Thank You, Dr. Torrance

The Torrance family has a long, long history in Milledgeville and Baldwin County. Paul grew up in a community called Union Point, and his grandfather owned the 700 acres on which he grew up. Though it is true that the Torrances came from Scotland in the middle of the 18th century, I have traced history back to Paul’s great-great-great grandfather, Andrew Torrance, born in Scotland in 1755.

Going to school in Milledgeville definitely has its advantages at this point in my study.  The gravesites of those long-ago relatives are on a list of forgotten and unmarked gravesites that isn’t too far from the school.  Paul has a rich history in Baldwin County, and I think that’s what’s driving my study.  It’s definitely the thing that’s motivating me to focus so that I can study with his dear student and friend, Bonnie Cramond.

Along the same lines, I had the privilege of speaking with another wonderful student, friend, and research assistant of Paul Torrance last night, Felice Kaufmann. I was amazed at how much Felice’s demeanor reminded me of the way that people describe EPT.  We talked for a solid two hours, and I learned so much about him, the ways that he lived, we laughed about the “Torrance pose”, and we talked about his affections for his cats.  The one cat that sticks out in my head is Princess, the one who refused to move from his chest as he was dying unless instructed to go relieve herself. Princess was devoted, just as she’d seen her owner be to anyone that stepped into his house. I was privileged to hear the story of Paul and Pansy’s first kiss, an anecdote that is both hilarious and alarmingly accurate in revealing their unique personalities.  Pansy was gregarious; Paul was quite reserved.

All of these recent discussions about Paul Torrance’s life with some of the people who knew him the best have led me to a conclusion that my senior capstone project may be a psychobiography of E. Paul Torrance and a description of how his own theories and beliefs about creativity were manifested in the way that he lived his own life.

I’ve cried a lot, I’ve laughed a lot, and I’ve loved a lot in the last few days. The only thing that I wish were different in these circumstances is that I actually knew the Gentle Genius of Georgia.

Thanks, Dr. Torrance. We love you!

About a month ago, a friend and I had lunch with Bonnie Cramond and her wonderful husband, Neil. Through our discussion, I discovered that I had wanted to investigate the smaller, more intricate details of “Granddaddy”¹ Torrance’s life. Bonnie’s husband is a quiet, hilarious, and very considerate man, and as we were leaving the restaurant, he quietly said, “Yes, all you’d have to do is to go to the courthouse to get records. Everything is public!” Little did the over-six-feet-tall athlete know, he changed my world.

I knew that a friend of Torrance had written a book. Garnet Millar publishes the case studies of the Torrance kids, but he also wrote an autobiography of Torrance.  Much of the writing and the picture-taking took place as Millar visited Torrance in Athens and on a car journey that the two took from Athens to Milledgeville in the early 1990s.

As any modern student does, I immediately turned to the Internet to see if I could find the book.  Trusty Amazon didn’t have the book new, and the only copies available were used.  At this point, I just wanted the book.  After seeing it in the Torrance Center on a visit a month before, I knew that it was filled to the brim with pictures and personal accounts of all things Torrance.  At that point, I needed the book.

Finally, the book came, and I had money left on a gift card with which I purchased it.  As I sat perusing the book between classes one Thursday afternoon, tears began to well in my eyes. I felt as though Granddaddy was telling me stories of his boyhood and of his “younger days”.

And then, I found it.

A picture of and the names of the owners of “The Big House”, the nickname given to Torrance’s grandparents’ home that was nestled somewhere between my university campus and Athens, Georgia. With only the name of the owner and pictures from the mid-1900s and 1997, I set out to find the location of the house.  I hurriedly found the website and online database for the Baldwin County Tax Assessor’s Office and keyed in as much information as I knew about the property. Soon, the record appeared. Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, “There it is!” I ran across the hall to tell my friend that we had to go look.

The next day found me bouncing in my seat, so excited to hear, smell, see, and touch the life of young Torrance. As we made our way down Stembridge Road, a hidden area in a little community called Union Point, my heart began to beat with a racing rhythm. The road is longer than any that I remember traveling. We passed the farm of which Torrance spoke in the biography, we passed the remains of the school grounds, by which a photograph was taken by Millar in 1992, and I could feel a steady lump growing in my throat.

Rolling farmland will never make you cry until it means something. Sobbing began as one of my best friends said, “If I were you, I’d look up.” Soon, past a few winding curves, the Big House stood proudly. Plastered with “Private Property” signs at the front of the drive, it was apparent that other people wanted a closer, more intimate look into the early life of Georgia’s Gentle Genius as well. I couldn’t help it. I sobbed. It was where the workings of the most intelligent educator in Georgia’s history got his start, and it was where the one who influenced my work and the work of so many others began to bloom and grow.

I began to think of the nursery rhyme The House That Jack Built after leaving a message for a trusted colleague and dear friend of both mine and Granddaddy’s.

This is the house that Jack built!
This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built. 

This is the cat that killed the rat
That ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the dog that worried the cat

That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat

That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built
 This is the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn

That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the man all tattered and torn

That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn

That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built
This is the priest all shaven and shorn

That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat

That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built
This is the cock that crowed in the morn
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn

That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat

That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the farmer sowing his corn
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn

That waked the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built!

Thinking about the many things that took place in that area to grow E. Paul Torrance into the friend, mentor, colleague, scholar, and “gentle giant” that most of us knew but all of us love is overwhelming. I often think about what he would think of me, the newest “scholar” to the field of creativity, and someone with a physical challenge.

If only the front porch swings were open for advisement…

Thanks, Dr. Torrance.