat still. Even in the coldest weather, Susan says, you would find him swimming in the Kinnickinnic River. "I think he was one of those people who are intensely grateful for every moment," she says, "and really relished being alive."

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