I had been mayor for about a month when the voice of the manager of public works echoed through the hall outside my office early one morning.

“The trouble with girls is that they don’t know their place around here,” Mac Crossman was telling the women in finance. They knew he was kidding and, by then, so did I.

“Tell Mr. Crossman to step here when he goes by,” I told my assistant, Doris Neufeld.

A couple of minutes later Mac was standing in front of me, a little uneasily I thought with satisfaction. Clearly, he wasn’t that used to dealing with girl mayors.

“Mac, this girl knows her place around here,” I told him.

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Mac died a few weeks ago, and while I haven’t seen a lot of him recently — just the odd wave or word when he was with his daughter, Daina, in Smitty’s — I will miss the idea of him being here.

The city probably never had a better employee, or his friends a better friend.

A tip to future occupants of the mayor’s office — your best friend at city hall isn’t the CAO or a commissioner. It is the manager of public works.

No sooner are you sworn in than winter comes, with snowbanks, windrows, icy roads, impassable sidewalks. That’s when your phone starts to ring. That’s when people want action. And it continues through flood, wind, and fire. You look good if, when they call you — and they will — the remedial action comes quickly. I could always count on Mac for that.

In 1969, city engineer Jim Hooper knew a good employee when he saw one. That’s why he made 31-year-old Mac Crossman manager of public works.

Mac had been with the city since he arrived as a 16-year-old from Chipman, N.B. He was the youngest of eight and already had three brothers here. He was part-time on a surveying crew at first. Never afraid of hard work, it was one of several jobs he held down until he got full-time employment at the works yard.

As a boss, he had the reputation of being tough but fair. He would chew you out if you didn’t do your job properly, maybe even fire you. But once it was over, it was over.

He walked fast, drove fast, talked fast, often in words not repeatable in front of “girls.” I often caught him checking himself when he was talking to me.

Underneath it all, was a big, generous heart

He belonged to a group of men, mostly city white collar types, called the Thursday Lunch Group, who still meet once a week. I was chuffed when I was invited to join on occasion. I think I was their first “girl.”

Mac retired in 1993, while I was out of office. After I was re-elected, he had a serious stroke. When he could receive visitors, I went to see him.

He didn’t really have his speech back, and when he saw me the words that came were “Jesus Christ!”

After I got back to the office, city solicitor John Hart dropped in.

I told him of my hospital visit.

“Look at it this way, Sylvia,” John said. “Mac is either getting better or he has found God.”

Mac has now truly found God. He was buried well-equipped for the encounter with a deck of cigarettes and a mickey of rye. But he should watch his language.

© Peterborough Examiner