My son, Michael Francis, has no idea how close he came to being named Arthur Francis.

That’s how much I loved Arthur Francis Perry.

I married (for the first time) in May of 1977 and as the months wore on, it was painfully apparent I should look for a new job. I was listed as “sports editor” of the Sunday Dispatch but was more of a managing editor, with my fingers in every aspect of the operation save running the press. Although 60-hour weeks were the norm, I loved it. There just wasn’t enough money in it.

Then along came “The Catholic Light.”

At the time the Dispatch owned the only offset printing press in the region capable of printing a publication the size of The Light. And when the Diocese of Scranton communications office decided the paper needed the quality of offset and that the composition should become “cold type” it was only natural to bring production to the Dispatch. Pardon the immodesty, but by then I had become an expert in cold type layout.

Yes, the subsequent pay raise kept me at the Dispatch, but working with Art Perry, managing editor of The Light, changed my life.

It didn’t start out that way, however.

The first time I met with Art all I kept thinking was “I’m not smart enough to work with this guy.” I literally did not understand a word he said.

Part of the reason was his extensive vocabulary. But mostly, I soon learned, it was his manner of speaking, which fell somewhere between an auctioneer and erstwhile football coach Mike Ditka. Not only did Art have thousands of unusual words in his working vocabulary, when he spoke he left half the words out of his sentences. Once I figured that out, I was okay.

How extensive was Art’s vocabulary? Well, he began every day sitting down with the New York Times crossword puzzle and blowing right through it. When you worked with Art, you went to him for a definition before consulting Webster. You also picked up a lot of words and made them your own.

It was never my wont to use the word wont until I met Art. I think about him every time I do. It’s the same with the word germane which I find myself interjecting into a conversation every time it’s germane. You might say using germane has become my wont. Art would.

Something else Art gets credit for is my penchant for commenting that I like someone’s style.

It’s a phrase Art used after meeting the one and only Joey “I” Infantino at the Dispatch office one afternoon. Joey “I’s” personality filled a room. Using his trademark stogie to punctuate the air as he told of his latest adventure in the world of Pittston politics, Joey “I” never stopped moving as he spoke, all the while greeting any one who passed by with a warm handshake or pat on the back, yet never losing his place in the story. He’d roar in like a tornado and disappear just as quickly.

The first time Art experienced Joey “I,” he turned to me after he left and said simply, “I like that guy. I like his style.”

Art was a brilliant newspaperman. I’m not sure any bishop he worked for every realized that, but it didn’t matter, particularly to Art. He loved his work and did it well. His approach to the business was to “do whatever it takes.” In that we were one.

Art taught me that doing serious work did not exclude having fun. There was not a day in the 15 years we worked side by side that was not fun. Art’s favorite part of the day was lunch and the quality of the food in the lunchrooms of Pittston was not wasted on him. Jim’s Lunch, run by Jim LaNunziata and one of Art’s favorites, advertised soups made by Mama La Nunziata. Art always said he wanted to marry Mama LaNunziata. He rarely departed Pittston without sporting a spot of her soup on his tie.

As a journalism professor, I teach my students many of the things Art taught me, but his greatest lesson I cannot share in the classrooms of a publicly funded college. Art taught me how to pray.

One day after our work was done, Art leaned against a table in the composing room and said, “All my prayers are thank yous. I never have any entreaties, only thank yous.”

At the time I was pretty sure I knew what “entreaties” were but I looked up the word later, just to be certain. They are urgent requests or pleas. Art had none. With a broken down Dodge Omni parked outside, four kids to put through college and a soup-stained tie, Art Perry asked God for nothing. He just said thank you.

So that’s what I did as I stood next to his coffin Monday evening in Dunmore. I didn’t even ask God to grant Art Heaven. I’m sure I didn’t have to. My only prayer was “thank you.”

About the Author

Ed Ackerman is the editor of the Pittston Sunday Dispatch. He can be reached at 602-0175.

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