October 1970

It was a massive desk with a thick glass over the entire surface. This was fitting since Dad was a big man in my life, in his work with the government and in physical appearance. Under the glass were three items of interest to a young lad who loved to visit "the office" on a Saturday morning when school was out and federal employees only worked a half day.

After some paperclips, a wide rubber band, and a pencil you could screw the point in and out of had been secured in the deep recesses of corduroy knickers and the ladies of the office had their "making over the boss's kid," I could study that desk top. Prominent was the quotation, "The wheel that does the squeaking is the one that gets the grease." A baby held a bottle over the caption "Milk Makes Men."

There was the young mother in blue and white gingham at the clothes line hanging the beautifully fluffed and I am sure already dry clothes. Those words still drift back: "The clothes line is a rosary of household love and care. Each little saint the mother loves is represented there." That must have included me!

Then, there was the picture of Mr. Lewis. I remember that one the best. In typical executive style, I stretched out in the swivel chair, placed my spindle legs on the glass desk top and leaned back. I was a wheel for a few moments but hadn't counted on some other wheels having to do with the stability of the chair.

As my foot left the desk in somewhat of a hurry, the heel dragged across the glass and much of the black rubber remained to distort the picture of Mr. Lewis. I don't recall that Dad was upset at his son, but I do recollect he was six-six and weighed two-sixty. Somehow the little fellow on the floor always remembered the words of that moment, "Mr. Lewis made his mark, and I reckon the boy wanted to make his."

So much is said, partly in jest and to make conversation, but in the routine and unexciting maze of government service. Perhaps this makes a little story very much in order. My Mother made the long journey just a few weeks ago. She left so much with us, as every mother should. She understood the strength of love and how you gave direction to life with it. So, quite obviously, she would say tell the story about the big man and the little Welsh coal miner from Cumberland.

Dad was bright and finished college in three years. I didn't know until many years after I finished that when you had a high school diploma in his day it meant you started in the sophomore year at college. Anyway, he started farming and became active in the Farm Grange. This farm organization gave support to Dad's contention that shipping costs for farm folks were out of all reason. There was no competition for private rail shipment by one very large company.

With a directing resolution from the Grange the young farmer approached the members of the Congress from Maryland. The only response came from David J. Lewis, a mite of a man stunted by labors in the coal mines of Allegany County. This self-made lawyer with less than a fourth grade education, began nearly a year of research, writing, and developing the case for parcel post legislation. At his side and request there worked a young farmer who was later to become the nation's Assistant Director of the Agricultural Extension Service.

In the midst of the legislative preparation the farmer had his first child. He took time out to give him a name. It was David Lewis, in honor of the little man with whom he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue each Wednesday for some thirty years. After a weekly luncheon the tall man and the almost dwarf relaxed by letting the public gawk as they walked.

The first parcel post bill was enacted into law by the Congress. Mr. Lewis, who later was honored as the Father of Social Security, was first recognized as the Daddy of Parcel Post. There is now among my prized inheritance a copy of that bill with the inscription, "To Reuben Brigham - to whom this legislation owes its life - David J. Lewis."

I went to see Mr. Lewis in Cumberland some years ago. He was in his mid-eighties working in the basement of a law building, and his clothes were wrinkled and spotty. The lawyers upstairs did not want me to go down into the basement retreat. He had failed so. I told them I was his namesake and knew him well. This was my pass key.

He was involved with blocks of wood and a jigsaw. After the warm greeting that was to be our last, he said, "David, they think I'm a little off." Then he explained, "I always wanted to know something about higher math and the books all assume you have had the basics. The only way I can work out the mathematical equations and physics is to cut blocks the way I think and then fit them together to prove the formula."

This was not too important until he added, "David, when you stop appreciating other people and when you stop desiring to improve you own knowledge, the world no longer needs you."

I am glad there is work ahead for all of us, that there is yet knowledge for us to acquire, and that there are people to relate to. Oddly enough the quot next to the Mr. Lewis picture read, "Life is a series of little packages from which the strings are always coming untied." If you can't handle it you might send it Parcel Post.

David Lewis Brigham
Executive Director