Dr. Philip F. Deaver (1946-2018)

Phil was my teacher at Rollins College and my mentor at First Friday for about a decade, because I was a married mother with a full-time day job who took one night class at a time toward my bachelor’s degree in English with a Writing minor. Even though I was in my forties at the time, I had the requisite school-girl teacher-crush on this man who talked about great books I should read; helped me cut my lengthy, rambling poems into tight little gems of emotion expressed through concrete images; and encouraged me to submit my first-ever short story to the Brushing literary magazine, which promptly published it. I became a writer over that decade, because he and other dedicated teachers convinced me I could.

My first name is Darlyn (pronounced as in “oh, my darlin’”), and whenever I’d see Phil on campus, he’d smile that million-watt smile and call out, “Hey, Darlyn!” and then look around as if guilty of saying something naughty, and announce to anyone within earshot, “That’s her name.” It became a running joke between us, to the point that he’d say, “Hey, Darlyn!” and I’d say, “That’s my name,” in a shorthand which sounded very rude to everyone but us.

At long last, Rollins gave me a diploma and made me leave, so I immediately took Phil’s advice and applied to the low-residency Master of Fine Arts in Writing program at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. At my first residency, I decided on Roy Hoffman as my mentor, and when I bumped into Phil, who also taught there, while waiting for the elevator in the lobby of the Brown Hotel, I gave him the happy news that Roy had accepted my request.

Phil congratulated me, just as the doors of the elevator swooshed open to reveal Roy Hoffman amidst a gaggle of other Spalding teachers and students. As Phil and I stepped into the elevator, Roy called out, “Hey Phil. Hey Darlyn.” Then Roy turned to everyone in the elevator and announced, “That’s her name!”