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

Sunday is supposed to be a day when the rigors of the work week are behind you and the alarm clock can be ignored. I guess that I am a creature of habit, because at 5:00 a.m. Sunday my eyes popped open and I could not go back to sleep.

The purr of my wife's deepsleep breathing assured me that all was well with her. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched the sun peek over the ridges and flood our beautiful valley with its golden rays. Through the open bedroom window I could hear the morning doves cooing.

My stirring disturbed my sleeping dog and he awoke with a walk on his mind. His bouncing around like a rubber ball told me I had better get in gear.

As we walked through the neighborhood, I paid particular attention to the number of traffic signs along the roads in Sylvan Heights. The speed limit and stop signs were written in English. I wondered about this strange custom, as it seems that no one pays any attention to them.

I would just about bet my Air Force Good Conduct Medal that there is going to be a tragic accident in this area thanks to these would-be NASCAR drivers.

Highway signs play a big part in our lives today. When I travel the Interstates, I pay attention to the milepost signs that tell you either how far you have gone or how many more miles to go to the state line.

Mileposts are not only applicable to the highways, but also to other parts of everyday life. One of the most important mileposts is when your mother gets you potty trained. You are now ready to go out into this big old world and make it to the next milepost, which is the first grade. I remember the first grade very well, as I fell in love with my teacher, Miss Coulter.

High school was the next milepost that played a big part in my life. I was a country boy, not very wise to the pitfalls of being surrounded by all the pretty girls.

The mileposts were now coming fast and furious: first car, steady girlfriend, first job and then the big marker, marriage.

I remember a line from an old song, "Going down life's crooked road, lot of things I never knowed and because of me not knowing, I now pine." The point it makes is if you don't pay attention to the signs, you may hit a bump in the road.

Losing someone you love is a milepost that we all have to pass. When my father died, it changed my whole life. The road I chose to travel sent me on a 21-year adventure in the Air Force.

When I went to Europe for five

years, the mileposts

changed to kilometer signs, but they meant the same thing. The nickname we used for kilometers was "clicks."

Another milepost I use is my garden, which this year has been close to what the airplane propeller did to the woman who backed up to close to it: "disaster." Maybe next year it will be better.

The days of summer are speeding by and so is life. I don't think there is a milepost sign that tells you how many more you are going to travel.