OBITUARIES
In Appreciation: Robert H. Burris—A Mentor for All Seasons
 Robert H. Burris passed away on May 11, 2010, in Madison, Wisconsin, at age 96. On his bedside table were the latest issues of PNAS, Science, and, of course, Plant Physiology. If there is an afterlife, and if it has a journal club, Bob will arrive prepared, as was his nature. If not, he will likely organize one and contribute regularly on a wide range of topics. Anyone who passed through Bob’s lab during his 50-year experiment in discovery and learning will have three weekly times stamped on their consciousness: Monday noon seminar, Friday journal club, and—most important—Friday morning lab meeting. Lab meetings were at 8 a.m. Fridays in Room 281 Biochemistry. The “yellow sheets,” or carbon copies of lab notebooks, were handed in by 5 p.m. the previous afternoon. One learned quickly that Bob read them, in detail, the night before. One also learned to be concise in reporting and to prepare graphs that were legible and meaningful. No matter how important the outcome of an experiment, it was not complete until properly presented.
I first met Bob and joined his lab the Wednesday following July 4, 1972. He and his wife, Katherine, had spent the long weekend at their cabin on the Wisconsin River, near Muscoda, where everyone knew him as “Bob” at Ike’s Store in town. “Dr. Burris” was back in his office by 7:30 a.m. on July 5, as he was every day, Monday through Saturday. I had been directed to Bob by his former student and one of my undergraduate advisers, Robert Klucas. Former Burris students and colleagues around the world felt they could do no better by their students than to get them into Bob’s lab. It was one of the greatest gifts anyone ever gave to me, and I am certain that all who studied under Bob’s watch felt the same about their time in his lab in the Biochemistry Department at the University of Wisconsin. Students not only learned in the Burris lab, they also enjoyed working for and with Bob. And Bob enjoyed mentoring his students. Much of the mentoring was by example, and students were allowed to struggle through a problem, learning that they could figure it out. On occasion, just the right suggestion would come in the form of a reference card, handwritten on a computer punch card, notched on two edges in the personal system that allowed Bob to sort by topic or author. (Only those who have been in his lab will appreciate the efficiency with which he used this system before Endnote or PubMed existed.) The reference card might lead to just the right method to address the bottleneck in a thesis project or might provide a whole new avenue of research. Just a thought from a mentor.
Born in South Dakota on the same day as his lifelong friend, Pete Peterson, Bob was a true son of the prairie—inventive, self-sufficient, modest, disciplined, frugal, curious, and confident. The son of a printer, he worked as a youth in the print shop, setting and inking type. I mention this because it clearly contributed to his phenomenal skill as an editor. The ability to read a page upside down and backwards allowed him to scan for errors quickly and thoroughly. During a recent discussion on a new “writing across the curriculum” initiative at my current institution, a colleague asked the group: “Who taught you to write?” I answered first and without hesitation, “Bob Burris taught me to write.” He edited with a merciless red pen and kind suggestions for alternative, more concise, correct wording. First drafts of papers were often returned with more red ink than black. I mean . . . Often, first drafts of manuscripts were returned with more red than black ink. Bob both wrote and edited with amazing clarity. He would have edited this column to a single sentence, wanting to be remembered, he said, with a single line: “Bob Burris was a good guy.”
Bob was as frugal in running his lab as he was in his writing, a trait well matched with his inventiveness. At his festschrift in 1984, he noted that his “start-up package” in 1944 was $400. His department chair, Hector DeLuca, then rebutted that there was still $100 left in that account! One Saturday morning, I heard a tapping in his office. When I investigated, I found Bob with a jeweler’s hammer and a jeweler’s cone pounding gold wire into seals for the mass spec. Bob was aghast at what they charged for seals and was sure that he could make them. (He did, and they worked well.) It is not clear whether this cost-saving approach to mass spec maintenance led to his jewelry-making hobby or if the jewelry making led him to craft his own seals from gold wire. Regardless, the office staff, female grad students, and the wives of his male students prized his jewelry items. My wife, Linda, still wears her “Bob Burris originals” on occasion.
It is difficult to summarize a man who was a biochemist, bacteriologist, plant physiologist, chemist, environmentalist, ecologist, public citizen, leader, adviser to governments, and more. Thirty-five years ago, Bob was espousing the concept that burning oil to move cars was a squandering of natural resources and that oil should be reserved for use as a feedstock for synthesis. He decried the release of helium from natural gas wells, recognizing it as an irreplaceable resource. He was an early and ardent supporter of Gaylord Nelson’s proposals to protect the environment.
When one recalls his many attributes (dependable, organized, incisive, creative, thoughtful, wise, the list goes on) and attempts to select the essence of Bob, it was that he was approachable. Any student could ask a question or inquire about a technique. His lab was open to anyone, his equipment was available for any good experiment, and his time was never rushed. He was fond of quoting the automotive inventor Kettering, who said, “When you lock the lab door, you lock more out than you lock in.” Bob’s lab was not locked. At national meetings or at a Gordon conference, he would go to the poster sessions and walk up to a first-year student saying, “Tell me about your poster.” He would listen and then make suggestions, offering any advice that came to mind. Every student he visited benefited, and more than one person joined Bob’s unlocked lab because of such an experience.
At the 1984 Steenbock Symposium, many of his former students, colleagues, and friends gathered to celebrate his career. And yet it was merely another beginning for Bob. He moved gracefully from one career stage to the next, from rising star to young leader to department chair to senior statesman to aging hero. Into his 90s, he continued to come to the lab and always found a way to set an example.
He was slightly embarrassed when Madison Magazine listed him Number 1 among “The Smartest People in Madison,” an opinion that his students shared and even his competitors had to concede if they took an objective look at the data. Bob did not seek to overpower anyone or impress anyone; yet, when all is considered, he discovered more, helped more, assisted more, and contributed more than most scientists of his caliber. No less an observer than the great botanist Folke Skoog opined, “Bob Burris was the most important faculty member at the University of Wisconsin.” He set the standard for scientific integrity, mentoring, and contributions to the university and his community. When Bob received the Wolf Award, a journalist called to ask about him. After a few minutes of discussion, she said, “Well, I’ve got to ask. Everyone starts out with what a great guy he is. Did he get this award just because he is a nice guy? I mean, has he done anything substantial?” So, for the record, Bob was practically and intellectually creative, brilliant, incisive, and productive. For 40 years, he was the leading scientist in his field, and his discoveries affected a broad range of scientific areas. He reinvented his lab repeatedly and successfully to address new questions. He made seminal observations ranging from ecology to enzymology and from acetylene reduction to Zea mays productivity. Perhaps we were all amazed to find such genuine humility and humanity in one so talented. It is not just that Bob was kind and generous. It is that he was never unkind or ungenerous—to anyone.
I share an anecdote that is very characteristic of Bob. When “cold fusion” was announced and articles in the New York Times and lesser journals speculated on the implications, the unlikelihood of its reality, and a myriad of other points, Bob did not really engage in the discussion. Rather, he modified a Teflon leak apparatus to allow him to run an electrical current under a mixture of H2O and D2O and attached it to the MAT isotope ratio mass spec that he kept in the basement. He set his conditions to those of the original report and calculated that he should observe a mass for 3He if any fusion occurred. Instead of calling a press conference, he reported his results at lab meeting at 8 a.m. the following Friday. Unable to reproduce the original result, he concluded that the report of “cold fusion” by others was most likely due to some other cause. Bob embodied curiosity mixed with skepticism and analysis.
As dedicated to the lab as he was, Bob was not a slave to the lab alone. He devoted time to many interests. His gardens both at home and at the river cabin were productive—one year producing so many eggplants that we would sneak out of the lab, fearing that he would offer, “Wouldn’t you want an eggplant for dinner?” In his later years, he became skilled in producing jewelry, and the women in the department office would enjoy choosing from his creations. He was a skilled photographer and an early adopter of photographic technology. By the time I joined his lab, his children were grown and scattered around the country, but he and Katherine reveled in visiting them, and he was quite pleased when one of them could take a trip with him. When his grandchildren began traveling, he kept maps, tracking their routes as they traversed the Appalachian Trail or the African continent.
Bob occasionally attributed his longevity and good health to his daily intake of butter pecan ice cream, usually with chocolate sauce, from Babcock Dairy store on campus. Perhaps his daily bike ride to and from campus, his positive outlook on life, his avoidance of other vices, his exercise regimen, and his otherwise good nutrition (Katherine was an excellent dietician, also UW-trained) contributed. But he was pretty sure it was the butter pecan. As he often said, the human capacity for self-deception is absolutely amazing—and Bob was as human as the rest of us when it came to butter pecan ice cream.
It was perfectly characteristic that Bob left clear instructions for the interment of his remains. Years earlier, he had selected a large, copper Kjeldahl flask to serve as the urn for his ashes with directions that it be labeled: “Herein lies a representative sample of the inorganic remains of Robert Harza Burris.” Precise, concise, and with a touch of humor, all at 0.365 atom % 15N. Thanks, Bob. You were a good guy . . . and more.
Paul Ludden
Provost, SMU, Dallas, Texas
The author thanks Gail Stirr, Dan Arp, and Jason Ludden for comments, suggestions, and editing. |
