The backup tape

On December 15, 2008, a Monday, someone affiliated with Miami University’s Oral History Project had a report to write. The weather was a little wonky that day—unseasonably warm in the wee hours, some light precipitation mid-morning, with a steady decline in temps in the p.m. I can imagine the author seated at his or her computer, all settled in with a steaming cup of jo, in full-on “no brag, just fact” mode. 

But make no mistake: this report was written to impress. To gloat a little. To describe for the powers-that-be—the highest muckety-mucks the university had to offer—the significance of all that the author and his or her colleagues had accomplished over the preceding three years. This was, after all, the university’s bicentennial celebration. By this point, 25 one-on-one interviews and 66 group interviews, called story circles, had been completed—with some of Miami’s most renowned names as well as others who were less known but who also had interesting stories to tell. 

Most interviews had been posted to the bicentennial website by then. Additional interviews would be conducted throughout the winter, spring, and summer. In two short months, the festivities would officially kick off with a Charter Day Ball. And five months and a handful of days after this report was written, someone affiliated with the Oral History Project would be sitting down with several of Miami’s legendary hockey coaches and chatting it up on camera. So gloat on, dear author, because you and your coworkers have done some amazingly impressive work. I really, truly mean that. The Oral History Project folks did an outstanding job.

When you have five free minutes, I encourage you to read the one-page report, from beginning to end. And if you have an extra minute to spare, you may want to read the second-to-last paragraph one more time, with sentence number 3 being my favorite.

Click on image for a closer view

Now, after reading all of the author’s glowing words, what do you think he or she would say if we told them about all we’ve been going through lately? Like: what would they say if we told them how long we’ve been waiting to obtain copies of the recordings that, for whatever reason, hadn’t been posted to the bicentennial website? 

Also, what would they think if they knew that I needed to obtain legal representation in hopes of obtaining copies of the unposted recordings?

And finally, what would this person say if I told them that, after all of these months, and after all of the legal proceedings, I’m still waiting on one of the recordings to turn up? As luck would have it, the missing recording happens to be the one with the Miami hockey coaches, which couldn’t have been an easy one to coordinate, what with the stature of the people involved and their jam-packed schedules.

The report’s author would probably ask: “What about the DVDs that were made from each videotape?” 

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Then, they’d ask, “Well, what about the Southwest Ohio Regional Depository? Surely they should have received a copy.”

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But then they’d say, “Well, thank goodness for the audio backup. They should at least have that.”

Of course. The audio backup, as mentioned in sentence 3 of the second-to-last paragraph. If the two hockey tapes we’re waiting on should turn up empty, University Archives should have an audio recording of the Miami Hockey Coaches interview as backup. And can you imagine if the digital videotape of those hockey coaches had been damaged or destroyed to the point where it couldn’t be posted to the website or used to create DVD copies? They would have guarded that audio recording with their lives.

********

Update 9/27/2022: Based on a 2005 funding request and other Oral History Project records, the backup audio wasn’t a “tape” per se. Audio was recorded using a digital audio recorder and converted to CD-ROM.

My latest discovery re: accession numbers and archive numbers and their relationship with a certain hockey tape

Or…an end-of-summer walk through the weeds

Photo by Rachael Crowe on Unsplash

As we wait on the university to produce the two hockey tapes that may or may not have something to do with an interview with several Miami Hockey Coaches, I haven’t exactly been sitting around twiddling my thumbs. If the tapes they produce turn out to be our coaches, great. Success. But if they’re some other unrelated hockey-themed videos, what then? Also, if the tape that’s referred to in Oral History Project progress logs and archive lists as Miami Hockey Coaches is actually labeled something else, how would they know if they’d found it? Would someone even recognize it if they were holding it in their hands? Which is why l want to be able to tell officials, at the appropriate time, the exact location where they need to look for the missing tape, regardless of its title. And today I’m happy to report that I’ve found additional evidence to support what I believe to be the honest-to-goodness real-life home address of the Oral History Project recording currently known as the Miami Hockey Coaches.

That’s right. I think that the missing tape’s accession number is msv00110 and I think its archive number is 10F-4-129. 

Let’s think about that for a second. When all of this began, I had virtually no clue which Oral History Project recordings weren’t posted online, and I didn’t know the so-called Miami Hockey Coaches recording existed. Now, even though staff members have had a tough time figuring out where the Miami Hockey Coaches recording may be, I think I can pinpoint its exact numerical ID  in not one but two University Archives numbering systems. So yeah. It’s one thing to know the title. But titles, like people’s names, can be confusingly similar. (Hence: Miami Hockey Coaches vs. Hockey Tape #2 vs. Hockey Interview #1.) Having a recording’s accession and archive numbers is like knowing its street address, Zip code, and that plus-four number at the end. That’s way better.

Granted, we’re talking in archivist jargon here, the distinction of which I’m not entirely clear on. As far as I can tell, an accession is the term used for an item that’s being added to an archives, so the accession number is the record that’s produced to track the accession as soon as it enters the door. Earlier in this blog space, we learned that the university tracks its accessions in a database known as ArchivesSpace. As for the archive number, that appears to be used to distinguish one record in a collection from another. I’m not sure why a person would need both numbers to keep track of a particular record. Maybe the archive # provides more specific information to the archivist, such as the record’s physical location—a particular filing cabinet, shelf, or drawer—or to identify a particular grouping of items, such as the Oral History Project. I don’t know. I’m not an archivist. This much we do know: as far as the Oral History Project recordings are concerned, each tape has both numbers.

If you want to see these numbers for yourself, out in the wild, you need to look in two separate places. For the accession numbers, go to the university’s Miami Stories Oral History Project web pages and click on the individual recordings. On the page with all of the credits, you’ll see that the accession number is identified as such and will start with the letters msv followed by a string of zeroes.

To see the archive number, you can visit the Special Collections and University Archives web page, and it will be included with the title and date of each recording. For the Oral History Project recordings, the number will start with the prefix 10F-4.

To further complicate matters, when I was going through the Oral History Project boxes in University Archives this past June, I stumbled on what appeared to be more numbers to ponder. At the top of an important-looking document were the words “Miami Stories Oral History Project Sorted by ARCHIVE #.” And then there was a table of titles next to two columns: one for an Archive # and another for the Control Panel #. In both cases, the numbers were one, two, or three digits with no prefixes. The numbers in the Archive # column were in order, although some numbers had been skipped over, while the numbers in the Control Panel column were jumbled. In some locations, especially on the last two pages, several boxes are left blank, some in both columns. The list ends with the interviews that had been conducted in May 2009, so they still had 13 more interviews to go at that point.

Here’s that document.

So I was yesterday years old when I finally realized that the numbers on this table are the same as the accession and archive numbers that we know and love, just sans the prefixes. In other words, if you take away the msv and a few of the preceding zeroes from the accession number, you’ll have the control panel number. (I don’t know why it’s called a control panel number—maybe it has something to do with ArchivesSpace?  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Also, the WC in a few of the control panel boxes means Western College, but the numbers are still the same.) Likewise, the archive numbers in the table are the same as the ones on the Special Collections and University Archives page minus the 10F-4.

Me: 🎉 🎉 🎉

You: 🫤

Me: Wait. Why am I the only one celebrating?

You: Um…and this is important…why?

Oh, sorry. This is important because now we can fill in the blanks on the ARCHIVE # chart, especially the last two pages. And if we can fill in all of the blanks except for those next to the Miami Hockey Coaches, then we should be able to figure out which numbers should go into the Miami Hockey Coaches’ slots too.

Here’s the result.

Let’s start with the control panel number and count down from 105. Number 105 is the School of Engineering and Applied Science, number 106 is Stewards of Campus Grounds and Natural Areas, number 107 is assigned to the Marching Band Directors, 108 to Marjorie Miller Donovan, 109 to the Oxford Village leaders, and 111 went to the Physics faculty. Only number 110 was skipped over and only the Miami Hockey Coaches tape is missing a number. You guys, it’s gotta be. The control panel/accession number for the Miami Hockey Coaches is 110 or msv00110.

Now let’s look at the archive numbers, counting down from 125, which is assigned to the Cradle of Coaches members. Number 126 is Heanon M. Wilkins, 127 is Harry Lee (Bud) McCoy, 128 is the Marching Band Directors, 129 is skipped, 130 is the Village of Oxford leaders, 131 is Marjorie Miller Donovan, and so on. Again, only the Miami Hockey Coaches is missing a number and during that time period, the skipped-over number is 129. So the archive number for the Miami Hockey Coaches is very likely 10F-4-129.

page 4 — click on image for a closer look
page 5 — click on image for a closer look

Oh, sure, sure. My little system isn’t perfect. You may notice that the control panel/accession numbers experienced some skips in the early days. Some of those skipped numbers belong to the other four unposted recordings, but others may have something to do with the fact that they used to reuse the tapes after converting them to DVD. But I’ve charted it out and, from what I can tell, the last skipped accession number before number 110 was prior to June 16, 2007, at roughly the same time they stopped reusing tapes.

On the archive number side, you can see that the numbers run in consecutive fashion with the occasional skip of one or two or, yikes, eight. 😬 That’s harder to explain, and, again, the skips tended to be early on, though not all of them. I look at it this way: throughout the entire year of 2009, from January 20 through September 19, 2009, there were only two skipped archive numbers: 116 and 129, and there was only one unposted recording for that year, our Miami Hockey Coaches. Based on its placement, my bet is on 129, though admittedly 116 is also possible.

It bears repeating: University Archives doesn’t discard any of its records—whether they’re related to the Oral History Project or not. A number that’s skipped is a strong indication that a recording has been assigned that number, even if we can’t find it. The question is: where is msv00110, aka 10F-4-129, hiding?

It’s raining hockey tapes…hallelujah

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For all you hockey fans among us, I have great news. And for the rest of us, I have an important development.

For the past week or so, I’ve been putting the finishing touches on a description in my own words of how everything has gone down regarding my quest to obtain the Oral History Project recordings that weren’t posted on the university’s bicentennial website. You all probably could have helped me write it, since you know pretty much everything. Actually, the blog did help me remember some of the details. (Like remember when I dressed up like Barbara Stanwyck for my first mediation meeting even though it was conducted over the phone? I was so immature back then.) As of roughly 2:00 this afternoon, my affidavit totaled about 3000 words and I’d begun assembling my supporting documents, 14 in all, which would be exhibits A through N. I wanted to be ready at the exact moment it was time for me to tell the special master (yes, you heard me, my case has a special master too) my side of the story. 

To provide a little more background, when the last mediation hearing had concluded a couple weeks ago (August 31), the university and I were at an impasse over the hockey coaches recording, which meant that the mediation part of the process had come to an end. The word the Court of Claims used was “failed,” which was kind of sad. If any of you have ever served on a hung jury, it felt like that. All that time invested, and we’d come up short. It also meant that the university’s lawyer had 10 business days in which to “file a response, and if applicable, a motion to dismiss” my complaint. 

The ball has been in their court this entire time, which is why I’ve been quiet lately. I had no idea what their lawyer would say. I also couldn’t tell from the special master’s instructions how much time I was going to have to respond after the university’s lawyer submitted whatever he was planning to submit. The timeline looked tight. The special master would submit his report and recommendation “no later than 7 business days” after the university’s lawyer submitted his response, which didn’t give me much time. I’d been working on my affidavit so that, when the time came, I’d be able to send my response off too—hopefully within an hour of the university lawyer’s response.

But today at around 2:20 p.m. I received a surprise. My lawyer forwarded an email saying that the university wished to reopen mediation proceedings. It appears that they have located a hockey recording—which their lawyer has identified as “Hockey Interview #1.” Also, they have found a vendor to repair “HOCKEY TAPE #2 (EDIT),” which is also great news. 

So we’ll see. It still could take a little while, but hopefully by this time next month, we’ll know if one…or both…or neither of the hockey tapes contain the 5/19/2009 interview with the Miami Hockey Coaches as part of Miami’s Oral History Project. 

Miami U can’t produce the hockey coach tape. Here’s why that’s a very big deal

Oh. That’s really interesting. After being given 8 weeks to look for it, Miami officials still can’t produce the recording of the hockey coaches. This is supposedly after checking the most dependable, last-ditch place in which to look, the Southwest Ohio Regional Depository, on Miami’s Middletown campus, where a back-up copy of every recording produced as part of Miami’s bicentennial should have been sent. You know, for safe-keeping.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, “Good Lord, woman, why do you keep talking about that hockey coach tape? Can we PULLLEEEEZE get back to the topic of Ron Tammen?”

I apologize. Clearly, we don’t know if the tape ostensibly labeled “Miami Hockey Coaches” is, as I’ve come to believe, of Carl Knox’s former secretary, and thus pertinent to Ron Tammen’s case. My sincere hope is that it is, but we’ll have to watch the tape before we know for sure.

What we do know for sure is that the hockey coach tape hasn’t materialized yet and, what’s more, may never materialize. 

A missing tape may not seem like a big deal during these, um, uncharted times in which we’re living, but if you happen to work in a public institution, as Miami’s faculty, staff, and administrators do, in a state that has a Sunshine Law, as Ohio does, it could be considered a very big deal. 

You see, when the hockey coach tape was created, it became a public record, as did copies that were created from the original tape.

According to this flowchart, five DVD copies were made from each Oral History Project recording and sent to University Archives and storage. A “preservation copy” was sent to a repository.

According to Section 149.43 of Ohio’s Revised Code, Ohio’s Public Records Act, if a member of the public should request it, it should be promptly (their word) made available to them. The law prohibits the destruction of a public record until a certain period of time—called a retention period, which is prescribed by the institution in question—has elapsed, unless special permission has been granted.

But the retention period doesn’t apply in this case. Here’s why: the hockey coach tape was produced by University Archives for the Miami Stories Oral History Project. University Archives, as a rule, doesn’t throw any of its records away. That’s especially true concerning recordings that they themselves created in celebration of the university’s bicentennial, which they dubbed a “legacy project.” Heck, they’ve even saved two recordings of former staffers from the radio station WMUB—one recorded in March 2007 and the second in July 2008—even though the 2007 tape experienced technical issues and the 2008 tape was a do-over. According to university documents, every Oral History Project recording was considered to be a permanent part of the University Archives collection, which means that their retention period was supposed to be forever and always. 

Organizers stated as much on their 2005 application to Miami’s Institutional Review Board to conduct its first story circle. Under item #10, “Procedures for Safeguarding Confidentiality of Information,” they wrote: “Oral histories are not confidential. Interviewees will understand this before signing the consent form. Tapes are not destroyed, but instead are saved in Archives for use by future researchers.”

A 2007 iteration of the bicentennial website says: “…Miami Stories discussions are recorded and stored on digital video formats so that future generations may enjoy and study them, and scholars may have ready access to unique information about Miami’s past.”

A December 15, 2008, Oral History Project report said that use of the recordings “is professionally monitored by University Archives. All interviews are filed there for consulting by future scholars, students, University officials, and the public.”

Well…all interviews except one, apparently. Look at it this way: A recording that was created to last forever and always so that it could be enjoyed and studied by future researchers—including yours truly—appears to be lost at best, or, at worst, gone forever.

Oh, there’s one other option, I suppose. The university has indicated through their lawyer that the recording may well exist but is damaged, and they sent the following photo of a tape titled “HOCKEY TAPE #2 (EDIT).” (There wasn’t a tape labeled HOCKEY TAPE #1, and the tape that was in the same box was recorded over and unrelated to hockey.) From what I can tell, no one has watched the damaged tape to confirm if there are any hockey coaches on it because, you know, the damage and all.

I’m skeptical. I don’t think an Oral History Project recording of Miami hockey coaches would be labeled as some generic “Hockey Tape.” Also, I’m a child of the 1970s who used to listen to music on audio cassettes and, later on, to watch my videos on VHS. When those cassettes would get mangled up like that, we’d take out a trusty #2 pencil and stick it in one of the holes and wind it up ourselves, past the part that was damaged. And voila, working again.

When I showed the photo to an expert I know, that’s exactly what he suggested, including the pencil trick. Or, if the tape is too badly crinkled, perhaps the bad part could be cut out and the two good ends taped together. His opinion is that a little damage doesn’t mean the entire recording is compromised. Maybe the end product isn’t good enough to post online, but at least my question concerning the hockey coaches could be answered. For this reason, I plan to request a chance to review Hockey Tape #2.

If we find that it really is just a bunch of hockey coaches being interviewed for the bicentennial, fine. We can all move on with our lives. But if it isn’t of Miami hockey coaches? 

No one is going to jail over a missing hockey coach tape. I’ll be proceeding with my case through the Ohio Court of Claims, a process that could potentially accrue even more legal costs, which isn’t exactly the happiest of options for an ordinary citizen such as yours truly.

Ordinary citizens have pursued lawsuits under Ohio’s Public Records Act, and public offices have had to pay hefty fines for noncompliance. One of the most impressive rulings was the case of Kish versus the City of Akron, when two former city employees who were jointly seeking a little more than $900 in overtime pay were awarded over $860,000 in punitive damages: $1000 for each record that had been destroyed (480 records for Elizabeth Kish and 380 records for her colleague Victoria Elder) plus compensatory damages. Obviously, the city wasn’t elated with the outcome. If they were unwilling to fork over $900, imagine their displeasure when they were ordered to pay 956 times that amount. But the ruling was upheld by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit as well as the Ohio Supreme CourtIn 2011, the amount of damages that a public office could owe was capped at $10,000, regardless of the number of records that were illegally destroyed.

It’s worth noting that any potential punitive and compensatory damages aren’t paid by the people who have destroyed public records. Nope, taxpayer dollars pay for damages owed, not to mention the public office’s legal representation. In my Court of Claims complaint, throughout the mediation process, Miami U’s lawyer has been funded by Ohio taxpayers (including yours truly) as an employee of the Ohio Attorney General’s office.

But honestly? I don’t think the so-called hockey coach tape has been destroyed. Historians, archivists, and people of that ilk have a passion for records that lives deep in their bones. My theory is that, sometime between July 2009 (the last time I know of when the hockey coaches were mentioned in an Oral History Project report) and September 2009 (when they were left off of a master list of interviews), some well-intentioned person might have placed the tape in a dark corner of King Library, hoping, for whatever reason, that it would go unnoticed until all of us were long gone. 

Perhaps this theoretical person envisioned some other researcher—someone way, way in the future; someone who is kinder and gentler and less bothersome than I—stumbling upon it. That good person would sit down to have a listen—if they could find the outmoded technology on which to play it, that is—and hear forgotten voices from Miami’s past. Would it be the voices of hockey coaches telling stories about the birth of that program and some of their more momentous matches or would it be the lone voice of Carl Knox’s former secretary sharing her memories of a quiet yet profoundly motivated business student who went missing in 1953? By then, who would really care?

I don’t know yet if my theory will hold up, but you can bet that I really care. Thankfully, there are a few additional places I can look that don’t involve lawyers and legal fees. As mentioned earlier, I’ll be making another trip to Oxford in the near future, asking to review HOCKEY TAPE #2. I’ll also ask to review the three Oral History Project boxes again, especially the folders containing consent forms, several of which I’ve been informed were signed by some former Miami hockey coaches. Lastly, it probably wouldn’t hurt if I just asked a few of the Miami hockey coaches myself, would it?

More evidence that St. Clair Switzer was involved in something in 1956-57 that he didn’t want to talk about

I’ll keep this short. 

I’ve been thinking more about St. Clair Switzer. 

You know how I have this theory that Doc Switzer was on a sabbatical in academic year 1956-57 with Louis Jolyon (Jolly) West, the world famous psychiatrist and MKULTRA researcher who was at the University of Oklahoma at that time? And you know how I also believe that Jolly West was the author of a February 1957 CIA research proposal seeking funding for himself and a visiting academic (Switzer, imo) who was “thoroughly familiar with hypnotism at the theoretical level” to create a hypnotic messenger that summer for use by the military?

Gosh, when I put it like that, it does seem a wee bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?

Well, I have a little more info to help back it up.

Don’t get too excited—it’s not that big. But it’s not nothing either.

We already know that Switzer had been granted permission for a sabbatical for that academic year. His original plans had been to work under psychophysiologist Marion A. (Gus) Wenger (no relation) at UCLA the prior year, but those plans had to be postponed. Everett Patten, chair of Miami’s psychology department, felt that he needed Switzer around to help with a curriculum change that was taking place at that time, and he suggested that Switzer’s sabbatical be pushed back a year. With this turn of events, Switzer checked with Wenger to see if the change was OK with him and Gus said that the new timeframe should still be fine. But in December 1956—three months into the 1956-57 academic year—Gus wrote to Switzer telling him that he’d decided to travel to India to study yogis instead. He offered a space for Switzer in September 1957, but, because Switzer’s sabbatical would have ended by then, that would be too late.

How do we know that Switzer found somewhere else to go?

We know that Switzer was definitely not working in Miami’s psychology department that year because his earnings sheet shows a total of $00 for the year 1956-57. Here’s the document:

Click on image for a closer view

The stray mark to the right of the “7” had first made me wonder if the earnings line for that year just hadn’t picked up enough inkjet toner, but I don’t think so. To me, it looks more like something had been written there but was erased. For this reason, I think it’s safe to conclude that Switzer made zero dollars and zippo cents that year from Miami.

That’s a little odd, since Clarence Kreger, Miami’s cantankerous provost, had informed Switzer that he could earn half his salary while on sabbatical. (These days, sabbaticals are usually fully paid, but times were different then.) (I feel like I say that a lot on this blog.) (I feel like I use parentheses a lot too.) Anyway, somehow, Switzer was able to make ends meet without needing that little boost. He was out of the office all year, including the summers of 1956 and 1957.

Click on image for a closer view

How do we know that he was gone during the summers too?

We know it because Switzer was a self-promoter. If there was an achievement that he wanted other people to know about, he’d alert one of the local rags, especially the easier ones to get into, like the Miami Student or the Oxford Press. This was especially true when he was an assistant professor in the 1930s. Often the hard-hitting news blurbs were about prize money he’d won for an ad or slogan he’d submitted in a contest, which he did frequently as part of his business psychology course. If he spent the summer doing something prestigious-sounding—like the time he’d worked with prisoners at Northeastern Penitentiary in Lewisburg, PA—you can bet that Switzer would make sure it was brought to the attention of fellow faculty members, administrators, and the surrounding Oxford community. Promotions received, degrees earned, joining the war effort, returning from the war effort—he liked to have such things documented. (As a historical researcher, I’m not opposed to this practice.) 

Later on, as his extracurricular activities became more, um, stealth, he reined in his need for newsprint. 

During the year of his sabbatical, Switzer found two occasions to show off a little for the folks at home. In August 1956, an article appeared in one of the local papers announcing that Switzer had returned from a “tour of duty” at Lowry Air Force Base in Colorado. (According to his military records, his tours of duty averaged 15 days.) During that visit, he’d helped develop the psychology curriculum for the new Air Force Academy, which had been temporarily located there while the permanent school was being constructed in Colorado Springs. A year later, a much shorter article was published saying that he’d just returned home after spending three more weeks at the Air Force Academy. 

What I’m trying to say here is that Switzer had been on a sabbatical for roughly 64 weeks, yet we only get to know what he did for five or six of those weeks. Whatever he was doing between the two Augusts, he wasn’t saying. And trust me, if Switzer was ever presented with the chance to boast about his accomplishments, he seized it. If he’d spent the year conducting psychophysiological research in Gus Wenger’s lab, the world would have heard about it. 

It was uncharacteristic for him to be so tight-lipped in those circumstances, which leads me to wonder if he used the second news item to bookend his time away. Maybe then people wouldn’t ask questions about all that time in between.

How did he manage to find a spot with Louis Jolyon West so soon after Gus Wenger let him down?

This is where the timeline gets murky. Gus Wenger’s letter was dated December 1, 1956, and by the sound of it, it was late in coming. 

“Dear Doc, I have been meaning to write you for some time about our plans,” he said. He then proceeded to describe a number of monkey wrenches that had been thrown into their original arrangements while offering an alternative date that was much too late.

The letter was addressed to Switzer’s office in the Department of Psychology, which Switzer surely wasn’t occupying by then. The department secretary would’ve probably forwarded the letter to Switzer’s home address, but that would have taken even more time away from his eroding sabbatical.

It’s possible that Switzer was biding his time at Wright Patterson as he waited on Wenger. But patience isn’t exactly a virtue that I would ascribe to St. Clair Switzer. Sometime after returning from Colorado, I can see him giving up on the prospect of spending a year in California and seeking assistance from his highly decorated contacts with the Air Force. By late fall, I think they’d put him in touch with Jolly West.

You’ve already seen the letter that I believe Switzer had written to a colleague he knew from his Clark Hull days, Griffith W. Williams, who was then at Rutgers. That letter, dated December 6, 1956, had been a follow-up to a discussion that had taken place between the three hypnosis experts, likely over the phone, on November 27. 

Here it is again:

Document provided with thanks to The Black Vault at https://www.theblackvault.com/
Document provided with thanks to The Black Vault at https://www.theblackvault.com/

By the time Wenger finally wrote to Switzer on December 1 saying “no can do,” I think Switzer had already moved on.

How about you—what do you think? 

FOIA follies, part 2: ‘Lost’ mail, an old Steve Martin bit, and the interview with Carl Knox’s former secretary

Photo credit: Photo by Anna Land on Unsplash

Sixty-nine years. As of tomorrow, that’s how long it’s been since Ron Tammen held a study session with Dick Titus, fetched some clean sheets from Mrs. Todhunter, headed to the Delt House for song practice, walked home in the snow with two fellow Delts, and promptly disappeared forever from the campus of Miami University. I wish I were releasing something groundbreaking for this year’s anniversary post—I really do. The unredacted names from those two CIA memos (memos 1 and 2) or the full interview with Carl Knox’s former secretary would’ve been peachy. 

Alas, I cannot. Things are moving along—not at the pace I’d like them to, but progressing nonetheless. I need to respect the process and chillax. Hopefully, we’ll have some news to report soon, good or bad (preferably the former).

In the meantime, I’d like to discuss several phenomena that I’ve noticed in my 12 years of FOIAing for Tammen-related documents, especially lately. For the newcomers to the group, FOIA stands for the Freedom of Information Act, a federal law that allows anyone, including non–U.S. citizens, to submit requests for government documents. Most states, including Ohio, also have public records laws, often referred to as sunshine laws, that allow a person to request documents from state agencies and institutions. In Ohio, you don’t even need to be a resident.

FOIA and Ohio’s sunshine laws have become two of my trustiest tools for making the discoveries I’ve made concerning Ron Tammen’s case. My third tool is, of course, people—especially people who either knew Ron or were at Miami when he disappeared. In the number four spot is my ridiculously hard head, which, as I’ve mentioned before on this website, doesn’t take no for an answer terribly well, especially from certain powers that be.

Before we proceed with my latest observations, here’s a protip for anyone considering submitting a public records request to a state or federal agency: The instant you decide to become a submitter of records requests, you should prepare for the excuses, because, guuuuurl, you’re going to hear a lot of them. The most common is the “we looked, but we couldn’t find anything” excuse, which is a tough one to argue with if you happen to be a person who takes other people at their word. (Protip #2: If you’re going to become a submitter of records requests, you’ll need to stop being that type of person.) 

By far, the most creative excuse was dreamed up by the CIA. In 2016, I’d submitted a request asking them to lift the redactions from a July 1952 memo listing study group members for the ARTICHOKE program. (Unbelievably, the names are still being treated as if they’re top secret even though the memo is about to turn 70 years old, ARTICHOKE was shut down decades ago, and everyone involved has long since died.) After nearly three years of hearing nothing, a representative wrote to me and said that they looked high and low, but they only have the whited-out version of that memo. They can’t find the “full-text version.” I let out a scornful laugh and appealed their response. In June 2021, I was told that I can look forward to their ruling by an estimated date of December 8, 2022, which is very specific and an ETA in which I’m 100% skeptical. (See protip #2.) This little escapade also illustrates how a person can fritter their life away submitting FOIA requests to recalcitrant agencies—so much so that I will occasionally hear myself asking the universe, “Really? Is this my purpose? Is this why I’m here?” As of this writing, the universe’s response has been “’Fraid so. We good?”

What follows are two of the more innovative excuses I’ve received in recent months by state and federal officials, along with what I’ve done or intend to do in response. Also, if FOIA isn’t your passion, and you’re thinking of signing off right about now, I encourage you to hang on until excuse #2, or at least scroll there immediately. The reason is that I’ve further narrowed the timeframe when I think Carl Knox’s former secretary was interviewed by Miami University officials, and I’ll be telling you all about that. (It’s very cool and potentially huge.) 

Excuse #1: It was lost in the mail

I’ll start by asking this question: Have you ever mailed a letter to someone and it never made it to its destination? 

I don’t mean that it arrived late. Good Lord, we all know what that’s like. Do you remember December 2020? As a result of the pandemic, combined with the postmaster general’s *ahem* whimsical decision to give the heave ho to over 700 mail sorting machines in one fell swoop, it took months for a letter that I’d put in a collection box in northeast Ohio to make its way to the Seattle region. I’m not talking about those issues. I’m talking about mail that’s never arrived. I know it happens sometimes, but has it ever happened to you personally? Conversely, have you ever been anxiously waiting on a piece of mail that never came?

I honestly can’t think of a single time when either of the above has happened to me—at least not when I’m dealing with normal people and typical places of business. But when I’m doing business with the FBI and CIA? Well, apparently, it happens on a regular basis. Or at least that’s what they’d like you to believe.

Let’s first consider some statistics. I don’t trust the numbers that are pushed by businesses that compete with the U.S. Postal Service, so I won’t be repeating them here. I happen to support the USPS and I feel that their willingness to transport a first class letter anywhere in the country, including U.S. territories and military bases, for 58 measly cents is the best bargain on Planet Earth. 

The USPS Office of the Inspector General (IG) is the entity that keeps a watchful eye on the USPS’s service performance and they’ve produced nearly 200 reports on how things are going from year to year and region to region—way more information than we’re in need of here. From what I can tell, the question they’re most focused on isn’t so much IF the mail will arrive but WHEN, and the IG wants to make sure it’s arriving on time. In February 2022, the average amount of time it took for a first class letter to arrive at its destination was 2.7 days, which is incredible when you think of the size of this country and, again, the surprisingly little amount of money that they’re asking from us in return.

But strange things can and do happen. Mail can be damaged, stolen, and, OK, lost. In those instances, there’s a process in place for finding mail that’s gone AWOL, which is to go through the USPS’s Mail Recovery Center (MRC)—aka its “lost and found.”

According to the IG’s webpage, “In Fiscal Year (FY) 2019, the MRC received 67 million items from post offices and other facilities around the country. While that’s a large number, it’s a small fraction of a percent of the 142 billion mailpieces the Postal Service delivered that same year.” If you do the actual math [i.e., (67 million ÷ 142 billion) X 100], you’ll find that the “small fraction of a percent” is .047 percent, or roughly 1/2 of 0.1 percent, of wayward mail was forwarded to the MRC in FY 2019. And that doesn’t take into consideration the likelihood that some of the mail was eventually united with its intended recipient.

Therefore, despite some of the cranky comments on the IG’s website, I think we can say with confidence that lost mail isn’t a common occurrence.

Let’s now enter the bizarro world of the CIA and FBI. In the past five months, I can point to four instances in which they’ve subtly pointed the finger at the postal service for their own lack of responsiveness to a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) or Mandatory Declassification Review (MDR) request. It made no difference whether the mail was coming or going—both directions posed problems according to the two agencies. Moreover, each piece of mail that had presumably been lost had to do with one of the more formidable requests in our arsenal regarding the Ronald Tammen case. They never affected the boring, trivial stuff. I mean…what are the odds?

The CIA’s excuse: We never got your letter.

Protip #3For anyone planning to submit a FOIA or MDR request to the CIA, and you prefer to go the technological route, it’s advisable to get out your leg warmers and Duran Duran cassettes, because, my friend, you’ll be using an innovation that was all the rage when the world was 40 years younger. It’s called the Facsimile machine, or Fax for short, and you can reach the CIA’s Fax machine at 703-613-3007. Faxing can be annoying, tedious, and, if you don’t have a machine of your own or a landline to connect it to, expensive. (OK, I’m now being told that there are some computer apps that let you send a Fax online and, apparently, some people are still big believers in the Fax, but I don’t know who those people are. If you’ve sent a Fax in the past 15 years and remember it as a positive experience, feel free to weigh in on this controversy in the comments section.) 

In addition to Faxing, the CIA does offer the ability to send a FOIA or MDR request through their website, but only if you don’t plan to send attachments as back-up. In my experience, seeking random records from the CIA without support documentation is a losing proposition from the get-go. You’re being set up for failure. Unless you’re seeking documents that have been widely publicized and made readily available to the public—like the surviving MKULTRA documents, for example—I wouldn’t bother going this route.

That leaves the U.S. mail, which is how I send my requests to the CIA, as did my research associate recently. Here’s where they ask you to send them:

Information and Privacy Coordinator
Central Intelligence Agency
Washington, D.C. 20505

Given how simple the CIA’s mailing address is, it’s perplexing that so much can go awry with their incoming mail. There’s no street address to botch, no room number to accidentally transpose—just someone’s high-level job title, the agency name, and their exclusive ZIP code, 20505, in Washington, D.C. (Actually, the CIA’s headquarters is in McLean, VA—in a subsection referred to as Langley, VA—which is about 10 miles from D.C., but whatever.)

But, again, strange things can and do happen, even at the CIA. 

In my case, it happened after I’d discovered the four documents in the CIA’s MKULTRA collection (documents 123, and 4) in which I believe St. Clair Switzer was either the author or the author’s accomplice. In August 2021, I submitted a FOIA request asking that the names in those documents be declassified. Under normal circumstances, generally within a couple weeks, federal agencies will send an acknowledgment of your request along with an assigned FOIA number, to help in tracking your request. But this is the CIA we’re talking about, and they’ve always marched to a different drumbeat. But then August rolled into September, and September into October, and soon we were closing in on Thanksgiving, and I still hadn’t heard from them. 

When I called and asked for the status of my request, the FOIA representative told me that she was unable to find any record of it, as if all my efforts were just imaginings in my brain. I had to do it all over again. The second time, it worked (it always does), and our wait continues, but that little antic bought them three extra months, and, had I not checked when I did, it could have been a lot longer. (Protip #4: don’t make the same mistake I did and pop your request in the mail like a birthday card to your Aunt Trish. Always obtain a tracking slip and double check to make sure the envelope was delivered and, better yet, signed for.) 

The second case pertains to a colleague of mine who’d submitted a pretty important (read: REALLY important) records request to the CIA that has to do with the Ron Tammen case. I can’t say a lot about it, because I don’t want to give anything or anyone away. But the nuts-and-bolts of it is that he’d submitted a request to them in 2018, and last month—over three years later—my colleague was informed that they’d never received it. Don’t fret, my colleague is handling it. But the ”we never got it” excuse seems rather, oh, I don’t know, habitual?

The FBI’s excuse: Didn’t you get our letter?

OK, so that was pretty weird, but things are about to get weirder. It involves the FBI, which I’d FOIA’d twice to get a handle on how often people submitted expungement requests due to the Privacy Act versus a court order. I wanted to figure out which group Ron Tammen fell into. (If you’re new to the site and have no idea what we’re talking about, you can catch up here.) 

For openers, when you submit a FOIA request to the FBI on the topic of early expungements—whether it’s due to a court order or the Privacy Act—they’ll send all future communications via the mail instead of email. They seem have more faith in the mail when protecting people’s privacy…which is surprising, considering how frequently their mail appears to get lost.

This past July, I’d submitted two separate FOIA requests through the FBI’s online system, at efoia.fbi.gov. One request was for all paperwork having to do with early fingerprint expungement requests between January 1, 1999, and June 30, 2002, due to a court order and the other request was for the exact same thing, only due to the Privacy Act. On August 4, 2021, I received an acknowledgment on the court-order-related request, and on August 27, 2021, I received a letter in the mail stating that they’d searched “the places reasonably expected to have records” for early expungements due to a court order, and turned up nothing. I hadn’t yet received a letter regarding expungements due to the Privacy Act, and considered it a good sign, since that’s the category that I think applies to Ron.

By November, I’d still received nothing from them about my Privacy Act request, and I was beginning to wonder what had happened. I emailed them sometime between November 11 and November 29. Here’s an approximation of that email conversation:

Me: Hi, on July 29, I’d submitted two FOIA requests that dealt with early fingerprint expungements. The first had to do with court ordered-expungements, and the second had to do with the Privacy Act. I’ve only received a response for the one on court orders. I haven’t received anything for the request on Privacy Act expungements.

Public information officer: We mailed it to you.

Me: Really? Because I only received a response on court orders. I haven’t received anything on the Privacy Act. Can you please mail it to me again?

PIO: Oh, sorry. I misunderstood. We thought they were the same request.

Me: Nope, nope. Two different requests, filed separately.

They subsequently mailed an acknowledgment on November 29, 2021, and then, on December 14, 2021, they mailed their response, which was that they couldn’t find anything. But the email conversation was memorably bizarre.

You know what else is bizarre? That email conversation no longer exists. I’ve spent hours looking for it. After that exchange, I’d quoted the information officer’s comments on the Good Man Score Card, but removed them after I’d received their acknowledgment. This past weekend, as I was writing this post, I was looking for the conversation in my emails, and it’s not there. I’m not going to claim that someone from the FBI was somehow able to remove an entire email conversation from my gmail account. I’m just not. I’m human and, admittedly, I err sometimes. But to delete an entire conversation consisting of four or five emails between myself and a representative of the FBI? Well, that would be a first for me.

do have the emails to back up the second example, however. On New Year’s Day, 2022, I’d submitted a FOIA request that was a lot more specific than the July 2021 request. I’d stumbled on the FBI’s manual for FOIPA officers (FOIPA stands for Freedom of Information and Privacy Act) from around the time that they’d expunged Ron’s fingerprints, and it described the specific paperwork that was involved with fingerprint expungement requests due to the Privacy Act. In my new FOIA request, I was seeking those specific papers.

By March 30, I still hadn’t heard from them, so I emailed them and asked for a status update.

Here’s what they wrote:

Thank you for contacting foipaquestions@fbi.gov. Correspondence in response to your request, FOIA 1510466-000, was mailed via standard mail on December, 14, 2021.

Yes, that’s right. I inquired about a request I’d submitted on January 1, 2022, and they let me know that they’d responded to it two weeks prior to that date, on December 14, 2021, which would be stupendous customer service if we were actually talking about the same request.

I let them know that they were referring to the former request from July 2021. “This is a new request,” I said.

Here’s what they said in response:

Thank you for contacting foipaquestions@fbi.gov in reference to your Freedom of Information Act/Privacy (FOIPA) request. As requested, the FOIPA Request Number you have been assigned is 1514356-000. Correspondence for the request was mailed via standard mail on January 6, 2022.

Again with the “we mailed it.” But I hadn’t received it. And here we are, well into April, and I STILL haven’t received it. In fact, I feel I can confidently state that, even if I were to live to be 100, I would never, ever receive whatever they claim to have put in the “standard mail” on January 6, 2022. I asked them to send it again, and they did, and of course, this time it reached my mailbox just fine (it always does), although the letter I received was dated January 7, 2022. 

Here’s the problem I have with their “we mailed it” excuse: according to the FBI’s response—the one that I received on their so-called second try—they weren’t able to locate any records responsive to my request, which means that I need to submit an appeal. But the FBI places a 90-day time limit on the appeal process. Because the letter is dated January 7, 2022, that time limit had already passed by the time I received it. Of course, I’ll make sure the Department of Justice understands that I never received the FBI’s “first” letter, but is this a way that the FBI treats FOIA requests they’re not particularly thrilled about? 

Excuse #2: We forget

Anyone who was a near-adult in the 1970s knows how big Steve Martin was back then. He’s big again now, but this was different. Whenever Steve Martin was on Saturday Night Live, which was often, it was an event not to be missed. 

In addition to all of his other iconic phrases (the “Excuuuuuuse Me’s!” and whatnot), he had this bit that he’d do that my high-schooler brain found brilliant and hilarious. It was a two-word phrase he’d come up with that could get a person out of any jam: “I forgot!” 

“I forgot that armed robbery was a crime, officer!” he’d joke.

Well, weirdly enough, that’s the excuse that I feel Miami officials are giving me regarding the three Oral History Project (OHP) videotapes that were never posted on the university’s bicentennial website.

As you may recall, I recently submitted a public records request pointing them to the second-to-last line in their 2008 OHP progress report that stated that three recordings weren’t posted to their bicentennial website “for miscellaneous reasons.” I asked them to send those three videotapes to me or, if they no longer exist, to send me the forms documenting their destruction, per the Office of General Counsel’s (OGC) record retention protocol. A few weeks later, as part of the OGC’s response, they informed me that they’d asked several OHP representatives and “none of the individuals remember anything about those recordings.”

I subsequently filed a complaint with the Ohio Court of Claims, and we’re now gearing up for mediation, which is a legal proceeding at which I intend to present arguments countering their response. I’ll be keeping those arguments to myself for now.

With that said, I do have some news to share—something that I figured out as I was preparing my arguments. And you guys? I think I know when one of the three missing interviews took place. What’s more, I believe that this particular missing interview was with Carl Knox’s former secretary. 

Are you ready? 

I think the interview with Carl Knox’s former secretary happened during the spring semester of 2007, probably sometime between February and May. 

Here’s why I think this: it has to do with an OHP report that was written in May 2007. In that report, under the header “Accomplishments of Spring Semester 2007,” representatives of the Oral History Project had written the following paragraph:

Eight story circles and two interviews were conducted during the semester. These included the Digital Writing Collaborative, WMUB management/announcers, Student Affairs staff, 1970s faculty (different factions), and early African-American faculty. The sessions generally lasted an hour or two and were conducted in Oxford.

I consulted a chronological listing that I’d created of all the OHP recordings that had been posted online and found the ones that were produced during the spring semester of 2007, from January through May. (Most interviews were conducted in the summer, during the annual alumni reunion, when it was more convenient to schedule individuals who lived outside of Oxford.) 

Consistent with the report, I’ve counted eight story circles, which include all of the story circles that were named, plus Executive Assistants in the 1960s-90s, and three “different factions” of 1970s faculty (Political Activists, Part 1; Department of History Faculty; and Political Activists, Part 2). At first, the timing of the WMUB story circle confused me, since the report says that it was conducted in spring 2007, but it’s actually listed on the bicentennial website as having occurred on July 1, 2008. I now believe that something had gone wrong with the 2007 WMUB tape, which is supported by the 12/2008 OHP report. That report says “Since June 2008, 23 more sessions were recorded (including one that was a repeat of an earlier one due to recording problems).”

So the story circles check out. How about the two interviews?

Currently, only one individual interview from that timeframe is posted online: that of Heanon M. Wilkins, a retired Spanish professor in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese, director of the Educational Opportunity, and director of the Black World Studies Program. Dr. Wilkins’ interview took place on March 21, 2007. It’s the second individual interview that I believe is one of the three recordings that weren’t posted online. I also think that was the interview that someone from the university had conducted with Carl Knox’s former secretary.

Listed in blue are the spring 2007 interviews minus the WMUB recording, which had experienced technical issues. The WMUB recording, in purple, was rerecorded on July 1, 2008. Plus marks following the recording dates indicate that these recordings had been posted on the main bicentennial website as opposed to the Western College OHP website..

Now, there’s an additional complicating factor I need to address. A former Miami baseball player named Clarence Wheeler (‘32) is listed on the bicentennial website as having been interviewed on April 27, 2007. Even the title slide says that the interview happened on April 27, 2007. And if that were indeed the date that the interview had taken place, then Clarence Wheeler would have been the clear answer to the question concerning the second individual to be interviewed that spring. Clarence also lived in Hamilton, Ohio, and, as the report states, all of the interviews and story circles had taken place in Oxford. He would have been the perfect fit for that time slot. Perfect, that is, except his interview didn’t occur for another year.

Clarence Wheeler’s title slide says that the interview was conducted in 2007, when the transcript below it shows the actual date, April 27, 2008.

That’s right. If you read Clarence’s transcript or watch the first few minutes of his tape, you’ll learn that his interview had taken place on April 27, 2008, which was Clarence Wheeler’s 100th birthday. 

Um. You guys? I’m not going to claim that someone from the university had intentionally mislabeled the title slide for Clarence Wheeler’s interview to concur with the May 2007 OHP report and therefore make it appear as if his was the second interview of the spring semester that year. I’m just not. I can’t imagine that the May 2007 report was that significant, and, let’s face it, university employees are human and they can err too.

I will say this: Heanon Wilkins had lived in Oxford until his death in 2015, so it’s easy to understand why his interview could have been conducted in Oxford during the spring of 2007. Coincidentally, Carl Knox’s former secretary was living in Oxford at that time too.

Halloween 2021 and the muzzling of…me

Photo by Lucia Foster on Unsplash

As most of you know, I’m a fan of Joe Cella’s. After everyone else had moved on with their lives regarding Ron Tammen’s disappearance, after they’d all shrugged their collective shoulders and resigned themselves to the notion that they’d never truly know what had happened to Tammen, Cella refused to join them. He continued working the case, steadfast and alone, until the August day in 1980 that he abruptly passed away at the young age of 59. Thirty years later, when I began my book project, I consulted Cella’s news articles for guidance. I’d hoped to pick up the story where he’d left off. I aspired to follow in his footsteps.

I’ve now come to believe that I’ve achieved my dream. Not only am I following in Joe’s footsteps, but I’m facing the same old obstructions, smokescreens, and pushback that Joe had encountered in the 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s.

What’s more, when it comes to the Tammen case, I’ve discovered that if a person employs more than the minimal amount of stick-to-itiveness in their investigation, it won’t be long before they breach the space-time continuum and go hurtling back to the days of Joe. 

Here are some examples: 

When I read Joe’s assertion in the Hamilton Journal-News that school officials hadn’t been cooperative, I thought “Same.”

When I saw in the Dayton Daily News that he felt that the university tried to cover up the case, I thought “Omg, SAME.”

And when I learned that, in 1973, the university had stepped in at the last minute to prevent Joe from presenting his latest evidence on Tammen to the campus community, I thought “OK, this is getting really weird.”

Because, you guys? They’re doing it to me too.

A few weeks ago, I discovered that the Miami University Alumni Association (MUAA) had written about Tammen’s disappearance on their blog known as Slant Talk. The post had been published online a year ago on October 30, 2020. For some reason, I’d missed it back then—2020 is such a blur. But early this month, I was searching a Tammen-related topic and up it popped. 

Here’s the post: Ron Tammen? Where are you?

I was bemused by their lack of new information. You and I have learned way more about the Tammen case than their write-up has indicated. All they had to do was Google “Ron Tammen” and they should have been able to find my blog. If they’d reached out to me—an alum who has dedicated a sizable chunk of her life to researching the Tammen case—I would have given them a nice quote. They didn’t even write about Butler County’s well-publicized reopened investigation in 2008. 

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: Jenny, you didn’t make any new friends in Oxford with all your talk about Carl Knox’s former secretary and her relatively recent interview about the university’s Tammen investigation. Did you really think that they’d want to point anyone to your blog after all that?

But that’s the most interesting part. In October 2020, I hadn’t yet rediscovered the interview summary that someone had placed in the Ghosts and Legends folder in University Archives. The only post in which I’d written about a possible university cover-up had to do with Gilson Wright’s avoidance of the word “psychology” whenever he described the book that lay open on Ron’s desk.

That was such a long time ago. Could that have been the reason that they chose not to highlight my work, or was there another reason for the virtual snub?

At the bottom of their blog post is a comment made by a former friend of Ron’s from Fisher Hall. I recognized his name because I’d spoken with him early in my research. I’d also spoken with his roommate. He describes his memories searching for Ron as well as students’ mysterious encounters in the Formal Gardens after Ron had disappeared. It’s a moving sentiment.

The comment box is still open, so I decided to write a comment of my own. With as many followers as I’m sure MUAA has, I thought it would be a good way to talk about my project and steer people who have an interest in the Tammen story to my website.

Here’s what I wrote.

“Hi! I’m a 1980 Miami grad who has been researching the Tammen disappearance for nearly 12 years for a book project. I’ve been blogging about it too. I’ve discovered a lot of new information. Like…did you know that the FBI had Ron Tammen’s fingerprints when he disappeared and they expunged them in 2002, 30 years earlier than normal? You can read a lot more info here: https://ronaldtammen.com. Stop by!”

The comment made by Ron’s Fisher Hall friend was posted on November 1, 2020, two days after the blog was posted. My comment, which I’d submitted on October 8, 2021, is still awaiting moderation.

Two weeks later, I wrote to MUAA to see if perhaps there was something about my comment that they weren’t happy with. I wanted to let them know that I’d be open to submitting a new comment that fell within their guidelines. Here’s my email:

Dear MUAA,

I’m a 1980 graduate and recurring donor to Miami University. Recently, I noticed that, in October 2020, your blog “Slant Talk” had discussed the disappearance of Ronald Tammen from Fisher Hall (https://miamialumniblog.com/2020/10/30/ron-tammen-where-are-you/).  I’ve been researching Tammen’s disappearance for nearly 12 years for a book project, and have turned up some interesting findings. I submitted a comment to Slant Talk encouraging people to come to my website to read more about that topic, but after two weeks, my comment is still awaiting moderation. Is there a problem with my comment that I should adjust? It would be wonderful if MUAA would acknowledge the work of one of its own in helping solve this mystery.

Their bounce-back email said that they receive a lot of email traffic, and they would try to respond as soon as they were able. If I needed a more immediate answer, however, they provided a number to call.

Six days later, I’d still heard nothing, so I decided to call the number today. I identified myself and asked if they’d be approving my comment. I was informed that they would not. When I asked why not, the MUAA staffer told me that they had a policy not to direct their readers to other websites. When I asked if I could resubmit my comment without the URL, she responded (and I paraphrase here), “Was that on Ronald Tammen?” “Yes,” I said. She then told me that they’d already written a couple times on Ron Tammen and had no interest in writing anything more. “Interesting,” I think I said, and I told her to keep an eye out for my blog because I’d be discussing their blog post. 

“Thank you,” said she. “You bet,” said I.

The internet can be a daunting place for people like me. Compared to an organization like Miami University, I’m small and insignificant. So when MUAA posts a generic piece on Ron Tammen, it’ll trounce my stuff every time. They have way more followers plus an IT team who is busy maximizing their SEO through meta tags and alt texts and all the other stuff I’m supposed to do but I’m not very knowledgeable about. 

Credit: The IT Crowd, via GIPHY

It’s OK though. When A Good Man Is Hard to Find winds up on page one of a Google search (we’re #2!) or DuckDuckGo search (we’re #1!) on “Ronald Tammen,” you can bet that it landed there based on the content (85 posts and counting!). The search engines are confident that if you click on one of my links, you’re going to learn something about Tammen. 

Does Miami University want people to ignore my blog? All signs point to yes, though I don’t get it. No one alive today on or off campus had anything to do with Tammen’s disappearance. Why doesn’t the university want to help find the solution? 

If they really wanted to know the answer to the question “Ron Tammen? Where are you?” they have a funny way of showing it.

Halloween 1973 and the muzzling of Joe Cella

On Friday, October 26, 1973, a calendar item appeared in the Miami Student announcing a talk to be delivered Halloween night. The speaker, Joe Cella, would be presenting at 8 p.m. in the Heritage Room of Miami’s former student center, now known as the Shriver Center. His presentation had been titled “The Ronald Tammen Disappearance.” There was no need for additional verbiage explaining who Ronald Tammen was or why anyone should care—everyone already knew.

Cella was the Hamilton Journal-News reporter who’d devoted decades to investigating Ron’s disappearance from Miami University in 1953. He’d intended to solve the mystery. He dug and he dug, until, quite probably, he’d made a nuisance of himself on Miami’s campus, at least in the minds of the administrators. If it hadn’t been for Joe Cella, some of the most significant clues of the case would have remained in faded notes and eroding memory banks. 

In 1973, Cella had been on a roll. Earlier that year, he’d broken the story about Garret J. Boone, a family physician and Butler County coroner who’d said that Ron had walked into his office in Hamilton on November 19, 1952. (The article erroneously says the office was on Third Street, when it was actually located at 134 North Second Street. You can step inside that very building the next time you’re in or around Hamilton. Doc Boone’s old office is now a bar that features artisanal beer and live music.)

The reason for Ron’s visit was to request that his blood type be tested. Boone said he’d never received such an odd request in his 35 years of practice, and he’d asked Tammen why he needed to have his blood typed. Tammen responded, “I might have to give some blood one of these days.” Doc Boone was able to provide documentation to Cella—a medical record that included Ron’s name, address, and the date of Ron’s visit. 

Cella’s fresh lead was published on April 23, 1973, for the 20th anniversary of Tammen’s disappearance, which had likely captured the attention of students serving on Miami University’s Program Board. Someone reached out to Cella to see if he’d be willing to give a talk on campus, and Joe said “sure.” Of course, they picked Halloween for the date of his talk. That’s when students always turned their thoughts to Tammen. 

I mean DAYUMMM, you guys. Who among us wouldn’t have paid hundreds to hear that talk? I would have given my eye teeth, my “J” teeth, my “K” teeth, and my “LMNOP” teeth to get a chance to hear Joe Cella riffing verbatim on the Tammen case. The Heritage Room would have been packed to the rafters that night. Joe would have been fielding student questions way past his allotted time. But alas, it wasn’t to be. Something happened in the short time interval between Friday’s printed announcement and the following Tuesday that brought Joe’s talk to a grinding halt. In the next issue of the Miami Student—October 30th—this notice was published:

Cella cancelled

Joe Cella’s presentation on the “Ronald Tammen Disappearance” which was scheduled for October 31 has been cancelled. Cella, a news staff worker on the Hamilton Journal, has not received clearance from federal authorities to release material which he has acquired concerning the case. Cella has promised to present his material as part of a Program Board event pending receipt of such clearance.

“Hmmm,” thought I, when I first read the blurb.

Let me tell you a little something about practitioners of journalism, especially journalism of the investigative variety: we don’t wait around for permission to reveal something we’ve managed to dig up. We’ll protect our sources till death if need be, and we’ll protect people’s personal information too. Also, journalists who have somehow accessed classified information that could impact our national security have often elected to withhold that information for, you know, national security’s sake. But material on Ron Tammen? That seems like fair game to me.

So who put the kibosh on Cella’s talk? I doubt that it was the students who served on the Program Board. In 1973, Watergate was front-page news and the Vietnam War still had two more years before all U.S. troops had exited Saigon. Students were wary of feds in general—plus, what student wouldn’t want to hear the inside scoop on Tammen?

What about Cella? From what I’ve learned about him over the years, I’m sure there’s no way that he would have accepted a speaking gig and then, at the last minute, said that he needed to get an “all clear” from some federal agency before he could go public with the juicy tidbit he’d managed to get his hands on. Look at it this way: Can you imagine me calling the FBI and saying, “Hey, I’ve obtained a document stating that Ron Tammen’s fingerprints were expunged due to the Privacy Act or a court order. OK if I print that on my blog? If you could send me your blessing ASAP, I’d be so grateful.” Yeah, right. If you’ll recall, I posted that discovery within 24 hours of my learning it.

Also, how would Cella have obtained whatever he obtained? It’s difficult to say, since we don’t know what he had, but someone representing a federal agency had probably given it to him. And once that happens, boom. It becomes public information. No additional permission necessary.

That leaves us with Miami University administrators. Did Miami officials cancel Cella’s talk, and if so, why would they give two hoots about what Joe would be presenting that night and whether he’d obtained prior permission from “federal authorities”?

Before I address that question, let’s refer back to Cella’s article from April 23, 1973. Not only did we learn about Doc Boone’s visit from Tammen in November 1952 but we learned something else in that article: that Doc Boone had attempted to tell Miami officials about Tammen’s visit back in 1953 but he’d been summarily rebuffed.

“I offered this information (the medical file card contents) to local authorities at the time, but it was always discounted,” the article quoted him as saying. Also, “I discussed it in the past a number of times with two or three persons associated with Miami University, but they didn’t want to discuss the case.” And this: “I feel I definitely got the brush-off.” And then: “As I said before, I offered the information but they didn’t care to listen or pursue it. So I just put the card away and forgot about it.” And finally: “Maybe this information could have been valuable then. I was upset because I was given the run-around by the school.”

Terms like brush-off and run-around aren’t the sorts of things a university likes to read about itself, and the article had indeed been noticed on Miami’s campus. Affixed to the back of the article in University Archives is a note with the letterhead of the Office of Public Information, which was under the direction of Robert T. Howard. Howard had succeeded Gilson Wright in leading Miami’s News Bureau in 1956, and in 1960, he was promoted to director of the Office of Public Information. 

The quasi-mocking note says:

Paul –

Who’s left for him to scold but thee and me?

Howard

Based on the letterhead, I believe the note was written by Robert T. Howard. I’ve tried to determine who Paul is, and I’ll offer up my guess here: I think Robert Howard was writing to Paul Schumacher, the director of Miami University’s Health Service. There weren’t that many Pauls in high posts at Miami in 1973-74, and it seems that it would be on topic for Howard to write to the head of the health service over a fuming physician and his evidence of an off-site doctor’s visit by Tammen.

Several months later, that little flare-up would have still been fresh in the university’s mind, particularly in the mind of the person whose primary responsibility was to show the university in the best possible light, Bob Howard. As Howard was reading the October 26th issue of the Miami Student, sipping his coffee and pondering the fall weekend ahead, he probably had a mini-meltdown when he read who’d be coming to campus on Halloween night. As head of Miami’s Public Information Office, Howard oversaw media relations for the university. Managing Joe Cella would have certainly been within his job description. 

Perhaps Howard was still stinging from Cella’s article about Doc Boone and decided that he wouldn’t be welcome on campus. If so, he might have called Joe to find out what he’d be talking about and made up the excuse that he’d need to obtain federal approval first, just to introduce a roadblock. Maybe. 

Or could the request for clearance from federal authorities have reflected a degree of familiarity with Tammen’s case? Maybe Howard, who’d been working in communications for the university in various capacities since 1947, knew about the federal government’s involvement in Tammen’s disappearance. If so, he would have also known that the university wouldn’t want to anger the sorts of people who I believe were pulling the strings. Perhaps Howard told Cella to seek clearance to make sure the university didn’t stray from whatever marching orders they might have been given back in 1953. If the feds say it’s OK, then it’s OK with us too, Howard might have told Cella.

I have no idea what materials Joe Cella had in his possession from the federal government concerning Tammen. Cella’s sons weren’t able to shed light on that question and his Tammen file is long gone. Likewise, when I asked them if they could recall the Halloween of 1973 when their father’s university talk had been abruptly canceled, it didn’t ring any bells with them. I also contacted former student representatives of Miami’s 1973-74 Program Board and asked if they could recall the incident. Only one person responded and that person had no recollection of the Tammen program that had been canceled.

In 1977, Cella was interviewed by a reporter for the Dayton Daily News about his search for Tammen. He didn’t mention the government materials he’d had in his possession in 1973. Instead, the article says: “Cella said that federal agencies have refused to cooperate with him or Tammen’s family.” In addition, it said that he’d attempted to obtain Tammen’s records from the Social Security Administration but was refused.

This past week, I was in Oxford again, conducting more Tammen research, and I was standing in Miami’s Athletic Hall of Fame inside Millett Hall. There, among the photos of swimmers, wrestlers, football players, basketball players, and the like was a photo of Robert T. Howard, who’d been inducted in 1989 for his role in directing sports information.

So…who do you think canceled Joe’s Halloween talk in 1973?

As for the year 2021, Happy Halloween to all who celebrate! 🎃

The second man, part 2: a Friday-night document drop

Good evening, dear AGMIHTF readers. Tonight I’ll be dropping three historic documents for your perusal. Please be advised: the forthcoming document drop will not be answering any major questions. Rather, these documents are more corroborating in nature. But, hey, corroboration is a good thing too, right? In fact, imho, there’s nothing quite like a little corroboration to get the weekend off to a half-decent start.

Tonight’s documents have to do with Richard Delp. As I explained two blog posts ago (and for those of you who are keeping score at home, that was post #79. Can you believe we’re now at #81?!), Richard Delp was an assistant professor in psychology who, for whatever reason, was listed in the number two spot of three professors in Carl Knox’s notes concerning Ron Tammen’s disappearance. 

Here’s a quick refresher from that post:

In October 1952, Richard Delp had been called onto the carpet by an unidentified supervisor, most likely department chair Everett Patten, to discuss his lack of a Ph.D., a crucial thing for someone in his position to have. He was given until the end of the 1953-54 academic year to finish his thesis, otherwise, his job would be in jeopardy. 

In a follow-up report of the conversation, the supervisor described admonishing Delp thusly: “I pointed out to him that he was now in his third year as an assistant professor, that the probation period was from two to four years, and that if he didn’t have his Doctor’s degree by the end of 1953-54, the question of his retention might arise.”

For those of you who are still keeping score at home, the end of academic year 1953-54 would be sometime in late May or early June of 1954, depending on whether or not you’re counting finals week in your calculations. Therefore, Delp had been given roughly 20 months in which to double down on getting his doctorate degree. Twenty months sounds totally doable, but it’s not realistic. Since Delp had such a taxing teaching schedule, and since he was pursuing his degree at Ohio State, he did most of his graduate work in the summers. Essentially, he had one summer—the summer of 1953—to get everything done.

He didn’t.

Most people would guess that Delp’s job in psychology would have come to an abrupt end, but that’s not what happened. A one-page administrative sheet documenting his salary and promotions while in the psychology department said that, in 1954, not only didn’t he receive a pink slip, but he received tenure. 

This concludes the refresher.

In academia, tenure is a prestigious perk that assures a professor that, unless they do something egregious, their job will always be safe. It’s a big deal. In order for Richard Delp to receive tenure, his nomination would have to be approved by the president of the university—who was Dr. John Millett—and the Board of Trustees, which met every year at the end of the spring semester. But at that level, the list is pretty much rubberstamped. The more in-depth conversations would have taken place earlier in the year with the provost, Dr. Clarence Kreger; the dean of the College of Arts & Sciences, Dr. W.E. Alderman; and of course, the chair of the psychology department, Dr. Everett Patten.

So I wondered: were university administrators a little more lenient back then? I don’t know much about Dean Alderman, but I’ve read about how Kreger operated, and he was legendarily tough as nails. It wasn’t a secret that he intimidated people—a lot—Everett Patten being one of those people. How could Patten have convinced Kreger that Delp should be rewarded with tenure when his job performance in 1954 was so lackluster and he still didn’t have his Ph.D.? Was the one-sheeter accurate? I mean, look at it. It’s a mimeographed form with notations hand-scrawled in ink or pencil lead. It hardly looks like an official document. However, I’d seen records on professors in other departments, and they had the same penned-in forms. It seemed to be factual, but I wanted to be sure.

I went back to the university. The Board of Trustees meetings are posted on Miami’s Digital Collections, so I located the one that seemed to be the most promising contender for granting Delp’s tenure: June 4, 1954. However, when I read the minutes, I discovered that the handouts containing the names of the employees who were being voted on weren’t included online. I submitted a public records request to Miami’s Office of the General Counsel (OGC), asking if they still had them, and if so, could I have a copy.

Yesterday, the OGC sent me a scanned copy of the handout.

Document #1: Board of Trustees handouts – June 4, 1954

Two things jumped out at me: Not only did Richard Delp indeed receive tenure on June 4, 1954 (see page 7), but he’d been on leave during the spring semester of that year as well (see page 1).

So it all boils down to this:

  • In October 1952, Richard Delp is warned that he has until the end of the 1953-54 academic year—by June 1954—to get his Ph.D., and he promises to ask his thesis adviser and others at Ohio State how he can do that. 
  • Except for the year he took off from Miami to work full-time on his doctorate degree, Delp was mainly commuting to Ohio State during the summers to work on his Ph.D.
  • The only summer between October 1952 and June 1954 was the summer of 1953. But Delp didn’t register for graduate work at Ohio State that summer.
  • Also, he took time off from teaching during the spring of 1954, though we don’t know why. Perhaps he was writing his thesis, but, if so, he never defended it. He never registered for graduate work at Ohio State after summer 1951.
  • June 4, 1954, Richard Delp is approved for tenure by Miami’s Board of Trustees.
Richard Delp’s transcripts from Ohio State University. He never attended after summer 1951.

I may be wrong, but I think something happened between October 1952 (when Richard Delp was warned to get his Ph.D.) and June 1953 (when he should have been enrolled in graduate work at Ohio State) to make Richard Delp think that his position was safe with the Department of Psychology.

Documents 2&3: Men’s Disciplinary Board nomination

The other two documents I’m dropping tonight were written in August 1956, when Richard Delp was invited to sit on the Men’s Disciplinary Board, a board by which male students who veered outside the university’s rules were dealt with accordingly. Delp felt conflicted about sitting on the board, and he wrote to Kreger to explain why. Mainly, it was because Delp had been informally counseling students and he felt that assuming the two roles—informal counselor and disciplinary board member—would be problematic.

Dr. Kreger was not pleased. The next day, he wrote Delp, telling him that he wasn’t aware that Delp was acting in that role, and adding: “If you have assumed a personal counseling function which is taking a sufficient amount of your time to interfere with intellectual growth and scholarly productivity, I think we ought to know about it.” In a postscript, he reminded Delp that any extra time should be devoted to working on his Ph.D. instead. Kreger invited Delp in for a meeting, though I don’t know if it took place. I do know that Delp served as a member of the Men’s Disciplinary Board for academic year 1956-57 and possibly the following year as well.

My point is this: Clarence Kreger was definitely not a softie and the fact that Delp still didn’t have his Ph.D. in 1956 did not escape his notice. I just wish I knew what convinced Kreger and all the others to nominate Delp for tenure in 1954.

Again, I’m just putting the question out there. If you have thoughts/comments/questions, please feel free to DM me or write rontammenproject@gmail.com. Have a great weekend, everyone.

The second man

During the brief period in which Miami University officials were actively looking into Ronald Tammen’s disappearance, Carl Knox had written three names on a legal pad. The first name was Prof. Dennison, which makes total sense. J. Belden Dennison was a revered professor of finance at Miami in addition to being an academic adviser to students in the Business School, Ron included. If I were Carl Knox, I, too, would have reached out to Dennison—“Denny” as his colleagues liked to call him. Denny would have let Knox know about how Ron had been falling behind in his coursework that year. He would have been a little perplexed when Knox informed him that Ron’s psychology book was left open on his desk the evening of his disappearance.

“Are you sure it was his psychology book, Carl?” Denny might have asked.

“That’s right—by Norman Munn. It was open to a section on Habits…or maybe he was reading about post-hypnotic suggestion on the righthand page. I don’t know.”

“Hmmm. That’s weird,” Denny would probably say. “Tammen had dropped his psychology course just recently. I know because I signed his withdrawal slip.” 

The third name on the list was Prof. Switzer, instructor of said psychology course. We’ve gotten to know Doc Switzer quite well over the years on this blog site. In fact, if he knew how many column-inches I’d be dedicating to his, um, extracurricular activities, I’m guessing the super-secretive Switzer would be rolling over in his grave right about now. (Sorry, Doc, but you fascinate me.)

It’s the second name on the list that we’ll be focusing on today: Prof. Delp.

In 1952-53, Richard T. Delp was an assistant professor in the Department of Psychology. He, St. Clair Switzer, and Ted Perin, another Miami psychology professor who’d studied under Clark Hull, shared office space in room 118 of old Harrison Hall. I’ve mentioned earlier on this blog site that the inclusion of Delp’s name in the #2 position of Knox’s list is especially curious since Ron wasn’t taking a course from him. Why would Carl Knox think that Richard Delp could provide useful information concerning Ron Tammen?

Richard Delp was the consummate teacher. He loved to learn and he loved to teach. In fact, his zeal for learning made it somewhat difficult to pin down his area of expertise. As an undergraduate at Miami, he majored in psychology and sociology for his bachelor of arts degree, and the next year, he earned a bachelor of science degree in biology and English. As for biology, he especially enjoyed the flora and fauna of Ohio, and he seemed to get a lot of joy out of his farm on Morning Sun Road, where he would host picnics and lead groups of students on nature hikes. He built a cabin there for use by the local Boy Scouts, an organization he was active in for decades. A year after graduating with his B.S. degree, Delp earned his master’s, also from Miami, in education. 

Richard Delp

Delp’s academic career at Miami began in 1945-46, when he was hired by the English Department. (He taught recognition and code at the Naval School on campus for several months during WWII, although info is conflicting regarding the precise timeframe. Also, it was war-related so we’re not counting it here.) In 1946-47, he moved to the Department of Psychology, where Dr. Patten, the chair, probably felt incredibly fortunate to have found him. Throughout the war, the department had been chugging along on fumes as several faculty members had left their professorial posts to serve in the armed forces, including Switzer. After the war was over, the student population nearly doubled the next academic year, from 2345 to 4559. Courses in general psychology were back in high demand, jumping from 9 sections in 1945-46 to 22 in 1946-47. The department needed qualified people to teach heavy course loads throughout each day. Although Switzer had returned to Oxford, he wouldn’t be teaching for several more years as he was helping counsel returning veterans about possible career options. Richard Delp would have been a lifesaver to help carry some of the burden.

But there were aspects to academia that Delp struggled with, one of the main hurdles being the pursuit of a doctorate degree. 

Currently, anyone who aspires to teach at a university generally progresses straight through their educational training, from undergraduate degree to doctorate, oftentimes earning a master’s degree along the way. He or she then performs post-doctoral research somewhere until finally landing a position as an assistant professor, usually somewhere else. It’s a long and arduous process, but essential. Having a doctorate is pretty much a prerequisite to getting your foot inside the door as a faculty member at a university.

That’s only the beginning. You’ve heard of the phrase “publish or perish”? It’s definitely a thing. As soon as a person is hired as an assistant professor, they have several years in which to publish as many papers as they can, plus do anything else to stand out among their peers: acquire grants, serve on university committees, accrue some grad students, hobnob at professional meetings, deliver presentations, take part in media interviews—establish themselves as an expert. They also have to teach a bunch of classes, which includes grading a ton of papers. A cake walk it is not.

After several years, the promotion and tenure committee holds a high-def magnifying lens to that person’s accomplishments and decides if they deserve to be promoted to associate professor. If the answer is yes, they’re usually granted tenure—job security—at roughly the same time, generally after a probationary period. An answer of no is tantamount to being fired, and they need to begin a job search. Of course the process by which an associate professor is promoted to full professor requires more of the above, although they’ll still have a job if they should be turned down since they already have tenure.

Back in Delp’s day, there was a little more wiggle room. A person holding a master’s degree might be hired as an instructor or even an assistant professor. Such new hires would be expected to work toward a higher degree, and Delp certainly worked toward his. After Patten hired him in 1946-47 as an instructor, Delp began taking graduate classes at The Ohio State University that summer. He continued doing so during the summers of ’48 and ‘49, and in 1949-50, he attended graduate school full-time, residing in Columbus. His research thesis was on student ratings of college instructors. When he returned to Oxford in 1950, he was promoted to assistant professor in psychology, which was accompanied by a nice pay raise. In the summer of ’51, he was back to commuting to Ohio State to work on his research.

However, he didn’t finish his dissertation. With no dissertation, there’s no Ph.D. And with no Ph.D., well…he probably shouldn’t have been teaching the courses he was teaching. The 1950 faculty manual stipulated for assistant professors “whose major responsibility is the teaching of academic classes, the doctor’s degree or its equivalent from an accredited college or university shall be required.”

Can I just interject here that I feel for the guy? Spending nine months a year teaching hundreds of students and grading thousands of papers and then taking time off during the summer months to take graduate classes—which he excelled at—and conduct research sounds like a hard life with no let-up. By 1952, he didn’t do anything more toward his degree at Ohio State, according to his transcripts. Goodbye, Columbus.

On October 15, 1952, someone in a position of authority—I’m guessing it was Patten—had a sit-down with Delp to discuss his situation. The supervisor reminded Delp that his probationary period as an assistant professor was nearing an end and if he didn’t have his Ph.D. “by the end of 1953-54, the question of his retention might arise.” Delp vowed to discuss the matter with the folks at Ohio State and to work out a plan to “finish for his degree” by 1954. To soften the tone of his write-up, the supervisor added in the last paragraph that Delp was extremely busy with teaching and that “he seems to be happy with the work which he is doing with the Business students…,” though the supervisor doesn’t specify what work Delp was doing.

A supervisor’s report from a meeting with Delp on 10-15-52; click on image for a closer view

As we all know, the next semester, Ron Tammen, a sophomore business student at Miami, went missing, and Delp’s name as well as that of his office mate, St. Clair Switzer, who taught Tammen’s General Psychology course, were jotted down in Carl Knox’s notes.

The year 1954 came and went, and Delp still hadn’t made headway toward his doctoral degree. A review of his accomplishments for January 1, 1954–June 1, 1955 shows none of the activities expected of someone in his position. Other than joining several professional organizations—paying his dues, basically—his form is mostly left blank. (Inexplicably, activities for subsequent years were written into the space for the last question.)

Click on image for a closer view

Click on image for a closer view

Click on image for a closer view

You might think that it would have been the end of the line for him. With no Ph.D. and no publications or any other accomplishments to speak of other than teaching, you’d think that the year 1954 would have been his last in the psychology department. But you’d be mistaken.

In 1954, Richard Delp was granted “indefinite tenure” according to his administrative one-sheeter, though he remained an assistant professor. He also received sizable pay increases for that year and the succeeding year, which are difficult to explain based on his 1954-55 progress review form. 

Click on image for a closer view

The 1950 faculty manual defined tenure as “a means to certain ends, specifically: (1) Freedom of teaching and research and of extra-mural activities, and (2) A sufficient degree of economic security to make the profession attractive to men and women of ability.”

Despite being granted tenure, Richard Delp resigned from his position in psychology in 1961, shortly before Switzer was named department chair. In her book “Eighty Year of Psychology at Miami,” Fern Patten said that it was for health reasons. Two years later, he would be hired by the School of Education, where he would receive accolades as an outstanding professor. 

But my question is this: what happened between October 1952, when a supervisor was warning Delp about his precarious academic position, and academic year 1953-1954, when he received the first of two big pay increases, not to mention indefinite tenure, which was awarded in 1954?

I’m only asking the question, guys. There may be a perfectly good explanation.

Salary progression during time in the Psychology Department

Here’s a chart I’ve created of Richard Delp’s salary progression, year-by-year, while in the Psychology Department. The numbers to the right of the bars are the percent increase he received from the prior year.

I’ll be turning comments off for this one. I am continuing to seek documents that could help address my question. If you have thoughts on this topic or if you happen to have additional information, feel free to DM me on Facebook or Twitter or email me at rontammenproject@gmail.com. Requests for anonymity will be honored.

***************************

As a postscript, it’s hard to believe that a year has passed since we lost Marcia Tammen, who passed away on August 31, 2020. We miss her so much, and in her memory and honor, we will continue seeking evidence that may one day tell us what happened to her brother Ron.

Marcia Tammen