WASHINGTON -- As he packed up his few mementos from two short years on Capitol Hill last week, Rep. Frank Harrison, D-Pa., could cite any number of reasons why his congressional career ended abruptly.
There was the fusillade of negative campaigning by his opponent, the badly timed junket, the staff infighting.
But behind those explanations stood the imposing ghost of former Rep. Dan Flood, a Democrat whose legendary ability to provide federal largesse and services to Wilkes-Barre, Pa., dwarfed Harrison's efforts in the eyes of area residents.
Flood, now retired, built his 25-year career in Congress on the Washington axiom that a congressman must cater to his constituents if he is to survive. He resigned in 1980 because of bribe-taking allegations and failing health.
Harrison, a Harvard-educated lawyer who preferred talking issues with his colleagues to talking with the homefolks about their problems, readily admits he didn't play the game well enough -- especially when judged by the standards Flood set.
Nor was luck on Harrison's side.
When water supplies in Harrison's district became contaminated last January with a parasite that caused excruciating stomach pains when ingested, Harrison was in Central America with the House Rules Committee studying the region's problems.
Harrison rushed back and tried to ameliorate the problem, but he was too late.
In the weeks leading up the April Democratic primary, Harrison's constituents boiled their contaminated water while watching television ads by Harrison's opponent that opened with pictures of palm trees and beaches and a voice asking: 'Where's Frank? Where's Frank?'
But when Harrison lost his primary battle to Paul Kanjorski, Harrison staffers blamed not only the poor timing of Harrison's trip, but the indelible memories Flood left with area residents.
They said Flood, a former actor with a waxed mustache and a fondness for quoting Shakespeare, had permanently spoiled his constituents with 'curbside' service delivered with a garnish of crowd-pleasing theatrics.
'They called Flood about everything, right down to potholes,' said one exasperated Harrison staffer.
Harrison and other Wilkes-Barre residents remember the summer day in 1972 when the Susquehanna River flooded the city and Flood strode down to the river dikes where citizens were frantically slinging sandbags.
Resplendent in a scarlet smoking jacket, he climbed atop the floodwall and announced he had ordered the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers not to allow the water one inch higher.
According to some accounts, he then waved his cane over the waters, as if to command them to recede, and ordered the U.S. Army band to strike up 'Nearer My God to Thee.' Shortly thereafter, the waters did, indeed, start to go down.
Some say Flood neglected to inform the citizenry of one important point -- that forecasters had determined when the river would crest and then start to recede. Of course, the cresting of the river happened to coincide with Flood's announcement.
'As time went by, he became a legend in his own lifetime,' said Harrison, who enjoyed Flood's blessing in his successful 1982 campaign. 'And the expectations for his successors grew with him.'
Ironically, while Harrison couldn't match Flood's showmanship, he quietly managed to solve one of his district's most serious problems - the mine fire underlying the tiny hamlet of Centralia, Pa.
After 20 years of government inaction on the problem, Harrison set out on a lonely quest for federal money to buy the homes of Centralia residents so they could move away from the fire's heat, sudden cave-ins and dangerous gases.
Harrison lit a fire under bureaucrats, attracted media coverage, lobbied congressional leaders and, in November 1983, watched as Congress approved $42 million to buy out Centralia residents.
Somehow, though, Harrison's achievement never sunk in with his constituents.
Harrison, who talks of a return to his law and teaching careers, acknowledges he didn't publicize his efforts enough.
More importantly, perhaps, Centralia is in the southern tip of Harrison's district, far removed from the bulk of his constituents in Wilkes-Barre, who didn't much care what happened 'over the mountain.'
In the end, Harrison said, his success in Congress just didn't cut it with constituents accustomed to Flood's tender attentions.
'Back then, it was a different era when a senior congressman could provide an enormous level of constituent service,' Harrison said. 'It was so effective it became a legend. Then the legend became a standard.
'And when you're dealing with legends, it's harder to point out to people that the district is bigger, dollars are scarcer. You are the new kid on the block trying to live up to a legend.'
