Through An 'Old Timer's' Eyes
By Howard 'Mac' McDonald

Sunday is Father's Day, when daughters and sons around the world show appreciation to their dads.

Like many of you, I have fond memories of my father. I've tried to be as good to my sons as he was to me. Our relationship was not always one of harmony, as I was a born rebel. Looking back, I caused him much grief, yet he was always there to help get me back on the right track.

Once my father said to me, "Son, it took me 40 years to build this reputation and you have just about destroyed it in three days." Many young people don't realize the importance of a good family name.

By 1954, I was stationed at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska. I was out on the flight line and saw the line chief accompanied by a civilian coming my way. That morning I had gotten into an argument with the line chief. Since he was a master sergeant and I was a buck sergeant, I figured I was in big trouble.

I was wrong. The civilian was with the American Red Cross and brought news that my father had suffered a serious heart attack. He was not expected to live through the night. I packed and was out of there in a couple of hours, leaving behind a young wife, a two-year-old and a 10-day-old baby.

My father lived for 28 days. My brother and I each spent 12 hours a day by his side. Sometimes I would look at him and wonder how many of those gray hairs I was responsible for. He passed away on May 16. He was just 52 years old. I wonder if he would have recovered if we had the technology and knowledge we have today. Just another unanswered question because of the word "if."

My wife and two children got there in about 10 days and I still wonder how she did it. She closed up our apartment, sold the furniture and my wrecked car, got her own transportation and flew home to Pennsylvania. Not bad for a 23-year-old.

Back during World War II my dad worked in a foundry at Glassport. One time he went out to leave for his job on the graveyard shift and his car battery was dead. It was a cold October night, pitch black outside, and we lived on a pretty steep hill. He came into the house to get me to help him.

"I'm going to start this car by drifting down the hill and popping the clutch," he told me. "The lights won't work, so I want you to go down the road and turn on the flashlight. I'll drift toward the light and start the car."

I scampered down about 100 feet and along he came, but the car wouldn't start. He leaned out the window and gave me further instructions as he drifted by. Now I was supposed to hurry down to the bottom of the hill, which I did.

Down the hill, headed for that tiny beam, came my dad in that big 1937 DeSoto, picking up speed like an airplane about ready to leave the ground. I had to choose between getting run over or jumping a fence. Naturally, my father followed the light, crashed through the fence and the car came to rest on a pile of cinders. To say that my father was upset would be putting it lightly.

Anyhow, I got in the car and discovered that he didn't have the ignition on. I turned the key, hit the old starter switch, and the old DeSoto roared to life. I drove it over to the road, turned to my dad and said, "Your honor, your chariot awaits."

Life can be so short. If your father is still here, be sure to honor him. If he is not, be sure to remember him.

Some sculptors use clay, marble or bronze to create their masterpieces. Jimmy Clancy from D&J Plumbing in Emporium marches to a different artistic drummer.

His skills were recently exhibited by the unfolding of a six-foot folding measuring ruler (see

photo). So, what's

next, Jimmy?

Once in a while I play the Pennsylvania Lottery and dream about what I would do if I hit a big one. I probably shouldn't worry, because I'm so unlucky that if it were raining soup, all I would have is a fork.

One time in Arizona I was standing in a lottery line and the clerk asked this older gentleman, "Sir, do you the annuity or the cash?"

He said. "Honey, I want the cash. I am so old that I don't even buy green bananas."

On Wednesday, I'll buy a PowerBall ticket and tell them I want the cash. I am not the oldest guy in town, but I'm too far over the hill to worry about an annuity.

Gladys Miller from West Creek told me about the cake she received for her 89th birthday. It was in the shape of a baseball, right down to the red stitches. Soon Gladys got into her little car and drove off like a teenager.

With her mind honed as sharp as a razor, it makes a person wonder how some older people avoid the Alzheimer's disease epidemic and others do not. Gladys has donated a tanker truck load of blood over the years. Maybe that's the key.