Walter as I knew him
If you knew Walter, nothing I can say would improve on that. Walter was the best teller of his stories. The things he had done, seen and thought about sprang to life in his retelling. The end of a Walter story, usually punctuated with that bark of a laugh or with a raised eyebrow that clearly communicated, “Well what did you expect?” always led you somewhere. Into deeper knowledge of what had happened and why or simple amusement at the human condition.
Walter has passed, as they say down in New Orleans. Without him, it is left for us to recount his life. This is for the benefit of those who never knew the joy of his company and to expand the memories we have with those that others share. To know the man, even at this late date, slightly more.
Walter was part of a generation that made Lamont-Doherty what it was. In turn, Lamont made them what they became. I was very aware of that when I arrived in September of 1985 to start my PhD. I was, and to some extent remain, convinced that I was admitted by some fluke. An accident. And that i would soon be revealed for not belonging. It has not happened yet, but you never know.
One of the first weekends I was in New York, I went out to dinner with Patience Cowie, who has recently passed herself, and Jim Pindell. The Upper West side was very quiet in the evening back then, before the huge wave of gentrification swept over Manhattan. Dinner had been fun, but it was still early. We did not want to go downtown or to call it a night. Casting about for something to do, Jim proposed we visit “Walter.” “Walter who?” I said. “Walter Pitman.” Jim replied.
I had not met Walter, but I certainly knew who he was. “He won’t want to see us on a Sunday night.” I offered. Jim, certain as he is, said “No, it will be fine.” So we went to the two bedroom Columbia apartment on Claremont that I later came to know as the “Hotel Pitman.” We buzzed. There was no reply. I, relieved, proposed that he was not home. He buzzed us in. We all went upstairs.
We all took seats in his living room. There was Walter. In his apartment. In his reading chair. In the flesh. In his bathrobe. He seemed to be comfortable so I tried to be. We talked about the start of the new school year. Both Patience and I were new PhD students. He asked what we planned on doing. The conversation passed uneventfully and we left and went our separate ways.
I encountered Walter only occasionally after that until I returned to Lamont after completing my post-doc in 1993. I was given an office on the 2nd floor of Oceanography near Walter’s. We slowly became more acquainted. The high point of many days there, up until the end of 1998, was receiving a daily dose of the wit and wisdom of Walter C. Pitman III. There was always something, even in idle chat.
Walter was given to pronouncements. One day, he wandered into the module and announced, “Bernie, today is my birthday.” I replied, “Happy birthday Walter. I have one question.” He leaned forward, bracing himself. I asked, “How old are you really Walter?” while pointing at my head “In here.” He hesitated briefly and announced again; “Nineteen!” followed by that laugh.
He was joking but revealed himself slightly. In his thoughts, he was not much concerned about orthodoxy. He retained something of the iconoclasm of adolescents. He was willing to go where the ideas or the data led him. He was willing to consider the unlikely. He was open to the possibilities of life and science.
Telling stories is our profession. Walter told stories with data. He had access to information and he used it to establish what had been inconceivable. Walter lived stories too. We are all richer in various ways for having seen the world through his eyes.
After I left Lamont-Doherty, I returned to New York from time to time. The Hotel Pitman was often where I stayed. The convenience of this bed without breakfast was considerable, but the company was incomparable. Coffee with Walter in morning, ruminating on the events revealed in that morning’s New York Times. A final glass of wine in the evening, discussing what we had done that day. You could not ask for or find better company.
I visited Walter a few times after his short term memory began to fade. I still marvel at how little he was changed by this experience. He could not remember what had happened 30 seconds previously, but he was still completely himself. Events that were 5, 20 or 50 years ago, he recalled with crystal clarity. He might tell the same story twice in twenty minutes, but he was utterly himself still.
Walter was something. He was a mentor, a colleague and a friend. He was a leader, but also a listener. He told his stories and heard ours. I don’t think we will see the like of him again.