Don McInnis

Kids are great judges of character. Don had four daughters who, years ago, gleefully chased his Jimmy up the driveway every evening. Don welcomed the attack, always. Even after 12-hour days at the pharmacy, he lifted the littlest ones up, carried them into the house with the other two trailing, and, at their insistence, bumped their heads on the ceiling over and over until they slumped into a heap of giggles.

Later in life, his grandsons took over the onslaught, climbing on Don's head as he worked crossword puzzles, yelling knock-knock jokes in his ear, and spilling entire bottles of bubbles on him. He would shake his fist and utter, "Why I oughta!" or "How'd you like a knuckle samwich?" and they'd revel in it, go back for more.

This is the man Carol fell in love with back in 1965. Of course, she had little brothers who tried to get as much time in with Don as they could on their dates. But still, from the beginning, Don managed to show his love for Carol in small ways. When he proposed to her, he took the ring out and said... nothing. Later in their life together, when he came home from work late to dried-out pork chops that Carol affectionately kept warm for him, he'd actually eat them, often adding a flattering, "It'll pass."

But Christmas -- now that really brought out the romance in Don. One Christmas season, Don had his eye on a pricey necklace for Carol and slapped down a wad of cash on the jewelry counter at JC Penney. "Dad, where'd you get that?" one of his daughters asked. "Sold my chain saw," he said.

The best judge of anyone's character, though, is his mother. Lil, like her son, had her own special way of showing she cares. Don was in his sixties, and Lil was still knitting socks for her little boy -- bright bulky ones that Don wore every single day of his life. He wore them in church, gardening, hunting, and, as a boy, trudging back from the neighbor's carrying heavy pails of water, claiming his arms were two inches longer.

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Don worked hard even after his family got a house with running water. In order to earn money for college, he went to Chicago and worked on the railroad all the live-long day. He worked as a janitor in his dorm, and used his money wisely-- he didn't buy a single textbook, just went to the library to read them. This was a man who could recite all the presidents of the U.S. chronologically, along with their respective political parties. He graduated with honors from Ferris Institute in 1959. His dad, a much admired schoolteacher who passed away while Don was in college, would have been very proud.

Don's dad instilled in him a love of the outdoors, and Don fished and hunted his whole life. When he was a boy, he worked a whole summer in his dad's woods as an aspiring lumberjack to earn his first .22. And that .22 must have started something, because Don eventually became well-known as a gunsmith -- cleaning everyone's guns, restoring old rifles, and building guns from kits. He was a champion skeet shooter and known for his marksmanship as a duck hunter, earning the debatably honorable title of "Coot Shooter." When the stroke impaired his vision and balance, Don still went to the hunting camps of friends Jerry Potvin, Dan Madalinski, and Jim Aird, performing indispensable duties like keg attendant and resident cribbage opponent.

As his friends will tell you, Don's attitude was great, even after his brain tumor diagnosis in the fall of 2003. He told one of his daughters while driving to a radiation treatment, "I'm not one of these guys that's gonna get mad at God and say it's not fair. I've had a good life." And his daughters have the memories to prove it.