RU History
The Legend of M'Ledge Moffett
Radford's Revered Matriarch
Copyright 1996 by Jeanne Johnson
Office of Public Affairs
Radford University
| As the story goes, some Radford College students in the late 1950s or
early 60s were determined to extend the school's curfew from midnight to 2 a.m. Going
before the formidable Dean M'Ledge Moffett was no trivial matter, so a group of
8 or
10 banded together, hoping their numbers would give them some credibility and bolster
their boldness. After making their case, Moffett looked them over with imperturbable
resolve. "Now girls," she asked calmly. "Tell me, what is it you want to
get done after midnight that you can't get done before midnight?" Flustered, the ad
hoc committee members looked at each other, turned and walked away without comment. The
midnight curfew remained. Such was the impact of dean Moffett that she could silence those who would challenge her with one simple, withering question. "She didn't need to use force," says former graduate student and professor John Rutherford. "She could just use her considerable reason and wit." Moffett is greatly beloved by many Radford alumni. To some who resented her authoritarian ways, Moffett was a matronly stick-in-the-mud who ruled Radford with an iron fist. To many others she was a guiding light, an endearing rock of stability who could be alternately motherly, motivational or even mischievous. To all who encountered her, she was memorable. Supporters and detractors alike agree that she was a sizable woman of sizable intellect who influenced Radford, then called Radford College, more than any other single individual. "She was brilliant woman and she wanted her students to be that way, too," says Maryanne Stump, '34. "She had high expectations, morally and academically." Stump recalls how Moffett once called upon her in class to recite the poem "Where Did You Come From, Baby Dear?" Stump was indeed stumped. Though she can laugh about it now, at the time, she was paralyzed with embarrassment. Laughs Stump, "Well, I thought I knew where babies came from, but not in rhyme," Not one to mince words or mollify her opinions, Moffett informed Stump (then surnamed Bocock) that if she didn't know that poem, "she was not fit to teach school." "You can bet that by the next class I knew every word of that poem," says Stump. Moffett devoted 49 years of her life to Radford. She was a constant presence at the college and, in many ways, defined its character. She was on campus longer than any of the college's presidents and many contend she was Radford's de facto president, in charge of day-to-day operations. Presidents often granted her authority on a par with, or even exceeding, their own. This was probably out of respect for her judgment but the fact that she had become a veritable institution on campus was an undeniable influence. Moffett's portrait is on display on the main floor of McConnell Library, along with portraits of past presidents. In the portrait, she appears pleasantly authoritative, but it's said that she wasn't particularly fond of the painting. "The portrait is very static, but she was very active and lively," says Rutherford, who ought to know. As was expected of Radford's male population, Rutherford danced many a dance with Moffett. She was about as wide as she was high, says Rutherford, but she was a graceful dancer who loved to dance the Waltz, the Two-Step and the Fox-Trot and she had a decided tendency to take the lead. To students, she appeared to dance on air. "She danced like a fairy," says Stump. This strange ability to propel the mass of her body with gravity-defying energy only enhanced Moffett's larger-than-life reputation. Her often stern demeanor masked a wry sense of humor and sensitivity that was obvious to those who knew her well. Her commitment to rules of conduct was clearly sincere but it seems that her no-nonsense exterior was at least partly a ruse, a deliberately calculated posture that recognized the human propensity to manipulate any perceived laxity. After all, she was responsible for the well being of those in her charge and she took that responsibility seriously. Those who rubbed shoulders with her on a daily basis held her in high esteem. "She was respected with a capital 'R'," says Stump. That doesn't mean Moffett was beyond humbling herself for the sake of fun. For example, in 1941 she led a pre-basketball game faculty parade wearing a shirt identifying her as the "Water Boy" and carrying a water can labeled "School Spirit." Between quarters, the faculty had to be baptized with "school spirit " water. Radford was Moffett's life and she was serious about the task of educating women who would be of service to society, which included training in the social graces. For many years, she taught a freshmen orientation course that included a segment called "Who Am I?" Part of the class was designed to inculcate rules of etiquette and included meeting in the homes of faculty for formal receptions. "We went in groups wearing hats and gloves and we were supposed to stay for 15 minutes," says Stump. Stump's group went with alarm clocks in their pockets, set to go off after the appointed time. The gesture was not well-received. "We went home scared to death," says Stump, "but if we were scared it was because Moffett expected us to give what we didn't want to give the very best we had." Born in Northern Virginia as Mary Ledger Moffett, M'ledge was a moniker that stuck from childhood. Moffett was among Radford's first faculty, hired to teach home economics. From the very beginning her involvement in the school included student-centered extracurricular activities, discipline and counseling. When Radford first opened, students lived in the reportedly haunted Heth House, a rented, Victorian-style former hotel. For a while, a Mr. and Mrs. Avent lived in Heth House, with Mrs. Avent serving as matron. However, Mrs. Avent was so completely unnerved by the ghost stories, frequent alarms from students and passage of visitors that the couple moved out in 1913. In her place, Moffett was put in charge, with Miss Puryear as her assistant. At the time, Moffett was the youngest faculty member. A bachelor professor was moved into a nearby cottage as a guardian male presence. The professor soon recognized that he was in need of protection from Moffett's pistol, which she used to shoot at suspected prowlers. For his own safely, he quickly learned to identify himself with a signature whistle. The first discipline case came in the early fall of 1913 when a student attempted to run away. As Lenora Geissler Smith recounts in "Radford College: A Sentimental Chronicle Through its First Half-Century," students overheard plans being made between the student and her supposed "cousin" to run away and be married. Word quickly spread and Moffett and Puryear rushed to President (John Preston) McConnell's home on the top of a hill to ask for help. Smith writes that, "When they returned, they thought the house was deserted. Upon closer inspection, a foot protruding from the gallery around the reception hall led to the discovery of the girls flat on their stomachs, eavesdropping. When Dr. McConnell arrived with Pat Bourne, Radford Chief of Police, the girls said the lover was thought to have a pistol and knives to get his ladylove out of the college. The man confessed that he was not a cousin but denied intentions to elope. He was put on an outgoing train by Dr. McConnell and Mr. Bourne, while Miss Moffett, Miss Puryear and the girls tried to console the student, who was threatening suicide. Miss Puryear hid all the scissors and other sharp objects and they made a pallet for the girl on the floor near Miss Moffett's bed. She slept peacefully all night and soon became a popular heroine among the students." No doubt, one probably would feel safe and peaceful, sleeping in the shadow of Moffett and her trusty pistol. Moffett's concern for students must have impressed President McConnell because he appointed her dean of women as part of a 1920 reorganization. Radford was the first state-supported institution in Virginia to create this position, and Moffett was the first woman to be appointed dean. The social life of Radford's women was strictly controlled and Moffett was instrumental in helping to eliminate "undesirable" names from the list of approved gentlemen callers. Though she never married herself, Moffett enjoyed playing the role of matchmaker, and behind the scenes she was known to arrange the pairing of Radford's women with males from Virginia Polytechnic Institute (VPI) who won her approval. When he was a young man, Rutherford's father fixed a flat tire for Moffett at the family's filling station. When he informed her that he planned to attend VPI, she invited him to come over to Radford so she could introduce him to some "girls." The arrangement worked out well. Rutherford's father had so many dating opportunities that he had dates to spare, and his friends benefited from the spillover. "He became so popular that he was known among the cadets as 'Radford's Representative," says Rutherford. "He had quite a nice year as the result of meeting Dr. Moffett." In the 1950s, when panty raids became popular, more than one panty raid was thwarted through the combined efforts of Moffet and then-president Martin. "There was one time when Dr. Moffett and Dr. Martin were alerted ahead of time to the panty raid," says Rutherford. "When the raid came, they were literally throwing men out of the dorm. It was an ambush." For most of her career, Moffett had little need to drive because she lived near campus. However, due to campus expansion, her home was moved to Radford's West End at about the same time her vision began to decline, leading to Moffett's reputation as a road hog. "She was notorious, says dean of students Bonnie Hurlburt, a 1958 Radford graduate. "She drove a big, black car and everyone knew to get out of her way because she drove that big car right down the middle of Main Street." Hurlburt knew Moffett both from the perspective of a student and a peer. "She was a strong-minded person and, as a student, I viewed her with a certain amount of awe and fear," says Hurlburt, recalling one particularly memorable incident. "It was a beautiful day and I was sunbathing at the pool along with many others," explains Hurlburt. "Some of those others were supposed to be in class. Dr. Moffett was taking a roll call by number and it soon became evident that more numbers were being called out than there were students in class. Dr. Moffett didn't tolerate skipping class or cheating and obviously both were occurring. Word spread among the sunbathers that Dr. Moffett was on her way. She came marching down the sidewalk with her arms folded, ominously irate and ready to enact justice. The sunbathers, who knew they would be in big trouble, scattered and disappeared. "Dr. Moffett was not naive. She knew exactly where those students were." Moffett was staunch Presbyterian teetotaler with a weakness for chocolate, says Hurlburt, so imagine the moral conundrum created by a box of bourbon-laced chocolates. "She kept saying, 'Maybe I will' and then "Oh, I really shouldn't' until she finally mustered the resolve to decline," says Hurlburt, "but for her that was quite a temptation." When Hurlburt was named to replace Moffett as dean of students in 1962, "she was very gracious to me," says Hurlburt. "She was wonderfully supportive and, the more I heard about her, the more I learned that she had a heart as big as all outdoors. Throughout her career, she took many students under her wing and helped them with serious problems. She showed compassion to those you might expect her to judge harshly, such as unwed mothers. She helped many behind the scenes. Though she had high standards, she was also in touch with life's reality." During her lifetime, Moffett tackled responsibilities that others were unwilling to take. She was a product of her time, in terms of moral standards and commitment to behavioral convention. Yet in many ways, she was an unconventional woman who was ahead of her time. At a time when many people viewed women as intellectually inferior, Moffett pursued higher education and received a Ph.D. She authored scholarly articles and books, including a history of Radford College and a book called "Youth Looks at Marriage." With the cooperation of the forward-thinking President McConnell, she was named the state of Virginia's first female dean. In many ways, she was a trailblazer, with a life full of service and devotion, first to students and later to an ailing mother. Moffett's retirement coincided with the turbulent upheaval of the 1960s, a time when many of the rules she had so strictly enforced were discarded as anachronistic, the quaint restrictions of a bygone era. She died in 1969, not long after San Francisco's so-called "Summer of Love." Through her will, Moffett created Radford's first endowment, ensuring that her legacy will continue to provide scholarship money for students on an annual basis, says director of planned giving Jan G. Clarke. The endowment, valued at about $100,000 in 1969, is now worth $250,000. "Even from the grave her influence on Radford continues," says Clarke. "People will speak of Dr. Moffett as long as there is a Radford University," says Stump and they'll do so with an affectionate mix of awe and humor, cognizant of the fact that Moffett was a truly unique human, the likes of which this world may never know again. No one seems to know exactly what ailment eventually got the better of Moffett, but it can be surmised that even death, she was a formidable presence. And given her devotion to education, it seems entirely fitting that she rests in peace, buried in her robe and full academic regalia. |
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