One thing I learned in college in the late ’60s: if I made myself unavailable — say while washing my hair — I would tend to get an interesting phone call on the single, central telephone in the hallway of my dorm.
Sure enough, a call came from a guy I had not noticed in the law school class I audited when I briefly considered a law career. “Hi, my name is Spencer. I saw you in class. Would you like to meet for coffee?” I had a date, and clean hair.
Several weeks and several dates later, I was in despair. I had finished an ambitious research paper at the 11th hour — a hand-written, 114-page analysis of pivotal Supreme Court decisions that would determine my entire grade for Political Science.
Home computers were still 10 years in the future, and the type-written report was due the next day. A summer school typing class revealed that, after mistakes were deducted, I typed at a rate of minus-four words a minute. Just swabbing on the “Wite-Out” would take a year.
“I’ll type it for you. No problem,” Spencer said.
He delivered the 114 beautifully typed pages to me before breakfast the following morning. His roommate told me later that Spence had worked non-stop through the night.
When he proposed three months later, the only possible answer was, “Yes.”
—Peggy Franck (married to Spencer)
