How many kids can say that?

William Arthur Mason Sr. was a tall, thin man with an iron grip and a razor-sharp mind for mathematics. He also had a great laugh that lit up his face.

"Art," as he was known to just about everyone, liked to golf and enjoyed Lawrence Welk's music programs.

He was a draftsman, designing structural steel buildings and interiors when there still was a steel industry in Pittsburgh, Pa.

I still have some copies of his work as a draftsman.

My older brother, William Arthur Mason Jr., known to all as "Bill,'' has the originals.

Dad was no wallflower.

When Dad yelled, you listened.

Immediately.

Reared on the North Side, Pittsburgh's rough-and-tumble section bordering the downtown, Dad could have been an engineer because of his aptitude for mathematics.

However, when he graduated from Oliver High School, the nation was in the midst of the Great Depression and a college education was financially out of reach.

He went off to war, carrying a carbine and firing the big guns as one of the artillery soldiers in the U.S. Army. He landed in Normandy during D-Day, fighting under General Dwight D. Eisenhower as many men did in those days. The big guns took away a portion of his hearing in one ear and I remember the box of his European money and other souvenirs from his World War II campaigns.

If I take off my glasses today (and unfortunately, lose several pounds), I'd be a carbon copy of my Dad as I remember him in my youth. I remember the Halloween birthday parties, low-key celebrations dominated by a white-icing cake trimmed in orange.

Then it was off to Trick or Treat for us kids.

Two shared experiences with Dad stand out in my mind: looking for the family Christmas tree and our ill-fated trip to Florida.

It was a tradition in my household that when Christmas came, the tree and all the presents came at the same time -- Christmas morning. As I reached my early teens and knew that Santa smoked unfiltered Pall Malls and more often than not drove an Oldsmobile, I was drafted one year to go with Dad to look for the tree.

It was my first time helping the grownups prepare for Christmas Day.

On Christmas Eve, no less. Christmas Eve night to be precise.

In the years when artificial trees were for the rich, Dad and I went to a large vacant lot in Bellevue, a Pittsburgh, suburb where the real, somewhat live trees were lined up. It was cold that night and the guys manning the Christmas tree lot were keeping warm by standing by a barrel that had a fire inside.

The pickings were mighty slim, if I recall, but we found a suitable tree at the lot and took it home. It was no "Charlie Brown Christmas tree" either. Our Christmas trees always reached close to the living room ceiling -- that's a 12-foot ceiling -- and they were always full and lush with pine needles.

(Many years later I would discover that I was allergic to live Christmas trees, dogs and cats, which explained why I usually got sick around Christmas.)

Then, there was the time that Dad wanted to travel to Tampa, Fla., for a trip.

That I ended up in the front seat of the blue Oldsmobile F-85 with Dad going down the highway was more a circumstance that my older and younger brothers both came down sick at the same time. I think it was chicken pox.

We pressed on, but then Dad decided to turn back home. The thought of his wife having to deal with two sick kids while he was out on the road was the major factor. It still was fun being with Dad.

When Dad was 53, he found out he had cancer. He died Dec. 30, 1969, at the age of 54. I was 14. He got to see Neil Armstrong step onto the surface of the moon the summer before he died.

If Dad were alive today, he'd be 91. Here in the Midwest, 91 isn't that old. I've met several people in their 90s since I moved here.

It is hard to believe it has been 37 years since Dad's last Halloween birthday.

So, when the season of ghosts, goblins and things that go bump in the night swings around each year, I take a pause to remember Art Mason, my Dad.

It still takes me aback when I realize that I've only got three years left to match him in age. When I was 14, 54 years old was ancient in my mind.

Now, we're both in our 50s, me 51 and Dad that eternal 54.

Happy Halloween, Dad.

Mason is the editor of The Marshall Democrat-News. Spectrum appears Friday.