books – Janice Monahan Rodgers

The measure of a man is how he treats someone

who can do him absolutely no good.

Samuel Johnson

Properties were acquired, bonds were floated, architects were hired, councilmen voted.

And floor by floor, the highly anticipated four-million-dollar structure rose, it’s five stories dominating the landscape at Penn and Hamilton Streets in downtown Allentown.

By the end of July 1964, after final touches, like installing stairway rails and tweaking electrical and plumbing work, the building was ready for occupancy. Moving operations were scheduled and the monumental task of moving myriad offices into the new structure began.

Bidding a fond farewell to the former fish market, employees packed files, folders, documents and records and bid adieu to the red brick building built in 1897. A new day had dawned.

After months of planning and preparation, D-Day (Dedication Day) was practically upon our doorstep.

My particular part of that door step was on the fifth floor of that new gleaming white edifice. As a stenographer in the City Solicitor’s offices, I had a front row seat to history.

On this bright October morning, I stood in our new offices taking a final check that all was ready. Brushing non-existent dust off of my new IBM red Selectric typewriter, I glanced around once more. Counter was spotless, our desks orderly and everything gleamed. New furniture, new file cabinets, even a new fake plant on top of the cabinets.

My office manager, Helen, looked around appreciatively.

“What a difference,” she sighed, sunlight pouring in the windows behind her.

“I can’t believe I have a new typewriter and a red one at that!” I dabbed the top again.

“Didn’t I tell you it would look perfect?”

“It does break up the beige,” I giggled.

Though Dedication Day and open house was still a few days away, today we were preparing for one very important guest.

“Okay, ladies, everything looks great. I’m heading over to the Americus for the press conference and lunch. Lunch will probably be two hours and then we’ll be doing the tour, finishing in the mayor’s office.” Our boss grabbed his topcoat and headed for the door. “Just keep the door open and come out to the doorway when he passes by. He always likes to say hello.”

“Yes sir,” we both replied.

“Have a nice lunch,” Helen added.

“Probably chicken,” my boss said as he sailed out the door.

***

Several hours later we heard the elevator doors in the lobby swish open and a commotion of men’s deep voices and laughter.

“Oh, they must be here. Hurry.” My normally calm manager popped up from her desk. “Sounds like they stopped at the City Clerk’s office next door. They’ll be here soon.”

Now Helen’s anxiety was making me nervous.

What should I say to him? I should have thought about this earlier. What do you call him? Well, he probably won’t even notice me with all those people around him.

Then, several things happened at once.

A throng of people walked down the hallway to our door. The new mayor, three councilmen, the City Solicitor (my boss) and one imposing figure who stood out from all the others.

William Warren Scranton, 38^th governor of the state of Pennsylvania strode to the doorway and stopped to greet Helen and me.

AND THEN THE DANG PHONE RANG.

I ran to pick it up watching the proceedings at the door as our boss introduced Helen to the governor while I tried desperately to get rid of the insistent caller.

Governor Scranton, a tall handsome man of about 47 years of age, chatted amiably with Helen and the others, when I suddenly realized he was waiting – for me! Me! A lowly stenographer.

For what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only seconds, I finally got rid of the caller and hurried to the door. The governor watched my approach, smiled at me and extended his hand.

“Hello, how are you?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Governor. Thank you.”

We didn’t talk about his family being the founders of the city of Scranton, or being an Air Transport Command pilot during WWII, or how he liked being governor.

But the man was someone who was approachable, likeable and genuine. And he waited for me!

Two hours later, the governor and his entourage toured the Phoenix Clothing Mill down the street.

Now it was my mother’s turn to meet and greet the governor.

The bell rang and I joined throngs of my fellow classmates shuffling through the halls like zombies, lurching to their next class.

It was almost mid-June and we only had a few more days of school left before we embarked on a life of summer fun and frolic. Final exams were over, marks were in and we were all just marking time, much like the inmates of the Lehigh County Jail down the street.

Obviously, in these last few days, there wasn’t much to do to keep us occupied. Regular classes were pretty much over.

However, never underestimate the sheer resourcefulness of a bunch of nuns who need to keep well over 1000 students busy. Because those enterprising ladies managed to find various tasks to keep us all working – and fairly quiet.

This morning, our desks already had stacks of Biology 101 books waiting for us. Our task, simple and boring as it was, was to clean up the books with soap erasers for the incoming fall freshmen. I had already spiffed up a bunch of theology books at my last class and was bored stiff.

Then I was rescued from my mind-numbing, soul-destroying task, by a heaven-sent angel. Sister Regina appeared at the door. After a little confab with Sister Bartholomew, she beckoned me to follow.

“Dear, I need a little help with the English literature book closet. Would you mind?”

First of all, you never say no to a nun. Second of all, well, there is no second of all.

I followed her to a closet right off Rockne Hall. She pulled out a ring of keys, fiddled around until she found the right one and unlocked the closet door.

The two of us surveyed the inside of the book closet. Books were tossed on shelves in a haphazard way, some barely clinging to the edges.

“Oh no. This worse than I thought,” Sister Regina said. “We’ll have to clear everything off the shelves and start from scratch. I’m sorry dear, that I got you into this.”

“I don’t know, Sister. It’s not so bad,” I said. I always liked Sister Regina.

Given the alternative, I was happy as a clam to help her with the mess before us.

“Well, once more into the breach,” I said and began pulling books from the shelf and sorting them into piles on the floor.

Sister Regina laughed at my Shakespeare quote, while I handed her more copies of Silas Marner. We started on the second shelf when I noticed something beige and red wedged into the corner on the very back of the first shelf.

“There’s something else back here, Sister.” Reaching back, I took hold and pulled out a huge dusty book. Just under two inches thick, it weighed a ton. Okay, not a ton, but at least a pound or two. I blew the dust off and noticed it had deckled edges and a tight stitched binding with strong sturdy boards front and back. A pretty pricey tome for a high school book closet.

I opened it to find the high school stamp inside and the library book pocket and card on the inside page. Dickens, David Copperfield, was written in fine nun’s penmanship on the card. And that was it.

“What a shame, Sister. It’s never been taken out.”

“Of course,” she sighed. “That’s because it’s the unabridged version, unlike all the abridged versions the students read. Perhaps someone donated it and Sister Irene thought she should have at least one good copy for her shelves.”

I began paging through to the first page.

Chapter one. I Am Born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

Well, I thought, I’m liking David Copperfield way more than Silas Marner. Truth to tell I didn’t appreciate Silas when I read him. But it seems like David’s already a much more interesting, fun fellow.

“Janice,” Sister Regina said, jolting me out of my reading.

“Oh, sorry Sister. Better get back to work before you fire me,” I said handing her David.

“No, I just wondered. Would you like to have that book?”

My hands closed around the book again, with its deckled edge pages, all 850 plus of them, its sturdy boards and tight binding and I realized David and I were going to become good friends.

And we did.