David mason recollections
Buckingham Fountain - Grant Park, Chicago
"I'm not sure where I first heard this story, probably from my mother, but as a part of his job as partner in his commercial lighting company Mason & Basedow, Dad would sometimes consult on providing the lighting for water fountains in the Chicago area, including Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park. On one occasion he was told by his clients that they wanted a water fountain in front of the entrance to their building that would shoot water higher in the air than any then in existence, but he managed to persuade them that this probably wouldn't be a good idea, since Chicago wasn't known as the 'Windy City' for nothing." - David's son Russ Mason (June, 2013)
"At pre-school age I had the measles and David was bothered by whooping cough. Temporarily, that kept him from fighting because the whooping would start and he would be out of breath." - David's brother James Mason (1977)
"When David was four years old he got 'lost', and his mother and four brothers spent two hours frantically searching and shouting. Finally he awakened and crawled out of the doghouse." - James Mason (1977)
"Dad would not allow us to have a rifle or shotgun, so to catch rabbits we ran them down. One winter's day when the snow was fresh, we started to chase a rabbit in 6 inches of snow. Our dog Bob was running a few feet behind the speedy hare. The rabbit was going north and I was next and brother Dave last. The chase ended just across 55th Street where the hunted cottontail was exhausted. Bob was resting about 3 feet away, and very alert to make sure of her victory. We picked up the prize, patted the dog and walked home, where we knew we'd get a pleasant reception from our older brothers. This event was a proud effort because the dog and her masters had run a half-mile through the fluffy snow and brought home a contribution to our lunch boxes for the next school day." - James Mason (1977)
Sarah Marshall Aldridge (June, 2014):
Uncle Dave was a kindly man. In my mind’s eye, he has taken on the persona of the angel Clarence in the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life.” How I loved visiting the farm in Barrington, from the time I wore pig tails to my high school days. As an animal lover, I’d run down to the barn to see what was in the stall each time. One Christmas it was a mare and newborn foal; another time it was a black Angus steer. Later it was a shy Arabian pony named Tawny.
But it was my years of horseback riding through the open fields behind the barn that I treasure most. I saved up all my earnings from baby sitting and birthdays to buy a horse when I was 14. Bourbon was a 15-hand buckskin, previously used as a schooling horse at a nearby. The girl I bought him from actually rode him over on bareback to deliver him.
Because I could only get out to the barn twice a week, Uncle Dave fed Bourbon and Tawny in my absence. He didn’t mind. I think it brought back memories of horses he had known in his early days.
On cold days, he’d invite my mom and me in to warm up by the fire, munching on peanuts and drinking Coke. I can still hear the toe nails of Tiny, the Toy Fox Terrier, tapping on the linoleum in the kitchen. And the way Uncle Dave called the barn cats in for food. On nice days, he’d sometimes take a walk and we’d encounter each other on the trails.
Later we bought a second horse so friends could ride with me. Billy was a jet black quarter horse who had been a lead pony at Arlington Racetrack. He and Bourbon became instant pasture pals, plotting many an escape that sent my dad out with a can of oats trying to coax them back.
To this day I still value the opportunity Uncle Dave gave me to experience the joys of horse ownership and all the hours of fun we had brushing, tacking, riding and even mucking stalls.
Uncle Dave was a kindly man. In my mind’s eye, he has taken on the persona of the angel Clarence in the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life.” How I loved visiting the farm in Barrington, from the time I wore pig tails to my high school days. As an animal lover, I’d run down to the barn to see what was in the stall each time. One Christmas it was a mare and newborn foal; another time it was a black Angus steer. Later it was a shy Arabian pony named Tawny.
But it was my years of horseback riding through the open fields behind the barn that I treasure most. I saved up all my earnings from baby sitting and birthdays to buy a horse when I was 14. Bourbon was a 15-hand buckskin, previously used as a schooling horse at a nearby. The girl I bought him from actually rode him over on bareback to deliver him.
Because I could only get out to the barn twice a week, Uncle Dave fed Bourbon and Tawny in my absence. He didn’t mind. I think it brought back memories of horses he had known in his early days.
On cold days, he’d invite my mom and me in to warm up by the fire, munching on peanuts and drinking Coke. I can still hear the toe nails of Tiny, the Toy Fox Terrier, tapping on the linoleum in the kitchen. And the way Uncle Dave called the barn cats in for food. On nice days, he’d sometimes take a walk and we’d encounter each other on the trails.
Later we bought a second horse so friends could ride with me. Billy was a jet black quarter horse who had been a lead pony at Arlington Racetrack. He and Bourbon became instant pasture pals, plotting many an escape that sent my dad out with a can of oats trying to coax them back.
To this day I still value the opportunity Uncle Dave gave me to experience the joys of horse ownership and all the hours of fun we had brushing, tacking, riding and even mucking stalls.
Click this link to see a home movie of Sarah riding her horse at the Barrington farm.
Don Mason (June 29, 2014):
When my brother Russ and I were growing up on the ‘Fun Farm’ (our name for it when we were teen-agers; and what we call it to this day) - the farm in Barrington that Sarah remembers for the summer weekend afternoons she spent riding her buckskin, Bourbon, in those beloved wide-open fields that flowed out from behind the barn – we were in kid heaven. We had our own orchard to play ‘army’ in (with lots of apples, pears, and cherries mom would can for winter use), fields to explore, a barn to play in, a tractor that we would drive to mow various parts of the yard and orchard, with its sicle-bar chopper and its gang mover that dragged behind. (That was my favorite chore as a kid. Made me feel so grown up.) In the fall, a dozen pheasant hunters could sometimes be seen advancing across the fields from the south, behind the barn. One fall, our fun-loving husky mix, who we called ‘Sarge’, came back to the yard with a big pheasant, full of buckshot, between his teeth. A hunter was, no doubt, hot around the collar over losing his bird.
I would go on long walks out in those fields with my dad; and he would tell me the names of the different kinds of grass and the other plants as we walked and talked (well, it was mostly dad talking. But I was listening.), and we would sometimes talk about family memories from the past, such as our car trip out to Colorado when Russ and I were young. But, mostly, we just walked in blissful silence; except, of course, for me asking lots of questions. I appreciate now how lucky I was to have a father, for however short a time, who had done and seen so much in his life; and so generously shared his gentle wisdom and wry sense of humor with us.
I explored those fields pretty thoroughly on my own in those idyllic years when the world was still somewhat innocent and not as fast-paced as it is now. We had a slough full of pussy willows and a creek with mysterious-looking mounds – five or six all the same size, all in a row - that we were convinced must be Indian burial mounds. And we had yet another orchard of gnarled and twisted trees about a quarter mile away we called ‘Italy’, because those trees reminded us of trees in the ‘Italy’ that we’d seen in movies. These places weren’t on our property, but they were part of our world. And what a great world it was. The Fun Farm was such a wonderful place to grow up. I am so grateful to our dad for moving us out there from Park Ridge in 1958. Those were some magical years.
When my brother Russ and I were growing up on the ‘Fun Farm’ (our name for it when we were teen-agers; and what we call it to this day) - the farm in Barrington that Sarah remembers for the summer weekend afternoons she spent riding her buckskin, Bourbon, in those beloved wide-open fields that flowed out from behind the barn – we were in kid heaven. We had our own orchard to play ‘army’ in (with lots of apples, pears, and cherries mom would can for winter use), fields to explore, a barn to play in, a tractor that we would drive to mow various parts of the yard and orchard, with its sicle-bar chopper and its gang mover that dragged behind. (That was my favorite chore as a kid. Made me feel so grown up.) In the fall, a dozen pheasant hunters could sometimes be seen advancing across the fields from the south, behind the barn. One fall, our fun-loving husky mix, who we called ‘Sarge’, came back to the yard with a big pheasant, full of buckshot, between his teeth. A hunter was, no doubt, hot around the collar over losing his bird.
I would go on long walks out in those fields with my dad; and he would tell me the names of the different kinds of grass and the other plants as we walked and talked (well, it was mostly dad talking. But I was listening.), and we would sometimes talk about family memories from the past, such as our car trip out to Colorado when Russ and I were young. But, mostly, we just walked in blissful silence; except, of course, for me asking lots of questions. I appreciate now how lucky I was to have a father, for however short a time, who had done and seen so much in his life; and so generously shared his gentle wisdom and wry sense of humor with us.
I explored those fields pretty thoroughly on my own in those idyllic years when the world was still somewhat innocent and not as fast-paced as it is now. We had a slough full of pussy willows and a creek with mysterious-looking mounds – five or six all the same size, all in a row - that we were convinced must be Indian burial mounds. And we had yet another orchard of gnarled and twisted trees about a quarter mile away we called ‘Italy’, because those trees reminded us of trees in the ‘Italy’ that we’d seen in movies. These places weren’t on our property, but they were part of our world. And what a great world it was. The Fun Farm was such a wonderful place to grow up. I am so grateful to our dad for moving us out there from Park Ridge in 1958. Those were some magical years.