Dick Magee: The day the encyclopedia guy came to call
I was frantic. I couldn’t find it — my I-phone! Without it, I am nothing. I go naked into the world. All I need to know is in that little magical box. It has nudged my guardian angel aside — pushed my Encyclopedia Britannica volumes up into the attic. So when the phone disappears, it is a calamity that pushes me into a pandemic-like panic. Nothing ensues ‘til it’s back in my pocket.
I never had this problem with encyclopedias — supposedly the storehouse of all knowledge. I didn’t know much about them until the Encyclopedia Britannica man came to call. I was just a kid. He was a door-to-door salesman. But “salesman” doesn’t do him justice. He was a 76 Trombones Professor Harold Hill without the music and the flair. He wore a suit, had shoeshine and a haircut, wore a fedora, carried a briefcase, had a wedding ring on his finger, a smile on his face — and a vision of what our future could be. He wasn’t peddling books; he was opening the door for the Magee boys to graduate Summa Cum Laude from grade school. Britannica would give us a boost.
Think of it — 26 volumes from A to Z — 35,000 pages with 45,000 articles written by 6,500 scholars preeminent in their field, 9,000 bibliographies, 1,000 tables, 1,200 maps, 4,500 pictures, and 689 fact boxes. Placed end-to-end, all this would run the length of eight football fields, and tip a scale at 140 pounds!
A chance of getting smart was just a reach away.
But we had to be careful dealing with the encyclopedia man. Flimflam could take over center stage. In its heyday, Britannica had over 5,000 salesmen crisscrossing the country. And each had memorized a 10-page script. These fellas had to be good. They were selling a very expensive product. In the early '40s, sets could sell for as much as $500 — over half the cost of a new Ford automobile. Only rich folks could pay cash. Others paid through an installment plan.
I still remember the highlights of the salesman’s visit. It became a part of family history. Unbeknown to us, he aimed to persuade my parents to buy a $500 set — and to pay for it when they signed the order. He was going for broke. It took him an hour of extolling the virtues of his encyclopedias before he produced a pen and the order form.
But no sale. My dad balked at the price. Mom closed the A volume on her lap. The salesman shifted gears. He was ready for that — had an answer, saying, “Let’s do this. I’d like to invite you to become a “sponsor family” in a new advertising campaign. In return you’ll receive a “free” set of encyclopedias. All you’ll have to do is let us use your name in ads — write a letter once a year, telling why you liked the books — and suggest four families who might be interested in actually buying a set.”
Dad perked up. Mom opened the A volume. The salesman went on to explain that the company couldn’t write off the total cost of the advertising campaign. So during a 10-year contract, we’d pay for the paper and the binding at only $49.95 per year.
It got better. As a “sponsor family,” we’d receive the annual yearbook at a reduced price of $6.95. And he’d include a bookcase that would be perfect under our bay window in the living room.
How could we go wrong? Our parents wanted to give their kids a head start whenever they could. But after an afternoon of tireless negotiation (this was worse than buying that Ford) there was still no sale. Dad said he’d think it over. Two days later the salesman came back with a major price reduction for a cash-on-the-barrelhead deal. That did the trick. Mom began to rearrange the living room furniture.
While Britannica sets were a marvelous reservoir of knowledge, the company’s door-to-door sales practices, all too often, failed to match the standards and reputation of its books. It was a strange disconnect.
The books were something to admire from afar, but not up close. Mom never ventured beyond a few pages in the A volume. Dad pulled one out from time to time. We boys avoided them like the plague. They were just too darned hard to read. They were written for adults of keen intellect and great perseverance — not for kids. The books, so magnificent in content and concept, just sat there, undisturbed in their bookcase under the bay window.
Then somebody invented television.
The screen of our first set was twelve inches square — big enough to send the encyclopedias to the attic! Television turned our learning center into an entertainment center. Mom rearranged the chairs again. We all clustered within five feet of the screen. We had four channels to choose from. Stations signed off with the national anthem at midnight.
We never imagined what was yet to come.
The iPhone is back in my pocket. And I wonder at its power. It gives me the internet, our modern-day encyclopedia, and the means to communicate with others throughout the world. It’s another high-tech “miracle” I’ve learned to take for granted — until I lose it. Then it becomes a “breaking news” disaster. To its credit, I never had to search for an encyclopedia.
In 2012, Britannica announced that after 244 years it would no longer publish in book form. It went digital. Other publishers did the same. And the price of knowledge dropped precipitously. Now we all can be smart — but not necessarily wise. That’s where age gives us the edge.
— Dick Magee is a resident of Klinger Lake and a frequent columnist for the Journal’s opinion page.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Dick Magee: The day the encyclopedia guy came to call
