The Office

Mel Adrian

Even when I was little, I appreciated how unusual my father was.  He was a “self-made man.”  He was a rags-to-riches story in the tradition of Horatio Alger.  If you are too young to have read Horatio Alger stories, then you are about to read one. 

One of the Adrian homes

Mel was the fifth child out of nine, born in the hills of Southern Ohio in a place called PeePee, Ohio.  His hardworking blue, collar parents moved to the big town of Springfield to better themselves in the 1920s, but found life there just as hard.  They settled on “Irish hill,” but the Depression, nine kids, Pappy's drinking, and just a “hard-knocks life” caused the clan to have to move “every time the rent came due.” 

Mel managed to graduate Springfield High School in 1935, and went into piece-work, teaching himself to be a jig board operator – a skilled position.  But later, with all his friends being drafted into World War II, he decided to join the Navy.  On his return, a friend convinced him to use the GI Bill to “make something of himself,” and so he went for it.  Something clicked.  He pushed himself through Wittenberg College, battled through a very competitive Jurisprudence program at the University of Cincinnati, and started his own law practice back in Springfield.

Mitchell Building - on the right

Now you have the background, here is where my story starts.  Going to my dad’s law office was a regular part of my childhood experience.  His first office was at the Mitchell Building at High and Lime*.   

The glass framed double doors opened into a narrow hallway, leading in a few steps to an old-fashioned elevator.  Pushing the button for “UP” was a constant argument between my sister and I, and was a delight when it was my turn!  Our father was often not dressed in a suit for work, but being 6’1” tall and carrying himself in a commanding way, everyone deferred to him anyway.  The elevator operator slowly slid the doors open with a crank device, then slowly slid them closed upon our entry.  The kindly attendant would greet “Mr. Adrian” and his daughters, and make small talk during the 2 minutes it took to ascend to the second floor.  Yes, the second floor!  I think Dad just rode the elevators when we were with him because we enjoyed them so much.

Being discharged from the elevator, we ran to Dad’s office door, which was always open because there was no central heat or air in the building.  We were greeted by Mrs. Closson, Dad’s longtime secretary and only employee, who looked like Mrs. Santa Clause, and—being from Alabama—talked like she had rocks in her mouth.  I will never forget the way she said “Mr. Adrian,” which came out as “mawsha aidchren.”

He sat us on the stiff, leather couch which looked like it was going to swallow us whole, and we sat stiffly there while he went into the inner office – his sanctum sanctorum – to take care of important phone calls, check on pending matters, and sign things.  It looked to the eyes of a child as if Mrs. Closson really ran the place, and he just dropped in now and then to make sure she was on task! 

The window to Limestone Street was open in Dad’s inner office, and the high-ceilinged fans were going around and around slowly.  Paper weights were not there for decoration in those days – things flew around because it was always breezy inside of offices.

Just when my sister and I had wriggled and giggled on the couch as long as we could stand it, Dad would emerge, give his secretary some last-minute instructions, and head out the door.  We would bound across the echoing wooden floors, no longer careful to be quiet, and race down the wide spiral staircase – much too excited with pent-up energy to wait for the elevator—but we waited for our Dad at the doors to the street. 

"Time for ice cream!"

*Native Springfielders shorten Limestone Street to “Lime.”