Dad's the Man
When John Reddick attends Butler BlueSox baseball games, he fondly remembers his father.
Reddick's son, Patrick, is a scorekeeper for the team, which rekindles his father-son connection to the sport.
"I spent most of my teenage years playing at the old Pullman Park," said Reddick, 48, of Butler. "It brought back a lot of memories of ... playing there with my dad watching me and coaching me."
His father, John "Jerry" died at age 66 in 1994. One sentiment that remains for Reddick is how his father could extend such support, even with seven other children.
Reddick's strongest memories revolve around his father's partial dental plate, which could be removed to expose his absent front teeth.
"It gave him the ability to whistle very loud with just a little bit of effort," said Reddick. "No matter where he was in the stands or the dugout, if he whistled I could automatically make eye contact with him, and he would give me these signals where he would position me on the field."
In retrospect, Reddick values the relationship with his father even more, realizing not everyone can communicate "just by a wink or a whistle."
"Not everyone is privileged enough to have that relationship and know what it's all about," Reddick said. "To know someone well enough and to have ... that person support you.
"He was always there, watching over — like a guardian angel kind of thing."
As Reddick aged, he continued to share baseball with his father.
"No matter where he lived I would go to his house and we would watch the all-star game together," Reddick recalled.
At 20 years old, Reddick's son, Patrick, also speaks of a connection through sports.In his own experience with Little League, Patrick said his father served as his coach for several years along with Patrick's maternal grandfather, Gene Manuel of Butler. As Patrick grew up, the ties remained."It seems like a lot of teenagers and their parents have trouble communicating with one another, but I never really felt that about him — especially when it came to baseball. We always had that to talk about," said Patrick."I definitely learned the most about baseball from those two, and probably not just baseball. ... (They) kind of taught me that sports weren't the most important thing: Life in general would be more important than sports, but through the sports you can learn things about life."
Although his daughters agree Martin Marburger is a great dad, the parenting each describes is drastically different.For Marge Wearing, 54, of Renfrew, bonds were strengthened at the family dairy.Her sister, 57-year-old Rita Reifenstein of Evans City, stayed close to her father through a mutual devotion to Penn State football.Reifenstein and her father, who lives in Butler, both are Penn State graduates, and they spent 35 years attending games with Marburger's season tickets."Every mile marker on I-80 there's a story of all the things that happened," Reifenstein said, citing various mechanical breakdowns and even leaving someone accidentally at a rest stop."An 8 o'clock game was terrible, because you didn't stay over, you had to go home," she said of the late nights.One such trip was attended by a group of 12."We literally got the last one dropped off at my grandmother's house at 5:30 in the morning. So it's like the game that never ended," she said.Four years ago, the games did end, when handicapped parking was moved further from the stadium."At the end of the game everybody leaves at once, and he's a very impatient man," she said, explaining her nearly 91-year-old father would not do well waiting for a shuttle to parking."He watches them on TV now, and I call him during the games. That's our connection."Uninterested in football, Wearing cherishes a connection to her father through time they have shared at the dairy."I worked with him every working day of my life," Wearing said, describing how she tagged along in the car as a child."Our positions changed. I tagged with him as a kid and he tagged with me as he got older.Wearing said although she is similar to Marburger in being strong-willed, the work relationship thrived partly because she always respected her father's authority. The respect evolved to a cherished friendship.According to Wearing, her father still is viewed as a father figure by many employees at the dairy, where her brother, Jim, still works."He's been a great mentor and someone to look up to all of his life," she said.He taught me all the values of work along with being my dad — and how extraordinary to have a dad that's not only a dad, but your best friend."
John "Jack" Cooper may have lied to get his driver's license, but at 74, the lie continues to serve him well.According to his daughters, Tracy Maalouf and Kellie Rodgers, both of Butler Township, Cooper limped into a driver's license exam as a teen after being hospitalized for polio.When questioned, Cooper was afraid his leg brace would render him ineligible for a license, so he claimed he suffered from an ingrown nail."He ended up being a salesman on the road," Maalouf said, describing her father's many years selling pipe and supplies.Rodgers said their dad, of Renfrew, also worked for a car dealership, where he drove vehicles to be washed and filled with gas."It is his left leg, you would think he would not be able to drive a standard," she said. "His leg is extremely skinny and weak, so whenever he stands up the brace locks in place so his knee can't bend. To sit down he has to unlatch the brace."In his spare time, Cooper also delivered Bibles to hotels and belonged to the Mercer Road Volunteer Fire Department, serving as president.Well into retirement age, Cooper still works as a driver, transporting special needs children to school. He gets up at 3:30 a.m. to allow enough time to get ready.Despite his contributions at work and in the community, the daughters also admire Cooper for remaining involved with them, their older brother, John, of Butler and a Vietnamese foster brother who lived with the family for more than five years.Rodgers said the children sometimes maintained closeness by riding along with their father at work.Even in high school, she still accompanied him on deliveries, sometimes carrying oversized pipe in the family's station wagon when a truck wasn't available. In one instance, the pipe was so heavy the front of the car pointed upward."We drive all the way to Butler like this, just so he could deliver it to his customer so that they wouldn't shut down," Rodgers recalled.Another time, a pipe was so long it accidentally was shoved through the car's windshield."But we got it there," Rodgers said."He was willing to do anything for anybody," Maalouf said. "It taught me that if you're willing to work hard, you can do anything in life."He never looked at what the return would be. He was just willing to do it."
Harry Arbuthnot raised his family in a modified schoolhouse, so it's little wonder his daughter describes him as a teacher."My father instilled in us that work is a God-ordained affair where much joy can be found," said Bonnie Harbison, 49, of Butler Township, listing many ways her father still works even in retirement.But Harbison also can cite ways in which the Gibsonia man combined his labors with creative vision — often to her benefit."One day when I came home from school — I was in third grade — my father and a friend had a backhoe and were digging a hole: a huge hole that eventually turned into an indoor swimming pool," she said."All summer long we worked, moving mortar, carrying brick and raking gravel. It was a family affair."Much of Harbison's youth was spent in the pool. But when she was older and needed an apartment, Arbuthnot built one where the pool had been.Although Harbison recalls childhood recreational time spent skiing, much was spent building things.Harbison said her father continues to work hard, running an apartment building and tractor supply company as well as helping Harbison's brother, Todd, with his landscaping service in Gibsonia."Last year we headed down to the Chesapeake Bay, where my oldest sister has a home, and we built a stone stairway. The whole family was involved. It felt like being a kid again. We had so much fun as adults doing the things we did as kids."Forget Disneyland," Harbison said."Let's go to work."
At 53, Val Druschel is still a tomboy. It's no wonder. Much of her childhood was spent fishing and hunting with her father, Douglas Corvin Jr. of Renfrew."As a young child I remember always having a family dog as a companion and spending a lot of time outdoors," Druschel said."I guess I was somewhat of a daddy's little girl, having no fear of picking up night crawlers or running to see a grouse that my dad had just shot ... and picking it up by its feet."As she grew older, Druschel put the night crawlers to use when her father taught her fishing skills, used aboard a boat named Rip Off."We didn't always catch the big one," Druschel explained of how they arrived at the name.The family, which includes Druschel's 34-year-old sister Christi Shoup and her late brother, Douglas III, also embraced the outdoors each year at a rented cabin in Bobcaygeon, Canada.
On the first such trip, Corvin constructed a large box to hold supplies on the roof of the family's Corvair Monza, which overheated under the weight many times during the 13- to 15-hour drive."He would drive all night and mom would give him coffee and stuff. There was hardly anywhere to sit in the back, and we were all curled up," she recalled."There was this one place we'd stop on the bridge, roll down our windows and say 'Ahoy muskies!' ... We would do that every year before we got to our cabin (where the family would fish for muskellunge)."When summer fishing ended, Druschel's outdoor education continued in fall, when she and her father hunted deer."My dad taught me the patience and skill to safely track and shoot my first buck — a day that I will never forget," she said."My dad has taught me so many things and continues to do so even as we grow older."<br></br>
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