Employee dies at 88 after nearly 70 years spent at Waynesburg
Editor’s Note: James “Fuzzy” Randolph died Nov. 10 in his home at the age of 88. This profile was written in Fall 2015 by a former staff member to describe the life Fuzzy has led at WU ever since his years as a student.
On this particular day, the office of Institutional Advancement smells of coffee and looks every bit like a family reunion.
In a small room off to the left, workers of the office sit gathered around a conference table. There isn’t a meeting being held or business to go over – quite the contrary, actually. The office is all smiles and all ears because of one man telling stories of Waynesburg University in years gone by.
James D. Randolph, known around campus as “Fuzzy” for as long as anyone could tell you, has them drawn into the past for a fleeting moment – capturing their attention effortlessly and without intent.
That’s just who he is. A natural story teller who’s seen it all – from the small college town of Waynesburg to the vast expanse of the Colorado Mountains.
Seeing it all dictates that there are many stories to tell, and he has plenty. Many of those stories he lived and experienced with another man, and Randolph now spreads those stories in memory of his initial supporter, friend and father-figure – Paul R. Stewart.
A fair amount of the history of Waynesburg University can be traced back to the adventures of Stewart and Randolph. And, while that history may be buried under Miller Hall in a small museum named after Stewart – of which Randolph is the curator – the stories live on.
Waynesburg history lives on through the life of one man, and the remembrance of another.
***
It was wildflowers that brought Stewart and Randolph together. Stewart was an expert on the local flora, according to Randolph, and would give lectures in churches and schools throughout the county during his time as Waynesburg College president.
“One day when I was a senior in high school, he came up to my church for our Father’s Day banquet and gave his wildflower lecture,” Randolph says, making eye contact with everyone in the room as he shares his meeting with Stewart.
Stewart had samples of flowers with him for the lecture on huge glass slides, and any time he wanted to change slides being shown, he would have a student attending the lecture assist him.
“He would tap off with a cane on the floor, and that was the signal,” Randolph says with a smile, demonstrating the action by rapping his knuckles on the conference table.
Throughout the lecture, Randolph stayed near the back of the room. As the lecture was ending and Stewart was about to leave, he noticed Randolph.
“Who are you, boy?” Stewart asked him, holding cases full of glass slides and wildflowers and carting the heavy slide machine behind him. “What grade are you in school?”
“I graduate this May,” Randolph replied after telling Stewart his name.
“You do? You going to go to college?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to be a farmhand, that’s all.”
Stewart wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “You come down to Waynesburg College, and we’ll take care of you.”
Randolph recalls being taken aback, unsure of how to reply to such a bold statement. So he did the only thing he could think to do.
He packed an old, faux alligator-skin suitcase, and did as Stewart instructed – and so began their adventure together.
***
There was no one to meet him when he arrived at Waynesburg College that fall.
He didn’t know where to live, so he moved from dorm to dorm, place to place for over a week. Out of desperation, he searched out Stewart’s office in Miller Hall. The college president greeted him like an old friend.
After looking everywhere for “a place to put up this lad,” Stewart finally arranged to have Randolph housed in the only place where there was space: the girls’ dormitory of Walton Hall, which stood where Roberts Chapel is now erected.
“He said ‘we need someone up there to fire the coal furnace,'” Randolph says, looking around the table once more at those listening to his enthusiastic story and laughing with them. “So I moved into the [basement of] the girls’ dormitory, and I lived there off and on until I graduated. Isn’t that something?”
While definitely an unconventional introduction to Waynesburg College, those initial experiences with Stewart provided Randolph with the foundation for a strong relationship with the president of his college.
“I just became part of his family,” Randolph says simply, and then laughs and leans in closer to the table and whispers, “In fact, his one daughter Ruth got a little peeved one day because Prexy was a little more toward me than his [actual] family.”
That familial attachment would soon become much more real for both Randolph and Stewart. When Stewart’s youngest son Walter – who worked finding uranium ore out west – was killed after his plane crashed into the Grand Canyon wall, Randolph found himself inserted into a new position in Stewart’s life.
“I think, maybe…” Randolph starts, but hesitates over the seriousness of what he wants to say. “I don’t want to seem like I deserved it or something, but I think that’s when I became Prexy’s son.”
***
Randolph recalls Stewart demanding more from him after that, and he in turn gave Stewart more and more of his time.
In the summers, Randolph and Stewart began traveling to a field school in Colorado – Randolph estimates they made the trek together seven or eight times in total.
Stewart, Randolph and a few others would often go to the headwaters of the Rio Grande River on fishing trips. Randolph recalls climbing mountains to get to their spot, and spending a week at a time just catching trout together.
He shows off a photograph of Stewart by the river – with Stewart holding up a large fish to show the camera – and laughs at the memory he is about to tell.
“I caught a 14-inch cutthroat trout, and I thought I had arrived,” Randolph says, excitement at the memory evident in his smile as he leans back. “And that smart aleck, Prexy, he gets right in the middle of the doggone river – and it’s cold! But it’s the sweetest water you ever drank – and he caught a 24-inch cutthroat trout.”
“That smart aleck,” he repeats, though the tone of his words belie their meaning. It’s a happy memory. “I took a picture of him, and I think in the picture he’s still wearing that smirk.”
For being only one of many adventures Randolph has had with Stewart over the years, a fishing tale sums up their relationship: from strangers to professional colleagues, and from friends to practically family.
“I was with Prexy ’til he died,” Randolph adds, something akin to pride touching his voice.
He nods to himself, confirming the fact.
From the beginning to the end, he was there.
***
The office is thinning out now as the afternoon wears on. Randolph started to leave ten minutes ago, but he still lingers. He’s telling stories – he’ll recount the same story twice if someone missed it the first time.
He’s singing old spiritual songs that were passed down from Stewart’s mother to Stewart, who passed them down to him – he starts the verses over a few times, beginning a new refrain every time curious faces pop in to investigate.
It’s obvious that this is the kind of person he is. He has a well of seemingly never-ending stories to tell, and he’s the only one who knows them – but he’ll always take the time to tell one more story, one more time, to one more person.