A Professorial Life: An Autobiographical Account

By John C. Briggs

John C. Jack Briggs was named
professor emeritus upon his retirement
from the University of South Florida. He
is now affi liated with the Department
of Fisheries and Wildlife at Oregon
State University. He and his wife Eila, a
retired economics professor, spend their
summers in Oregon and winters in
Indio, California. Jacks research interest
is primarily in evolutionary biology. His
studies in early years were devoted to
fi sh life history and systematics. Work
on systematics led to an interest in the
evolutionary implications of biogeographic
patterns. Work on contemporary
patterns of distribution and biodiversity led to the study of paleobiology
and the historical development of such patterns. To date, he has produced
150 publications, including six books or monographs. In 2005, he received
the Alfred Russel Wallace Award from the International Biogeography
Society for his lifetime contributions to biogeography. In addition to his
scientifi c works, he has published a science-fi ction book written for his
grandchildren A Mesozoic Adventure, Xlibris, Philadelphia, 2007. The
present work A Professorial Life is both a professional autobiography
and a concurrent account of family life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 26, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469105987

John C. Briggs

John C. “Jack ” Briggs was named professor emeritus upon his retirement from the University of South Florida. He is now affiliated with the Department of Fisheries and Wildlife at Oregon State University. He and his wife Eila, a retired economics professor, spend their summers in Oregon and winters in Indio, California. Jack’s research interest is primarily in evolutionary biology. His studies in early years were devoted to fish life history and systematics. Work on systematics led to an interest in the evolutionary implications of biogeographic patterns. Work on contemporary patterns of distribution and biodiversity led to the study of paleobiology and the historical development of such patterns. To date, he has produced 150 publications, including six books or monographs. In 2005, he received the Alfred Russel Wallace Award from the International Biogeography Society for his lifetime contributions to biogeography. In addition to his scientific works, he has published a science-fiction book written for his grandchildren A Mesozoic Adventure, Xlibris, Philadelphia, 2007. The present work A Professorial Life is both a professional autobiography and a concurrent account of family life.

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Contents

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

A MILITARY SOJOURN

CHAPTER II

THE VERY BEGINNING

CHAPTER III

OREGON STATE COLLEGE

CHAPTER IV

STANFORD UNIVERSITY

CHAPTER V

A PROFESSIONAL BEGINNING

CHAPTER VI

TEXAS TO SOUTH FLORIDA

CHAPTER VII

PROGRESS AND FAILURE

CHAPTER VIII

THE MARINE SCIENCE DEPARTMENT

CHAPTER IX

RETIREMENT AND CONTINUATION

CHAPTER X

THE UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA

CHAPTER XI

BIOGEOGRAPHIC PROGRESS

CHAPTER XII

NEW VISTAS

CHAPTER XIII

MODERN TIMES

CHAPTER XIV

2006 TO 2008

CHAPTER XV

TOWARD 2010

EPILOGUE

AFTERTHOUGHTS

APPENDIX

CURRICULUM VITAE JOHN C. BRIGGS*

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my children, their children, and their children—for as many generations who may find this account to be interesting.

PREFACE

A well-written life is almost as rare as a well-spent one.

—Thomas Carlyle, Critical and Miscellaneous Essays, 1827

I cannot help but reflect on how much the world has changed during my lifetime and the fact that it will continue to change. So I wish to provide a message for future generations, particularly for parents who are raising young children. The message is that a good education will continue to become more and more important in order that an individual may lead a successful life. By success, I mean a well-developed ability to appreciate culture as well as the capacity to achieve financial gain.

At present, the human population is increasing at the rate of 95 million per year or 260,000 per day. From a biological viewpoint, this predicts an ever-increasing struggle for existence. In this country, my generation has lived in a golden age during which all the resources that humans need have been relatively easy to acquire. But our society is undergoing changes that foretell a less bountiful existence. Even though the unemployment rate is low, there is an increasing gap between the haves and have nots. This gap is due to the discrepancy in income between the skilled and unskilled labor force.

The most consistent difference between the two labor forces is the level of education. In the past, an ambitious person with a high school education could find a job that would provide his entire family with an acceptable standard of living. With very few exceptions, this condition is no longer true. Nowadays, most well-paying jobs require a college degree. Furthermore, the particular college from which one receives the degree has become more important. There are poor colleges that are nothing more than diploma mills, mediocre ones that do not have a first-rate faculty, and better ones where students are taught by accomplished people. Beyond this, graduate degrees are important in many vocations.

There are some important things that parents can do that will enhance their children’s ability to absorb a good education:

1.   Provide a loving home environment where both parents take an active role. Kids from broken homes have an emotional handicap that will interfere with their progress.

2.   Do not be too permissive. Children feel more secure if they know the rules and if you are consistent in applying them.

3.   Take an active interest in the kids’ schoolwork. If they know you care, they will care.

4.   Begin a foreign language by age five or six.

5.   Limit television watching and encourage children to read by reading to them.

6.   As the children get older, make them earn some of the things they want. It is important for them to establish a relationship between work and money.

7.   romote athletic activities. They improve health and can instill a competitive spirit.

8.   Encourage creativity; that is the highest use of the human mind.

Much, if not all of the above is self-evident. But as the future becomes more competitive, it is increasingly important that young adults have the education to equip them for successful lives. I regret that I was not able to live with my children during much of their childhood. So the life that I have written about does not, in this respect, provide a good example. Nevertheless, I hope it will encourage the younger generation to get as much education as possible.

Most people who write autobiographies concentrate on their professional careers. But the two most important facets of life are family and career. The course of events in one part is bound to influence the other, so the two cannot really be separated. Every life has its successes and failures. In my case, I am thankful that I learned to persevere, without getting too egotistical about the first nor too despondent over the second.

CHAPTER I

A MILITARY SOJOURN

Thou liftest me up to the wind; thou causest me to ride upon it.

—Job 30:22

The twin-engine Cessna was flying in a three-plane formation at night. Running lights were extinguished, and the pilots had to maintain position using the light provided by the engine exhaust of the closest airplane. I was pilot of the plane on the left side of the formation. The copilot seat was occupied by a fellow cadet at the Advanced Army Air Corps flying school at Stockton, California. When it became our turn to enter the landing pattern, we left the formation, consulted the landing checklist, and began the circuit to the final approach.

We were participating in a night-landing exercise under limited-visibility conditions. The landing field was illuminated only by a pair of flares at the approach end of the runway. We were supposed to make main gear contact at the threshold and then lower to the tail wheel as we lost speed. A good approach usually meant a good landing. On this occasion, my approach looked good, the airspeed was right on, and we were going to make contact at the correct spot. The main gear hit with a satisfying scrunch, but this was followed by a loud bang, and the airplane veered sharply to the right.

I hit the left rudder and the left brake but could not succeed in getting us back on the runway. We were headed off into the darkness at eighty miles per hour. At the beginning of the exercise, before it got entirely dark, I had seen the several instructors park their planes off to the right of the runway. The great danger was the likelihood of hitting one of the parked aircraft. The quickest way of stopping was to do a ground loop, so I hit the right brake and rudder, and the plane immediately spun around with a great crack and lurch. As soon as it stopped moving, we jumped out and ran clear. Fortunately, there was no fire, but the plane was a sad sight with a broken landing gear and a bent propeller.

The cause of the accident was a blow out of the right main gear tire. The tire was new but evidently had been installed with a pinched tube. Under ordinary circumstances, in a three-point landing, the tail wheel would help hold the plane on the runway. As soon as I reported the accident, the captain in charge asked if I was okay; I replied yes despite feeling a little shaky. He said, Come on, let’s find another airplane. We did, and I made several subsequent landings that appeared to go well. However, the captain warned that the local command would have to convene a board of inquiry to investigate the accident.

CADET TRAINING

My love of flying began during my undergraduate days at Oregon State College. I enrolled in the government-sponsored Civilian Pilot Training Program and learned to fly at Albany Airport. There, I got to fly a Rearwin Sportster, a high-wing cabin plane with a ninety-horsepower radial engine. It was great fun to fly around the beautiful Willamette Valley in the spring of 1942. By this time, many of my fellow students had already left for the armed services. But I was in my junior year, and my draft board in Palo Alto had offered an exemption for one more year if I wished to complete my degree.

Upon graduation in June 1943, before the draft board could act, I applied for aviation cadet training in the Army Air Corps. Thus began a brief but busy military career. It started with basic training at Wichita Field in north Texas. That was a rigorous course conducted under miserable conditions. The daytime temperature was often more than one hundred degrees and dropped only a few degrees at night. This was followed by a College Training Program at Washington State College in Pullman. It was a wonderful relief to step off the train, see the rolling hills of the Palouse Country, and to breathe the cool air. We had nice dormitory accommodations and took rather simple courses in basic mathematics, physics, and meteorology. The physical training was more interesting. I got to play on the cadet basketball team against the WSC varsity. We lost.

The next step was Santa Ana Army Airbase in Southern California. There, we were put through a battery of tests to determine if we were best suited for training as pilots, navigators, or bombardiers. Of course, everyone wanted to be a pilot, and considerable anguish was expressed by those who did not qualify. Fortunately, I was considered to be pilot material and was included with a group to be sent to the Primary Flight School at King City, California. The school was run by a civilian contractor named Harry White. I knew Mr. White by his good reputation, for he had been in charge of the local airport at Palo Alto. He had hired, as instructors, a group of able civilian pilots.

Our training craft were open-cockpit Stearman biplanes. They were a delight to fly, rugged and capable of almost all kinds of aerobatics. After getting turned loose by the instructors, we could refine our snap rolls, loops, chandelles, and other antics. One day, I was flying along upside down when the engine quit. This was not alarming, for the procedure was to right the aircraft and dive it fast enough the turn the propeller and restart the engine. But this time the engine would not restart, so the alternative was to quickly pick out a site for an emergency landing. I picked out a nice big bean field and came to a bumpy landing across the rows. The plane was undamaged, but I had mowed down quite a few bean plants. The farmer was compensated by Uncle Sam, so everyone was happy.

The next stages were the Intermediate and Advanced Flight Schools located at Stockton, California. This was another good break, for my home in Palo Alto was located only about one and a half driving hours away. My two younger brothers, also in the army, were in Alaska (Sam) and in Europe (Carlyle). So my parents were happy to have me home for an occasional weekend leave. The twin-engine Cessna, called the bamboo bomber, was used for each program.

missing image file

Cessna UC-78

Our instructors were army pilots, most of whom had returned from duty overseas. The flying continued to be interesting and enjoyable. The fifty-foot cross-country trips were the most fun, zipping over the landscape at altitudes under fifty feet. We would pull up over the tall trees and then duck back down to the deck; very exhilarating! In addition, there was formation flying (day and night) and instrument training.

Here I was in Advanced Flight School with graduation not far away. Was I going to be washed out because of the landing accident? The dreaded day came when I stood before the board of inquiry and said, Cadet John C. Briggs reporting, sir! After sweating out a series of questions by a distinguished group of officers, I was dismissed. There were more hours of worry until the decision finally came down. But there it was no pilot error involved. What a relief! The remainder of the training was anticlimactic, and graduation day soon arrived. My parents came over from Palo Alto to see me receive my pilot’s wings and commission as a second lieutenant, a proud day.

THE B-17 HEAVY BOMBER

Graduation led to further training in more advanced aircraft. I received orders to report to Kingman Army Air Base in Arizona to receive copilot instruction in the Boeing B-17. I wanted to go to fighter school, but my size, at six feet four inches and two hundred pounds, was to too tall and heavy. The big four-engine bombers seemed intimidating at first, but proved to be easy to fly. We were warned to be careful with them, for they cost the government $250,000 each!

The big planes were comparatively slow in responding to control inputs, so one had to employ considerable anticipation. Many of the practice flights were conducted at high altitudes. We often had to sit in the desert heat in our heavy, sheepskin flying suits awaiting the signal to takeoff. But the temperature at twenty thousand feet was below freezing, and our sweaty suits became icy cold. Despite such discomforts, the flying was interesting and exciting. In addition to training pilots, Kingman served as a gunnery school. We often took along gunners who fired nonlethal practice rounds as we flew in formation. We would undergo simulated attacks by P-39s with the gunnery students trying to score hits as the fighters flew past.

We became acquainted with the spectacular Arizona desert scenery, enjoyed flying over, and sometimes into the Grand Canyon and had good views of the Painted Desert, Petrified Forest, and Lake Mead. Gradually, we came to appreciate the B-17 as a rugged, dependable aircraft. Its four engines each produced one thousand horse power and burned fifty gallons of fuel per hour. It was capable of carrying two thousand gallons, but the actual fuel load varied with the number of personnel, the load of munitions, and projected duration of the flight. Armament consisted of fifty-caliber machine guns that could be fired from two waist positions, top turret, ball turret, radio operator’s position, and a tail position. Later models also had a chin turret. Its cruising speed was relatively slow (about 140 miles per hour), but it climbed beautifully and could operate above thirty thousand feet.

After about three months, the B-17 transition training was complete, and the pilots were assigned to operational units. I wanted to go to England as a member of a combat crew. Instead, I was disappointed to be sent to the Air Transport Command. The fact that I had a private pilot’s license and was familiar with the Civil Air Regulations probably influenced the assignment. Later, upon learning about the enormous attrition rate suffered by the B-17s over Europe, I decided that I may have been lucky after all.

My home base for the ATC assignment was the Army Air Base at Memphis, Tennessee. I became a member of a three-man crew (pilot, copilot, engineer) that had the job of picking up war-weary B-17s, which had been flown back from Europe. The pickup points were either Savannah, Georgia, or Windsor Locks, Connecticut. From these places, we would fly the planes to modification centers in the western part of the country, mostly to Lubbock, Texas. The plan was to equip them for long-range duty in the Pacific theater. The ferrying task was not difficult since we were to fly only during daylight hours and under VFR (visual flight rules). Once a delivery was completed, we boarded a civilian airliner for a flight to the next pickup point.

We had only one scary incident. We were headed west from Windsor Locks and decided to land at Cleveland, Ohio. I was in the copilot’s seat. We were on the final approach when the engineer called to say that the tail wheel was not extended. The pilot (whose name I shall not mention) abruptly applied full power, and one engine quit. I started to feather the prop on that engine but the pilot said, Oh no, you might get the wrong one! Help me on the rudder. The wind-milling propeller was causing so much drag that it was difficult to keep going straight. I put all my weight on the left rudder pedal. As we lumbered through the air gaining little altitude, the tall downtown buildings loomed in front of us. I’d swear we missed one by not more than six feet. My leg became cramped, so I got down on my knees and kept the rudder pedal depressed with my hands. In this manner, we staggered around the landing pattern and once again got lined up on the approach. In the meantime, the engineer had gotten the tail wheel cranked down by hand, so we landed successfully.

The ferry job was not continuous, and there were often breaks of several days at the home base in Memphis. This was a lively town, and the unattached guys soon found out that the lobby of the Peabody Hotel was the best place to find young ladies who wanted to be found. Most of the ladies did not have the courage to go into the bars but could sit in the lobby as if they were waiting for an appointment. If a man did not look appealing, she could always say, Sorry I’m waiting for someone. At that time, the system worked well. Nowadays, most women would not hesitate to go into a bar by themselves.

MY OWN AIRPLANE

There was a small civilian airport not far from Memphis. I went out one day to see what was going on. At the back of one hangar, I noticed a little 1939 Taylorcraft that apparently had not been flown for several months. I asked if it was for sale, and the answer was yes; the owner had been trying to sell it for some time. So I took a demonstration flight, looked at the logbooks, and checked it over. The price was $1,200, but I offered $900, and my bid was accepted. I was now the proud owner of an airplane! It was canvas covered and powered by a little forty-horsepower Continental engine. It seated two people (side by side) and had a minuscule space for luggage behind the seats.

The Taylorcraft was a basic airplane strictly for fair-weather, daylight flying. It had no brakes and no electrical system. One started the engine by switching on the ignition, turning the propeller by hand until it started, and then jumping in the seat before the airplane rolled away. After landing, one turned off the engine and let the plane roll to a stop (if necessary, opening the door and dragging a foot). The instruments were few: altimeter, bank and turn indicator, magnetic compass, and RPM indicator. Considering the limited horsepower, it climbed well and had a cruising speed of eighty miles per hour. This was faster than the sixty-five-horsepower Piper Cubs that were then on the market. Many of the other guys were buying cars and paying exorbitant prices for worn-out prewar models. I was much happier with my little airplane.

It was now in the late summer of 1945. The war in Europe was over, and suddenly there was a pilot surplus. We were offered the opportunity to apply for an early discharge if we remained in the Reserve Officers’ Corps for five years. I immediately put in my application. I loved the flying and was grateful for all the training at government expense but did not care for the regimentation of military life. Orders soon arrived transferring me to the Army Air Base at Lincoln, Nebraska. If I used private transportation, I would be reimbursed.

One of my friends at Memphis had also elected for discharge and asked if he could ride in my airplane. I said sure, but he could only bring a small piece of luggage. Flying cross-country in a small, light airplane is vastly more interesting than piloting a big military plane or riding in a civilian airliner. By flying low and slow, one has time to appreciate the scenery below. From Memphis, we headed northwestward across the Boston Mountains in Arkansas. We stayed about one thousand feet above the rugged terrain with its beautiful rivers and lakes. My airplane performed well, but the heavy load required the use of full power to maintain altitude.

The Taylorcraft had a small gas tank located in front of the windshield. The gas cap had a wire extending through its center attached to a float in the tank. One could estimate the amount of gas in the tank by looking at the length of the wire. As we flew over the mountains, the exposed wire rapidly became shorter until it was evident that we did not have sufficient fuel to reach the next airport. My first flying instructor had emphasized that if I did not have sufficient fuel to reach an airport, I must land before the engine quit. This was good advice, for dead-stick landings are not easy to accomplish. Accordingly, we began to search for a landing place.

We finally spotted a dirt road that was fairly straight and level and appeared to have sufficient clearance on each side. I was just beginning to feel happy about a good landing when there was a disconcerting thump. We had hit a mailbox that we had overlooked on our first pass over the road. The Taylorcraft was a high-wing monoplane with wings supported by struts that extended to the lower fuselage. The strut on the right side had hit the mailbox and was considerably bent. Otherwise, everything looked okay.

Our landing turned out to be a local event. Several farmers and their families clustered around us. We were in uniform, and they were curious as to what we were doing in such a small plane. They were nice people, and we had several offers of hospitality until our plane could be repaired. We decided to stay with the family whose mailbox we knocked down. We were given some fine food and even a sample of the local moonshine. The next morning we took off the bent strut and carried it to the local blacksmith, whose shop was about a half mile away.

The blacksmith did a good job of heating the strut and getting it straight. We fastened it back in place and made ready to be on our way. Our host had a supply of gasoline for his tractor and offered to share it with us. The Taylorcraft did not require high-octane fuel, so we accepted with thanks. We waved good-bye to the friendly farmers and, with the mailbox now out of the way, were able to take off from the same dirt road. The tractor gas worked just fine, and we continued our cross-country trip. We landed at the municipal airport at Lincoln, Nebraska. Fortunately, there was sufficient hangar space so that my little plane could be kept inside.

The assignment at Lincoln Army Air Base was simply to wait until the Air Corps had a discharge center set up where we could be properly processed. We were allowed to live off base, so I looked up the Fiji (Phi Gamma Delta) house on the nearby University of Nebraska campus. Sure enough, they had plenty of space and welcomed fraternity brothers from elsewhere. Several of my fellow officers had the same idea. We had a great time living on that beautiful campus and dating some of the coeds.

There was also time to enjoy some local flying. One day, I decided it would be nice to go to the Rocky Mountains to do a little hiking and trout fishing. Boulder, Colorado, looked like a good destination, so I headed the Taylorcraft in the direction. There was an early-morning overcast at about two thousand feet, but the weather forecast indicated clearing later in the day. However, about two hours out of Lincoln, the cloud layer began to drop, and soon I was flying at only two hundred feet above the ground. I did not want to try instrument flying with my limited panel, so I elected to land in a field where the grain had recently been cut. The farmer and his son came out to see if they could help. I explained that I just had to wait awhile until the weather cleared.

The day was a Sunday, a dinner was planned at about one, and I was invited. The son was proud of having raised the chicken for the entrée and wanted me to have some. Who could resist such an invitation? The dinner was delicious, and in the meantime, the clouds had dissipated. So I spun the prop to start the engine and got ready to take off. But the field was soft from recent rains, and the plane would not budge. The man and boy then pushed on the struts to help get me moving, and the takeoff went fine. Once again, I was fortunate to have a forced landing where there were nice, hospitable people.

For most of the flight across Nebraska, I followed the broad, shallow Platte River. When it branched, I stayed above the south fork, which led almost directly toward Boulder. The airport was located on a mesa at the eastern edge of the Rockies. I borrowed a car from the FBO (fixed base operator) and explored the town. There, I met a statuesque young lady, who was a model on vacation from Kansas City. She and her mother had a summer cabin in Estes Park, and I was invited to visit. The young lady and I rented some horses and had fine time exploring the mountain trails (and each other). It seems that I forgot about the trout fishing.

Finally, after about a month, I received orders to report to Truax Field at Madison, Wisconsin, for the purpose of discharge from the Air Corps. Thus, a rather idyllic vacation at government expense came to a close. I put my worldly possessions (B-4 garment bag and a duffel bag with flying gear) in the Taylorcraft and set forth for Madison. As I passed over Iowa, I wondered how close I was to the little town of Nevada where my father was born. I could not find the name on the aeronautical chart.

The separation process took only a couple of days, after which I found myself on terminal leave, which gave me a few weeks to find another source of income. I also received a travel allowance for the return trip to California. At that time, my parents no longer lived in Palo Alto but were located in Caracas, Venezuela. Dad was on loan from the U.S. Geological Survey to the Venezuelan government. He was a hydraulic engineer, and the Venezuelans need his help in planning some dams and irrigation systems. While in the service, I had missed the college life at Oregon State—the sojourn at the University of Nebraska was a pleasant reminder. So I decided to return to Corvallis to look at employment possibilities and maybe go to graduate school.

The immediate need was to plan a flight in my little airplane from Madison to Corvallis. Flying in a straight line was out of the question. With forty horsepower at my disposal, I’d be lucky to get over the continental divide anywhere. My best bet would be to fly to the southwest, across the plains, to Tucumcari, New Mexico. Then I could follow the highway (Route 66, now Interstate 40) through the passes to Albuquerque and Gallup. If I could make it past Gallup near the summit, the rest should be easy.

A DISASTROUS FLIGHT

It was an enjoyable sightseeing trip until I encountered the east slope of the Rockies between Albuquerque and Gallup. The plan was to pass over Gallup and refuel at Holbrook, Arizona. Gallup was so high (6,500 feet) that I might not be able to take off once I was on the ground, but Holbrook was much lower. The wind was calm, and with the morning sun from the east, I hoped to catch some thermal uplift that would get me over the continental divide. Soon it was almost 2:00 PM, the engine was at full throttle, but I was still losing altitude relative to the surface.

Finally, when I was about two hundred feet above ground level, I began to feel some lift. Lateral maneuvering brought me to a stronger thermal over which I could circle. This purchased sufficient altitude, so I could look down upon Gallup from a safe height. The trouble was that all this staging about had used up a lot of fuel, and it began to appear that I would not have enough to reach my destination at Holbrook, Arizona. I decided to keep going and look for a place to land once the altitude had dropped one thousand feet or more. After the gas cap wire indicated less than a gallon remained, I spotted a roadside service station alongside a meadow that looked like a decent landing spot. After a