That Stevens Woman

Another thing you can't buck is notoriety.  I know, because Uriah S. Stephens and I are acquiring it even though we don't deserve to.  After all, not only are we both commendable, each in his own way, but we were properly introduced as well.  We met through my high school history teacher, Mr. Warner.   

He was an instructor who approached his profession with care, concern, and infinite common sense.  Although we were educated in the days before permissiveness took hold, we adored him.  For one thing, he gave us freedom of choice about his homework.  "Do it or fail," he announced with admirable brevity.  This system, presently in disrepute, has one salient advantage: it unmistakably links success to effort.  Few of us failed Mr. Warner's courses, and his assignments were invariably done.

His homework was always a series of questions that couldn't be answered without reading the required pages.  Most of my friends, viewing the importance Mr. Warner attached to his assignments, assumed that the lengthier their answers the higher their mark would be.  Not I.

Deciding my inherent laziness was really a distaste for writer's cramp, I told myself, "Quality over quantity."  I proceeded from this standpoint to answer such a question as, "A funny thing happened to Saul of Tarsus on his way to Damascus.  What were the results?" with a terse, "He turned blindly from persecution to preaching."

This response, one of my earlier efforts at condensation, was returned with a comment I have long treasured.  Neatly penciled in the margin was Mr. Warner's own essay on literature: "Be brief but detailed."  Thus did he set the challenge and turn me toward my goal.

And it was a goal I reached, too, three years later.  In reply to his, "Describe the origin of the American labor movement," I responded, "Uriah S. Stephens formed the Knights of Labor in 1869."  Mr. Warner awarded my laurel wreath by reading this answer to the class.  "Magnificent," he congratulated me.  "No missing details and no unnecessary words."

I glowed.  "There's only one problem," he continued.  "I see you going through life searching for someone who may want to know this.  Forget it, Ronale.  You and I are the only ones who care."

With this final thrust‑-Mr. Warner's comic relief habitually preceded a change in topic‑-he turned to the Haymarket Riots.  But I, freshly dared, lingered behind with Uriah.   Why shouldn't I be able to share my answer in later life, I mused.  Resolutely I came to my decision.  Like Mr. Warner's other challenges, this one too would be met.  I would find a way. 

Uriah went everywhere with me from then on.  I'd introduce him at dinner parties, often startling my companions with my grasp of events if not my conversational skills.  I brought him along on dates, where he tended to be very much the third who makes a crowd.  When my own surname became Stevens, my task became simpler.  "No," I would assure unwary souls, "they aren't related to us.  And neither is Uriah S. Stephens."

"Who?" they would ask, guilelessly taking my bait.  And I'd tell them, reciting the catechism that had won Mr. Warner's applause.  In time my husband learned to snatch me away from the unsuspecting bosses and VIP's who clustered near.

"Ronnie," he'd plead.  "Politics, yes.  Religion, yes.   Sex, yes‑-my God, yes.  But Uriah, no.  Please."  Thus did I learn that I must pursue my quest without the aid of my helpmate.

But the day came.  Oh yes, it did.  And I met my moment of glory properly, as a teacher enthroned in a study hall.  I can still hear the plaintive note in Julian's voice when he approached my desk.  "Do you know anything about history?" he begged.

"Nothing whatever," I assured him truthfully.  My history lessons, except for those on Uriah, Genghis Khan, and Attila the Hun, have been repressed along with other childhood traumas.

"But I have to know how labor unions started here.  Mr. Lengel wants my report next period, and I don't even know what to look up."   Julian was close to tears.

Serenely I rose from my chair and savored every syllable.   "Why Julian, Uriah S. Stephens formed the Knights of Labor in 1869.  And you may go to the library now."    

George, Julian's seatmate, was awed.  "That woman's a walking encyclopedia," he whispered to Julian, now swiftly collecting his books.

I did not correct George.  I'd already given a more critical enlightenment to Julian.  And I trust, now, that this torch will be passed to future generations.  Till then Uriah and I will go on together.  Notoriety be hanged.