In 1968 I was a second-year law student and my wife was in her final year at Radcliffe. It was the middle of a very cold winter and a raging snowstorm. It was the night we had invited one of my Harvard Law professors, Lloyd Weinreb, to dinner.
I did not know any other students who had ever invited one of their HLS professors to dinner. But wasn’t it time to try something new? The whole university was a boiling mess, the beginning of radical change, long overdue.
Now, looking out the window, I saw the traffic had stopped on Mount Auburn Street. White blankets of snow were waving in the street lights.
“There is no way Professor Weinreb is coming to dinner tonight,” my wife said. And just like that, the telephone rang. “See?” she added.
“I just wanted to check if dinner was still on,” Professor Weinreb said.
“Yes, but I don’t think you can make it,” I said. “Nothing is moving.”
“But dinner is still on?”
“Sure,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, I saw two figures trudging up Mount Auburn in the snow, the streetlights flickering. They were the only living things in sight, the two of them like explorers right in the middle of the street.
You are going to remember a professor who braves the biggest snowstorm in a decade to come to dinner with a student he barely knows. Professor Weinreb was an explorer.