William Webb White ( Alabama and Magdalen ’54) died on September 12, 2006, in his hometown of Cary, North Carolina, of complications from an abdominal aortic aneurysm. He was seventy-four. Born in Huntsville, Alabama, on June 27, 1932, to Carolyn Webb and Rhodes Scholar Addison White (Alabama and Christ Church ’07), he attended the Webb School1 in Bell Buckle, Tennessee, where he was valedictorian of his class, captain of the basketball team for two years, tennis champion, track star and class president. At Sewanee, he was an English major (with a minor in French), Phi Beta Kappa, four year letterman and captain of the tennis team, anchor member of the doubles three-time state championship team and letterman in track and basketball. In 1954,Webb joined even more select company—those few Rhodes Scholars with a parent who was a Rhodes Scholar (of which pairs there have been only nine). One can imagine the excitement with which Webb called his mother the evening of his election (Webb’s father had died in 1943).

I first met Webb during our sailing party voyage on the Queen ElizabethI. Surely, there is no company so perfectly anointed as brand new Rhodes Scholars on their maiden voyage to Oxford. The experience of the sailing party could be intoxicating—the chosen few, at sea, in a majestic vessel—bound for Olympus.Webb would have been recognized immediately as one of that group. He was a perfect example of the idealized Rhodes Scholar of that time—tall, handsome, approachable, with natural, low-key charm—and one of the few real jocks in the group. It was soon evident that he did not think of himself that way. He was a person of humility and warmth—soft-spoken, gentle, deferential and a deep thinker with passionate feelings easily aroused by important issues.Webb’s entry into Oxford was met with immediate athletic and social success. Right away, he became a serious contender for the number one tennis slot—and was a favorite guest for tea time and sherry hour. It was my good fortune to be with him at Magdalen. Both of us were in jurisprudence, and we shared a tutor, the celebrated Dr. John H. C. Morris, a man of huge stature, physically and intellectually, whose thunderous challenges were the stuff of many good laughs—after the terror wore off.

During those early weeks, Webb and I indulged in a caper that might shock some proper Oxonians. One evening, we ventured up to Carfax and happened to encounter two lovely young English women. Of course, Webb was the big attraction. They must have spotted him blocks away. We did our best to engage in light English banter, and eventually the conversation got around to whether or not they had ever been inside an Oxford college. As it turned out, they had not, so shortly thereafter, we found ourselves headed back down High Street toward Magdalen to introduce them to an Oxford college. It was after hours, however, and the gate was closed. Embarrassed by our failure to deliver, we hit upon a desperate plan—we strolled around the corner to Holywell where, along the high, iron spikes and barbed-wire covered wall, there was a “secret” passage, known only to the initiate (we learned later, of course, that the initiate included most Oxonians). The passage had been worn smooth from years of use. If one could shimmy up the eight foot wall, it was possible to crawl around the iron spikes and through the barbed-wire, which had been cut and bent back into place, and get into the Magdalen grounds after ours. Mounting the wall required a push from the ground and/or a lift from the top. Yes, we pushed and hoisted the two young ladies up over the wall, through the secret passage and into the Magdalen grounds after hours! Emboldened by initial success, we made our way—darting from doorway to doorway—to my room on the ground floor in New Building (where Webb and I occasionally crossed paths with C. S. Lewis—in the communal water closet). Once in the room, the temptation was irresistible to open the window and descend into the deer park which, of course, was ultra-forbidden territory. We shuffled around in the deer park, with what seemed to us cutting-edge bravado, until we thought of even more forbidden territory to desecrate— Addison’s Walk! We crawled back through the window, sneaked across the lawn, and went strolling through Addison’s Walk, now quiet and deserted because of the hour. We sat on benches along Addison’s Walk until, finally, it seemed that the story should come to a close, so back over the wall and up to Carfax we went to leave the young ladies where we had found them. As we trudged back to our rooms, we began to assess matters somewhat more soberly, wondering if we had been detected. Within a few days, the panic subsided.

Later, as a little memento of our adventure, the “American Octet,” a singing group of which Jack Love and I were members, added an ending refrain to one of our songs. The title of the song was, “She’s Just a Personal Friend of Mine,” and the ending refrain, which Jack sang solo with unforgettable tenderness, was, “we met at Carfax.”

On another occasion, Jack assisted me in leading Webb seriously astray. (Being two years older than Webb, we admit primary culpability.) During those same early weeks, when some of us were still finding our way around Oxford’s memorable pubs,Webb, Jack and I were completing an evening of reconnaissance and, at closing time, again found ourselves after hours and locked out of the College.We simply proceeded to the secret passage and scrambled over the wall onto the College grounds feeling fortunate to have made it in safely, considering what had been our agenda that evening. It was 1:00 a.m. Not content with our undeserved success in getting over the wall unscathed and undetected, we conceived a devilish plan. “Let’s go serenade President Boase.” We proceeded to serenade  President T. S. R. Boase—with “Home on the Range,” “America,” “You Are My Sunshine,” the “Star Spangled Banner” and others gone from memory—all very loud, raucous and callously provincial. Eventually, President Boase appeared at the front door dressed in his pajamas and bathrobe. He had not summoned the head porter, he did not scold us—he invited us in for port! We stumbled into the President’s house stammering thanks and apologies, and after vintage port with this gracious and generous man, we left convinced, rightly or wrongly, that he would like to have spent the entire evening with us.

During the Christmas vacation, Webb and I traveled to Windermere for one of the delightful visits arranged for Rhodes Scholars through the foundation directed by Mrs. MacDonald of Sleat. It was an idyllic place on the shore of the Lake, a true Beatrix Potter setting. Our hosts were retired Navy Captain and Mrs. Duffet and their beautiful five-year-old daughter, Patronella, with long golden hair.We were completely charmed by the Duffets.Webb began writing a poem for Patronella.

There were many hours for conversation between the two of us, unrestrained by time or subject matter, during long walks along the shore of the Lake and into the nights. One session, in particular, stands out in my memory. We were struggling to understand the relationship, if any, between the epistemology of the “scientific method” and the epistemology of religious belief—and Kierkegaard’s epistemology in approaching his “leap of faith.”We concluded, with great self-satisfaction, that, fundamentally, they were the same. Webb considered himself an existentialist, and Kierkegaard was his favorite philosopher.

Webb was a worthy companion for this sort of inquiry—broadly literate, analytical, with a determined interest in ultimate questions and the capacity to find humor in confusion where others might find irritation or despair. He was also considerate, fair and great fun in debate. One of his most effective weapons was his sudden and disarming grin in the middle of supposedly serious discourse. His good will and good humor were a constant source of good cheer, and my happiest memories of him include the many big laughs we had together.

Near the week’s end, without warning, Webb came down in the middle of the night with a sudden and debilitating illness which was never completely diagnosed. It required us to return to Oxford where Webb remained in the hospital for several weeks. During his time in the hospital, his tutor, Dr. John H. C.Morris, tended to Webb like a father to his son.

Webb was dismissed from the hospital and traveled home to Alabama to recuperate with a view to returning to Oxford upon his recovery. Within months after Webb’s return to Huntsville, he met his wife to be, Corinne Elizabeth Canaan. They were soon married to begin their fifty years together. Webb had also taken a temporary job with the U.S. Army Ordinance Corp at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. Shortly thereafter, Webb’s ROTC commitment matured, and he was called to active duty with the U.S. Air Force at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama.  These significant events in his life preempted Webb’s return to Oxford.

Webb served his active duty and continued as a reserve officer with the Air University at Maxwell, where he edited and wrote technical manuals, course materials and contributed articles for the Air University QuarterlyReview (including, for example, “The Spiral Toward Space”,  which was later published in the book, Man in Space by Lt. Colonel Kenneth Gantz.) Webb had attained the rank of Captain when he completed his military service.

He continued his career of technical editing and writing with the Burroughs Corporation in Pennsylvania, and the Vitro Corporation in Florida.Webb and Corinne moved to Cary, North Carolina, in 1972 where Webb began his final career as an Environmental Protection Specialist and Contracts Project Manager for the Environmental Protection Agency until his retirement in 1989.

Webb’s widow, Corinne, his daughter, Charlotte, and his sons, David and Stephen recall his devotion to his family and the remarkable breadth of his interests. Webb’s legacy to his family is best expressed in their own words: He was a wonderful father. He had all of the attributes I understand Rhodes Scholars are supposed to have—all through his life. He was interested in everything: philosophy, literature, history, current events, and we had long talks on all of these. He not only wanted to exchange perspectives, he wanted to give his children an appreciation of the pillars of Western thought. These gifts came often. He was interested in all of these things to the end, and he was always interested in my point of view on how I looked at the world whether in the context of authors we’d both read (especially Hemmingway, T. S. Eliot,Virgil, Dante) or history or philosophy. . . .

He was a great Dad, always respectful of all of us. He showed no favoritisms, and we took it for granted that he loved us all. I wanted to make him proud of me. . . . He was very pleased that we were able to maintain our independence in general. I don’t know if he gave himself sufficient creditfor that. . . .

Looking back on our relationship, it made me appreciate what a teacher he really was. He was the best liberal arts teacher I could have ever had, and most of my education I owe to him. I enjoyed many long conversations with him, especially as a teenager and as a young adult. He would often direct the conversation toward serious topics—politics, art, social issues, history, philosophy, foreign relations or family history. I remember being amazed at his ability to recall and recite French poetry which he had memorized years before. He also enjoyed a good heated debate. I argued with him many times about the issues of the day, but it never got personal, and he would often laugh and call off an intense discussion when he saw that neither side was willing to relinquish their position. I felt I was always treated with respect, as he engaged me almost as an adult. Our relationship was close. Dad had a rich inner life, and he enjoyed being a father, and shared so much of himself and his many interests with us. We often played chess, checkers and Go Fish on the weekends, and he would always put himself at a disadvantage at the start of a game to even it up a bit.He had a deep love and respect for nature with a special interest in rivers and the birds and fish that inhabit them. . . .

He enjoyed spending time in the Triangle area exploring, looking for walking areas and then walking there once he found them. His knowledge of the local areas in several nearby counties always surprised us. . . . 

There were many trips to the mountains and rivers, and he seemed to gain a special peace and comfort when he was out there. Each time we would go, he would quote T. S. Eliot saying, “In the mountains, there you feel free’.” He often took long walks in the woods with family members and his dog, Chrissy. Webb found Chrissy in the woods when she was a puppy and named her  after Chis Evert because she liked to play with tennis balls. Chrissy lived to be eighteen years old.. . .

Tennis was an important part of Webb’s life beginning in his early teen years. There were not many people in town teaching or playing tennis at that time, so his Uncle Stanford gave him a copy of Budge on Tennis, written by the great champion Don Budge, the first man to win all four Grand Slam events in the same year. By playing with a few local players, and by using the book’s sequential pictures of each stroke as a guide, Webb learned the game.He would practice in the reflections of his home’s windows to make sure that he was swinging the racquet the way Budge did.

After his return from Oxford and his recovery, he continued to play competitively in Alabama, Pennsylvania, northwest Florida and, finally, North Carolina until he settled into playing primarily with his sons well into his sixties. Thereafter, he continued to follow professional play, and he was following the U.S. Open closely to his final days. On August 25, 2007, two marble benches given by family and friends were dedicated to his memory at the Huntsville Tennis Center.

Other memorials to Webb will continue in the lives and aspirations of his family and friends. I am grateful to have been one of his friends and for the lift of the spirit which always comes with his memory.

JAMES C. PARHAM, JR.
( South Carolina and Magdalen ’54)