Tuesday, in Camillus Bank, I met M. J. O’Hara; he stood at the wicker window talking with President Maxwell. I asked the President if Mr. O’Hara wanted to borrow money; if so, to speak to me about it. His reply was that Mr. O’Hara just had a fire, the insurance was paid, and he had plenty of money.

Well, we talked along. I told Mr. Maxwell he was looking better than he had for some years past, since he joined the lightweight class along with the editor. For the banker used to be what the coat and suit dealers called a “medium stout.” He looks good – and he hasn’t resorted to golf yet, either. Rides in the Cadillac for air, and keeping the beautiful home surroundings in apple-pie order makes him fit. While the constantly growing bank fund keeps him cheerful.

To Mr. O’Hara, I remarked that he would do some more building now, following the fire. I said he had been building something ever since I had known him for twenty years. His comment was to the effect that when he was building, he was helping the other fellow, the workman, the supply source, his town, as much as he might help himself. His reward has been in constantly growing business, in public service, and, most of all, gratifying appreciation of the public, of his friends. What has been done, we all believe, was with the idea of finally placing the daughters and the sons, each and all of whom have been willing workers, doing their part, as Dad led the way. A good Dad.

He has lately made a tour to include a visit to the site of the factory in Canada, or plant and acreage, where for many years he conducted the manufacture on a big scale of barrels, or the parts for their making. The ruins stand there, but the industry died with the war; there has since been no demand. He was wise in getting out of the business, after years of hard work, and long journeys back and forth to attend to a business at both ends. M. J. has done his share of hard work in his day. And he is always working in his head.

Incidentally, he says that 17-cent gas will give you just as much power and take you as many miles, as any that was ever made. This “Special” and “Ethyl” may make a little less noise, but the difference in what you save makes quite a nice “noise” when you are spending it for something else you enjoy. Wasn’t it Ford advertising that said something like “Save on the cost and spend the difference.” M. J. is still the Gas King from coast to coast. Camillus remains “Gas Town.”

But here I am again, wandering. My original intention in writing this was to give some account of what Mr. O’Hara told me, an incident on a motor tour which he took with his wife and the two daughters through the far west. The relation of this is so timely. It came about in our conversation Tuesday. The experience is indeed most appealing.

The date of August 15 is one of the most sacred holy days of the Catholic Church. Mr. O’Hara and his family were touring in the great far-western country and wished to observe this day’s devotion. They made inquiry in a small town, of a man named Sheridan, who proved to be owner of vast ranches with 25,000 sheep, whose herding was performed by a community of families living off on the great expanes of mountain sides. They are “Basques,” from Biscay, bordering France, and come here to follow their lifetime work as herdsmen.

The priest of the village church had for many years been excused from the office on that holy day, the villagers making this sacrifice in order that the priest might visit these people on that annual day, August 15, to perform the sacred mass for them. They had built beside the wooded opening a structure of native saplings in rough form, dedicated to this holy purpose of worship after the custom of their homeland. Mr. Sheridan presented the O’Hara family to the local priest.

So the morning of the 15th they followed the priest on his holy miission, 30 miles, they were told along the way of their journey, then 5 miles of mountain road out of their way, to observe the mass. Some 500 assembled by ten o’clock, out there under the skies of God, to worship.

They were recognized, and treated, as visitors, and at the close of the service they were invited, urged upon, to remain for the dinner, the feast. The holy day is The Feast of the Blessed Virgin.

No bidding to a feast was ever more sincere than this, and the manifest joy expressed by the people, many of whom could speak English. The family greatly desired to remain, until 12:30. But the drive to the next possible stopping place must be measured before nightfall, and the O’Hara’s literally “tore themselves away.” The memory of so sacred an assemblage is vivid.

We had stood in the banking foyer and the young clerk came out to announce that the bank was closing, we would please step out. I said to Mr. O’Hara, “Who owns this building anyway?”

He said, “Never mind, come on over in my part here.”

It was then that he related this to me. I had before remaked that I didn’t like to meet him off-hand in this way. I would like to sit down and visit with him, over in the fine home or on the bench in front of the old garage, where we have had many a good visit in the long ago. I told him I’d like to talk of Safford, Forward, Dr. Slocum, Cook; so many who are now gone.

To these he added Earl Ellis, Gorham, Mayer and others.

Well, whatever may be said, our good citizen, M. J. O’Hara is still “carrying on,” doing big things, for Camillus, for Syracuse, for everybody.