A GORGEOUS MORNING FALLS IN SILVERY TONES ON THE BARK OF THE buttonball trees on the front lawn. Such a shower of light, combined with a balminess that turns thinly-iced patches on Albany Road into tepid puddles, and carries the smell of humus rising from thawing pastures and the breath of bovines from the Yazwinski barn, makes students walking to Miss Do's period three Algebra II class think of mid-April.

But once inside, through the windows of Room 28, the buttonwoods look different. They have become slumbering giants. The Eaglebrook ski slope in the east, still brilliant with snow, returns students to a proper wintry frame of mind. They turn their spring-starved eyes to the board.

Up in front of the class, Ngoc Do is making grumbling sounds as she copies problems out of a book onto the board. "They're way too easy in this book. I'll have to find something harder for you."

"No, Miss Do, they're fine," one of her students assures her. "Really!"

"Why do you do this to us?" groans another.

"I get up every morning and try to figure out how I'm going to make you suffer," she says, deadpan and still scribbling equations. "Now, can I have five volunteers to come up and solve these problems?"

The two protesting students are among the first to jump up.

This poised young teacher in a navy pantsuit and bun, wielding a marker and causing equations to march across the board in an invincible army of enumerators and denominators, sat in the same desks as these students just a few years ago. It was 1995, the teacher was Mr. Graney, and Ngoc Do had come for her junior year. She was the first exchange student from Vietnam through a program created by Headmaster Eric Widmer '57. In fact, she had been the first student to go abroad to any school outside of Vietnam since the war, well before that country and the United States shared the diplomatic relationship they enjoy today.

Last year, at the age of 22, she returned, this time as a teacher desirous of "coming back and giving back." She is less than a decade older than her affectionate sophomores. But she has already struck the balance between easy persiflage and expectant taskmaster--the teaching style that is the mark of so many Deerfield teachers. She has returned--one of the few, and one of the very proud--an alumna who has found her way home again to work at Deerfield Academy.

THE ADJUSTMENT HAS been challenging--developing a classroom style that both emulates the teachers she loved and yet is her own. And living among students--to be in and of McAllister III but as its residential head, not as a student "who was here long enough to do the things Deerfield students aren't supposed to do behind the teacher's back"--these are challenges she loves and rises to, just as she rose to the task of adjusting to a new culture in her past.

"You're on the other side of the fence, being back and calling everyone by their first name," Do explains, after the last student has left the room with a chirruping "Have a good weekend, Miss Do." "It was hard the first year. This year is much, much easier."

FOR ANYONE WHO HAS GONE through Deerfield, once is never enough. Whether one's time here is a fleeting exchange year or what, in retrospect, turns out to be an equally fleeting four years--there is for most graduates a sense that it all passed rather too quickly.

Regrettably, once is the only option available to most. Yes, there are always opportunities to 'return' in body, mind, and spirit: reunion weekends, Choate weekends, clubs from coast to coast, campaigns and committees. Weddings of classmates, Christmas cards in the mail, and email (thank heaven for email)--these keep thoughts circling back to Deerfield. Later, for those lucky enough to send children, there is the vicarious homecoming of seeing one's child 'return.'

But for seven or so teachers, and nearly as many outside the classroom, the Deerfield experience is a nine-month-long, 24-hour gig with its own demands and rewards. The road that brought them back is always different, sometimes short and sometimes longer; the destination, for them, the same. To return to the algebraic theme, teachers from newcomer Do, to veterans like David Howell '65, are "exponents" in every sense of the word: The American Heritage Dictionary defines the word as "one that defines, expounds or interprets...(in) mathematics...Any number or symbol...placed above another number...denoting the power to which the latter is to be raised."

Alumni and alumnae have an intuitive understanding of the job. Like translators of a special language, they parse the past into the present, translate it in their actions, and pass it on to the current crop of students. As Eric Widmer, who eight years ago became the first headmaster to be drawn from Deerfield's own, noted recently, "I've always had confidence in my ability to interpret the Deerfield past and apply it to necessary decisions that have to be made today, partly to protect that past and partly to stride ambitiously into the future."

Schools are traditionally wary of hiring from their own pool, remarked Widmer one day in his booklined office. Schools are like rivers--flowing between the same banks, but fresh and new with every drop of water that passes them. "Perhaps it's the belief that there's enough talent swirling around in the world," Widmer muses. "Schools by necessity want to perform that kind of exile, where they're not choosing their own. But the time came for Deerfield to select from its own."

An animated glow spreads over the headmaster's normally placid features when he is asked about his own Deerfield days--about whether the veil between his student days and the days freighted with a leader's responsibilities ever billows and lifts.

"For some reason, today, when I was walking down the hallway, on the second floor where the math classes are, I suddenly remembered that in Mr. Miller's freshman English class, we read 'How They Brought the Good News from Ghent To Aix.' I can't say I've used that poem expressly in my position as headmaster." It floated across his mind, it was unclear what had parted the neural curtain and let the music of Browning's verse drift in. Was it the echo of voices in a stairwell? The cadence of a lecture muffled behind a door? The whistle of a cardinal for its mate in a rhododendron as heard through an open window?

Tomorrow or the next day, walking down another hall or cutting along a path past the Old Burial Grounds, he might encounter another line or two, just as fair. In any case, Deerfield imparted the general idea that poetry has relevance and power in everyday matters, and the ability to surprise.

And it can be a salve in extraordinary times, a fact that hit home when Widmer had to address the school on the afternoon of September 11. Words he had learned as a student would always be waiting when they were needed most, even if you had few of your own. He reached for, "Matthew Arnold's great poem 'Dover Beach,' which Mr. McGlynn had introduced to us," reminding students that the tide had turned in "the sea of faith" on others before--

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain,
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Grim. And yet, on that day in the auditorium, in the indrawn circle of community knitting more tightly together than ever, those words rang with a weight and verity they had carried only a few times since Arnold penned them in 1867.

I NEVER THOUGHT I'D BE THE guy sitting here," laughs Jose J. Briones III '82. As an associate director of admission, he is one of several people charged, in part, with selecting Deerfield's future. As coordinator of special events, he must plan celebrations that pay homage to the past, give hope to the future, and hone in on the present: Parents Weekend, commencement, and the like. Briones is a big presence, fashion conscious enough to tuck a silk handkerchief into a breast pocket, relaxed enough to go by the playful nickname "J.J." His own long and winding road brought him to Deerfield--as the first of his Filipino-American family to go to boarding school. It carried him back out into the world to follow his personal philosophy that "you have to do a bunch of different things before you find what your calling is."

His time at Deerfield had planted a deep seed of community service, and he concentrated his post-graduate studies in non-profit management. After a stint in the affirmative action department in the Boston mayor's office, he found himself in the for profit world of a major brokerage house in Boston. It was this thrilling, rough-and-tumble setting that provided Briones with his eventual "epiphany:" the pound of flesh it was extracting could be used to profit many others in another venue.

"I had a hundred brokers working under me, I was working unbelievably long hours. My blood pressure was up to here"--he raises a flattened palm a foot above his head--"And I was having to say to myself, 'Look, what is it I value here?'

Having stayed in touch with all things Deerfield, it was "the western hills" to which his longing returned. The rest of him soon followed. Today, Briones wears several hats, each of them distinct and yet each fungible. By day, he reviews the applications of post-graduate hopefuls--some 350 a year for a sliver of spots. Working closely alongside co-chair Claudia Lyons, he keeps his eye out for candidates who can become "instant citizens" of Deerfield's particular culture. Briones finds these supremely gifted athletes, scholars, actors and dancers from Maine to California, but also in distant corners of the globe--from Eastern Europe, the Middle East and through the king of Thailand's special program for preselecting the country's most promising students for education abroad. Six years into the job, he remains blown away by the promise that's out there.

Briones is advisor to the school's growing Asian student population (46 at last count). Perhaps his favorite aspect of Deerfield life, though, is the daily task of living with a hail full of junior and senior boys on Doubleday III. Recalling his own days as a student slob, and the lessons he learned about orderly environments fostering orderly minds, he strives to instill the same. "I go out in the hall a lot. A lot," says Briones. "And I make it clear that I expect the hallways to be neat. I try to convey that this is my home, and this is your home, and I expect you to respect our home." He conducts room inspections wryly, firmly. Together with the boys, he has created an environment that has a reputation as "The Study Hall." That's reflected in the GPAs of the young men who live there--84, 85. The secret, he's learned, is holding high expectations. "You want to get them thinking along the lines of, 'How high can I jump to meet your expectations, Mr. Briones?' "

NO ONE COASTS THROUGH Deerfield. Likewise, no one comes back to Deerfield expecting to coast. The days are long, and for most they don't end with nightfall.

Michael C. Perry, now Director of Development, was 17 and full of boundless energy when he arrived as a post-graduate in the fall of 1971. His floor, Barton III, was the hub of work and the hub of play, thanks to Peter Hindle '52, who taught math by day, good study habits by night and good sportsmanship on the backgammon boards when midnight oil was burning low.

"To this day, I still don't know how Peter Hindle could have the door to his apartment open night after night to provide extra help," Perry says, traces of his Boston-area upbringing still audible in his warm voice. "Where he got the energy and stamina, I'll never know."

Perry had been young for his class at the public high school outside Boston, where his father was vice principal. A mere two hours' drive west along Route 2 found him among the oldest. Before long, the outside world had receded to a glimpse out the window of his room. "There was a leather chair that fit into the dormer window, where you could sit and look out. On winter nights, with the foliage down, you could look out and see Route 91 in the distance, and the lights moving along it and, yes, you would know there was a world out there."

Though there were adjustments to be made by Perry, indeed by any post-grad--"There was a slight stigma and the challenge of how fast you can get up and running with kids who have been doing this for three or four years..." Perry fell happily into step. Peter Hindle created a world of purpose and play on his floor in Barton: the long line out his door every night consisted of boys from all over the dorm and beyond. One by one they went in with their textbooks, cross-outs and chicken-scratch, and emerged enlightened--at least until the next night.

But even when the books were put away, "he didn't kick us out. If we wanted to watch Johnny Carson or a movie, he'd watch it with us. He had all these knickknacks, all these board games spread out on the tables. His apartment became the approved gathering spot, the place to decompress. It was where the truly great discussions happened. Only after the last boy had left would he, very gently, close his door."

Academics presented a hurdle. Despite his youth back in Burlington, he had felt confident with a book and a slide rule. At Deerfield, he had to recalibrate his efforts to make them fit into a new category of competency.

"Despite my best intentions, I found that in the first couple of days I had fallen behind in my school work, which was inconceivable since I thought I was working hard. Getting my first paper back from Mo Hunt..." He trailed off with a chuckle. He quickly learned that Roland Young, in the apartment downstairs, was a paragon of patience and would take any amount of time to answer any question. Dick McKelvey gave the impression that he had no more important appointment in his day than helping a young man find his way through the mud and brambles of his own thoughts. "When I went on to Tufts, I was prepared to do the work and knew how to balance my time," he says.

Going back to "extend" his single year at Deerfield was always in the back of Perry's mind. Education was in his blood, and after nine years of teaching and coaching at Avon Old Farms, Perry got an invitation from then Headmaster Bob Kaufman to consider a job at Deerfield. When he learned, from Assistant Headmaster for Alumni Affairs and Development David Pond, that it wasn't teaching but development, he hesitated. "I didn't come from a background where philanthropic giving was part of our everyday life," he reflects. "I couldn't imagine asking people for support of that kind. But David convinced me it was something I could do, given the skills I had in coaching." He took the job and found Pond was right. "I work with the most loyal alumni in the world. And you know, everything works out the way it should. I have plenty of contact with students through my basketball coaching. I've found the results in this job are equally important in touching the lives of students as teaching. Having come here on a lot of financial aid myself, it's wonderful to know that I have a part in making Deerfield a need-blind school, and making sure middle-income families can afford Deerfield, so there can be diversity here."

The essential ingredients have remained constant, though, and those are what enable Deerfield to both innovate and retain its timelessness. "Sit down meals, a dress code, athletic traditions, and a close working relationship between faculty and students define the school," said Perry, who was delighted to watch his daughter Joy '01 find the same caliber of mentor that was there for him.

THE POET WORDSWORTH MUST have known someone like C. Michael Sheridan '58 when he wrote of "[a] man he seems of cheerful yesterdays and confident tomorrows." Sheridan, the school's business manager, is a jovial person of sparkling blue eyes, an unthinned crown of silver hair, and a robust handshake. He leads his visitor to the cheerful inner sanctum of the Business Office, just beyond the ringing phones, flashing copy machines, and upbeat banter. The faces of his grown children (Sam '93 and Sarah) beam from every shelf and surface. Kathy Robertson, the school's athletic director and Sheridan's wife, is also a photographic presence in this cozy den.

Like colleague Perry, he came to Deerfield late--a "new boy junior" in Dean Hall. Also like Perry, he wended his way back after culling experience in the world beyond the Valley. The most significant stretch included practicing law in a metro Boston firm as well as in the Department of Justice. Sheridan's hail-fellow-well-met personality was well suited for the work, but over the years he came to view law as "disillusioning." He accepted the job at Deerfield when a friend he recommended for it was unable to take it.

That was nearly 25 years ago, but Sheridan recalls the shimmering sense of déjà vu. "I can remember, it was a strange sensation, coming back." The Sheridans bought a house on "The Street." As their children became part of the life of the village, he found himself at home here, and with the years flying by. Like Perry, he found the work of overseeing the day-to-day financial matters, and parlaying those into the larger vision articulated by trustees and managers, surprisingly satisfying. As they embarked on new projects, there was an understanding that made relationships with passionate and often opinionated trustees, headmasters and colleagues flow. "This comes," he said, "not in a moment, but from sharing years spent drinking at the Deerfield trough...In our daily actions here, from my position managing the business and financial aspects, I'm constantly aware of the Deerfield ethos, ethic, the gestalt that ties various Deerfield functions together. When you're trying to plan, you need some principles on which to base those plans. Having shared 'the Deerfield experience' with so many others has led us to make those decisions on the highest quality we can reasonably manage to do." Take the new dance studio that opened last fall after years of planning. "Certainly we're not the first institution have built a dance studio," he observes. "When we built ours, we did it right."

"Doing it right" means compensating the people who are "doing." Competitive pay and benefits mean the school is able to attract and hold good people for a long time. That translates to a stability, which allows the Deerfield experience to remain timeless and timely--a gift handed down from seasoned teachers who have weathered cultural and pedagogical fads and can still find true north. It translates into grounds crews who aren't mere spade-turners, but who have botanical imaginations and care about the Latin names of the plants they're tending. It translates into retaining dining hall staff who know the fickle tastes and dietary needs of high-spirited adolescents who want to be vegetarians but aren't giving a thought to their B-12 and iron requirements. And into technology that can do the almost impossible: stay a half step ahead of computer-savvy students. Mike Sheridan knows that he is the hand in the glove, the one who, by keeping his eye on the bottom line, can tell others just how high they can soar.

ERIC WIDMER RECENTLY MUSED that it is the physical structures that do the most to hold past, present, and future together. Teachers come and stay, sometimes for decades, but they pass no matter how dedicated. Pedagogy changes, too. Like a spine, it remains the school body's core, upholding but flexible. But it is the physical environment that headmasters have counted on for continuity.

"In retrospect, I've often thought Mr. Boyden was rather like a Taoist emperor in China, where the highest expression of kingly skill was found in form." Architecture, in particular, was viewed as the ultimate expression, and set the backdrop for all the emperor wanted done. Mr. Boyden understood this when, in 1931, he had the Old School Building torn down. There was nothing urgently wrong or even visually displeasing about the old edifice. Boyden, however, knew that the Georgian-style Main Building would convey the ideals of the Deerfield he was creating.

Headmaster Widmer has never forgotten the moment he and his mother pulled up at Deerfield, a moment he recalls as "magic." It was the spring of 1953, and they had been on a tour of several schools; it was Deerfield's built environment, its plantings and the interplay between them that convinced him. That hasn't changed. "It all seemed rather timeless to me. The minute you see the school you want to go there. I did."

Charged with guarding the past through care of the physical environment are two alumni with institutional memories--fourth-generation alumnus and Physical Plant Director Milton "Chuck" Williams '72 and Grounds Supervisor Brett Gewanter '88. More than perhaps anyone else on the 280 acres of campus, it is this pair that knows how, in Browning's words, "great things are made of little things." "Deerfield Academy's success is in its willingness to pay attention to detail," said Williams, who oversees all of the maintenance, security, and custodial teams.

No detail goes unnoted. There isn't a misguided or wilting vine Gewanter doesn't know about, an icicle-prone overhang or temperamental furnace that doesn't vex Williams. There are over a million square feet of building to maintain, and these two believe they have personally interacted with every one.

Both are local boys. Gewanter's parents had a house near Eaglebrook, and he became a farmhand on the Williams' family farm. Gewanter's heft and dependability impressed Williams. Academia was neither of their strong suits; they spent their years at Deerfield thinking of themselves as lowly inhabitants of the scholarly totem pole. ("I don't think I would make it here if I were a student today," sighs Williams.) In college, though, they were shocked to find that their sheer ability to carry a workload put them miles ahead of their brightest friends. Like perennials planted in the wrong zone but given lots of light and pruning, they thrived. Both went on to get degrees in plant and soil science, and made their way back to Deerfield to make use of them. They approach their jobs as scientists and aesthetes, all the while drawing patience from youngsters who have not yet become either but who are immeasurably more "green" than Williams and Gewanter were.

"I don't think that when I was a student I was very aware of my surroundings," says Gewanter. "These students are. I still do get upset when I see students making goat paths"-- eroded shortcuts between points A and B--"because I know how much work goes into keeping the lawns looking nice."

Together and separately, and with their combined staffs of more than one hundred, they fight the monoculture that creeps onto so many campuses (easy to vacuum honey locusts, dusty yews). They continue to diversify the school's nursery stock, including 40 disease-resistant elms given in gift by an alumnus. They go up against the headmaster's "strong sense of history" when they must convince him that some venerable patch of flora must be cleared; they deal with their own emotions when they have to do the same with a tree that was mature in their own student days. They talk with "green" students who stop them and ask what the ice-melting stuff is.

By hiring squadrons of people with talented hands, strong backs, a passion for historic preservation, and a botanic imagination, they are usually able to meet their goal: to have nearly every-thing done 'in house,' a move that consistently saves a half to a third of the costs than calling in labor from without. And no outside contractor, however skilled, would have the same investment in the final outcome. "We're not here to make the all-mighty dollar. We're here to save the school money." Spoken like a true alumnus.

It's hard to imagine greener pastures than Deerfield's. Maybe that's why people choose to give whole lives to this work, following the ellipse of the school year from fall to first snow to spring and her predictable, but never diminished, beauties and her eternal send-offs.

"My most touching experience was with a student who had come from Shanghai Middle School number two," recalled J.J. Briones. "At the end of the year, we had become very close friends. I had written letters to the Chinese and American embassies so her family could come for graduation. Afterwards, I got a note: 'Mr. Briones, I want to thank you, because you have changed my life.' That's how we get paid back."

As published in the Spring 2002 issue of Deerfield, the publication of Deerfield Academy's Alumni Office.