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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.”
