Porter Crow

Porter Crow had lots of names for his students. They were “dahlin’” and “gorgeous,” they were “handsome” and “lovey.” And there was the one he used at the start of every class, when he would stand at the front of the room, open his arms wide and bathe the group with, “My dearhearts.” Mr. Crow — a 29-year professor of literature and writing with Barry University’s adult and continuing education program and an iconic figure on the Palm Beach County campus — died early this morning at age 84. He was a literature and film junkie, an Army veteran and Purple Heart recipient, and, to hear his students talk about him, quite possibly the most loved college professor who ever lived. With his prostate cancer spreading, he continued teaching through March. “If he had ten percent of his energy left, he gave every bit of energy he had to that class,” said his wife, Lynn, from their home in West Palm Beach. “There was just not an end to all the positive, wonderful things that he did.” He was the son of a Texas preacher and one of 14 children. He received his bachelor’s degree from Baylor University, his master’s from Southern Methodist University and his doctorate in education from North Texas State University. He taught at a variety of high schools and colleges until settling in at Barry nearly 30 years ago. Lynn Crow said he missed just two classes the entire time — one to see his son graduate with his doctorate from Columbia and once in September because of complications from the cancer. She said that, even as his condition worsened early in the spring, students would beg to her that he return, so they could get one last class with him. It broke her heart to know it wasn’t to be. Mr. Crow’s background in theater gave him a magnetic presence in the classroom, said his son Burt, a dean at St. Philip’s College in San Antonio. “He loved to talk and he loved to listen,” he said. “It was so real the love that he had for his students, and he expressed that to my brother and me.” Burt Crow said that when he went on to teach, he found himself using the “dearhearts” term. “But I can’t use it with quite the effervescent quality that he had,” he said. Mr. Crow’s lessons roam so far beyond the academic that the book lessons seem almost secondary. It was his vigor for life and ego-less affection that his students remember most. He saw his task as finding the promise within his students and instilling in them the thrill over what they were to become. The way he put it, a teacher is “not a rule-maker but a map-maker.” “The teacher and the student live out of expectancy,” he once said. “He lived a complete, full life,” said Charles Robinson, a sheriff’s deputy who went back to school at age 39. “He probably lived more lives than four or five people.” Robinson spent three years in classes with Mr. Crow, including some that he took just because they were with him and that he didn’t really need to graduate. Robinson met his wife Nicole in one of Mr. Crow’s classes. Somehow, Mr. Crow seemed to know they’d be married even before they’d let on that they were even dating. Nicole Robinson said she shed an intense shyness in Crow’s class, where she faced her fear of public speaking. “You felt so comfortable, as if he were a father or grandfather figure,” she said. “No matter how bad a day I had, just seeing that man’s face made everything OK.” The Crow family is making plans for a memorial service, but details are not yet available.