family – 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.

Well for starters, no candy bars. I don’t mean to sound like a candy snob but, come on, it’s Easter. There are all kinds of special Easter candies out there. You don’t have to resort to a Kit Kat. Not in my Easter basket. Thanks to my mom’s refined choices, no mediocre candy bar ever resided in my carrier of confections.

She created our Easter baskets with the skill of surgeon. Firstly, there was always a set of hollow milk chocolate figures. The nest, as it was called, generally consisted of a milk chocolate bunny or three and various Easter figurines, with perhaps, a little chocolate wheel-barrow or cart dotted with sugared candy décor. To add a pop of brightness, yellow marshmallow peeps were dropped in. Mom was only half way finished.

Handfuls of jelly beans were scattered around the cellophane Easter grass so little fingers could have yet another egg hunt, scooping them out from the bottom of the basket. Then, chocolate covered marshmallow eggs and bunnies joined the jelly beans along with a brightly colored hard-boiled decorated egg.

But the piece de’ resistance for me was always the peanut-rolled coconut cream Easter eggs. The mouth-watering scent of these confections permeated the parlor of our little row home on Easter morning, tempting, yes, practically calling, We’re here – Hop on over.

But there would be no hopping over to snitch a candy or two until after Mass. To me, it seemed, our Lenten deprivations weren’t really over until we burst in the door after church and grabbed those baskets.

Yes, it was a long time ago. Easter baskets have changed a tad over the years. But I wouldn’t change mine for all the Easter Eggs in China.

Have a Happy, and Blessed Easter Everyone!