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

This weekend I am going to my 59th class reunion. The Class of '48 has a reunion every year, and what we do is count heads.

I know that we will be short this year as our class president, John Custer, is getting a new valve in his ticker and my old football buddy, Toots Sickles, passed away last month.

At the 57th bash, I was at the bar when this lady ran up to me and asked, "Is your wife alive?" I answered, "Yes," and her response was, "Aw, shucks." Must have been looking for a new husband.

I really like class reunions, as I can't think of one person in my class that I disliked. So many people, when you ask them if they are going to their class reunions, answer, "I didn't like the people then and why should I break bread with them now?"

What kind of people can hold a grudge for 20 or 40 years? I have a short fuse and I will go to Fist City in a New York second, but two hours later I am over it.

Now when we go to a reunion, there is a table with some old school pictures, but there are also name tags.

Before name tags, if I couldn't remember a name, I just called the ladies "Sweetpea" and the guys "Handsome." Worked every time for me.

My memory isn't what it used to be, but I can sing word for word the alma mater and our version of the fight song: "Beer, beer for old Betsy High. You bring the whiskey, and I'll bring the rye."

Where I went to high school, the town is a carbon copy of Emporium. The people are the same; just their names are different. Elizabeth, Pa., is a small town located about 18 miles south of Pittsburgh. There is no high school there. They consolidated school districts and now it is named Elizabeth/ Forward. I don't even know where it is located.

Elizabeth used to have more than its fair share of wealthy families, sort of like Emporium in Sylvania's heyday. It bothered the parents when their offspring associated with kids from other side of the tracks, but it didn't seem to cause any friction among the kids.

Our social life was centered around school. I was a country boy and got very well known in the social circles of good old Betsy High. In my sophomore year, my mom bought me a 1930 Model A Ford and that old jalopy was a girl magnet.

I guess that I was the boy your mom warned you about. I had one set rule. If we

were out cruising and

that old Ford broke down or ran out of gas, the girls had to help push. I think we pushed that old car farther than I ever drove it.

High school reunions remind you of the years you spent as a teenager. For our class, 1948 was a happy year because that terrible war was history and the future looked so bright.

Those who could afford college were on their way and then there were those who headed for the job market.

Finding a job was not difficult and there were several different fields you could choose. I tried a couple different ones and finally ended as a power lineman.

There are signs that tell you that you are no longer a kid. One of them is that you are asleep, but others worry that you are dead. Your social life is governed by your back, as it goes out more than you do, and you quit trying to hold your stomach in, no matter who walks into the room.

In 1948, a "joint" was a bad place to go and when you talked about "good grass" you were discussing your neighbor's lawn. Pot was something your mother made soup in or you were referring to your dad's protruding belly. When you said "broad," you were talking about a street, not your girlfriend.