Eggs-actly

 

Eggs-Actly

I’d like to share some stories that were brought to my recollection; all clustered around one word, eggs. The first is about a portrait of my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. It was a time when travelling photographers sold their talent door to door. I am glad that he stopped at my grandparent’s big farmhouse and cajoled my grandmother into sitting for a portrait. His pitch was that he would take the photograph and return with it in several weeks. Grandma could view it and if she wasn’t satisfied with it, she could refuse to buy it. As the story goes, grandma had no intention to buy it, but with a clean blouse and jacket with a small brooch. He departed after Gram’s photo was taken.

Several weeks later, the salesman returned with a tinted black and white portrait in an oval frame. It was a quality product with her youthful visage peering from the picture. Raven hair, dark eyes, and a subtle hint of a smile had been enhanced by the rosy tint on her cheeks and lips. When Gram said she didn’t have the money to buy it, the salesman continued his spiel by saying it was okay if she didn’t want to buy it, because he could sell it to a bar owner to hang for the bar’s patrons to view. Gram was appalled by the thought and managed to gather enough money from her egg and butter sales to pay for it. Because of this young man’s persistence and amusing lie, that portrait now hangs in my entryway, the one thing that I managed to get when Gram “Broke up housekeeping.”

The next egg story occurred and the Miner farm. The front porch on the large farmhouse was concrete and cinderblock half walls and pillars. There was the expected dark green painted swing, several Adirondack chairs, and porch boxes of flowers.  It was a great place to hide colored eggs at Easter time, a game that happened when several cousins gathered. Gram put a stop to the hide-and-seek game when she and Great-Aunt Rose sitting on the swing began to smell something rotten. One misplaced egg had fallen down inside the cinderblock pillar and forgotten.

The last story is about my brother Ken and a cousin (she will remain anonymous to avoid embarrassment) went into my Aunt Rachel’s chicken coop. They reappeared later looking like pieces of French toast. For some unexplained reason, they decided to raid several nests and toss their eggs at the ceiling. They were both covered in the scrambled drippings. My Aunt and my Mom were not happy.

Snow-filled Memories

 Snow-filled Memories

As I drove from my home just outside of the village of White, Pennsylvania to Indian Head, I began to recall the many times I’d driven the same twisting wooded lane that is called Poplar Run in the snow. No matter the time of year the drive is always beautiful. The snow hanging heavy on the bare branches of beech, oak, and maple, made lacey patterns that glistened in the sunlight or at night they sparkled in the headlights of my car. Mountain laurel still line the banks of Poplar Run. Their dark glossy leaves in vivid contrast with the white snow.
The most beautiful sight of all was the young pines rising on a steep slope with their feathery branches heavily laden with newly fallen snow. They seemed to spread their arms wide to collect as many of the flakes as they could hold and then wrap themselves in a thick white quilt. They’re much older now with fewer needles, but at one time in their prime they wore heavy dark green coats. That wondrous sight would suddenly pop into view when I made the sharp turn. It was as though a visual feast was spread out just for me. I knew it was there, but its beauty always appeared suddenly. It was the darkness of the branches gracefully sagging beneath the weight of the new-fallen snow. It was the surprise I enjoyed even as a child riding in the back seat of my parent’s Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s car. My views were often hampered by sharing the backseat with my brother Ken and sister Kathy, but it was always enjoyable.
Other roads that my dad drove gave me a different memory. I recall times when I had to press my face against the car window to look upward to see the bright blue sky over the top of the drifted and plowed high banks of snow.
Another snowy memory was of my dad. He hated to be late. His mantra was, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” One Sunday morning we tried three different routes to get to church during a snow storm. The roads were covered in snow and very slippery. As Dad pulled into the parking lot of the old white clapboard Clinton Church of God, the music was already playing for the first hymn. Dad said, “Get back into the car kids” and he drove us home. I’m sure that God wouldn’t have minded, but Dad was a stickler for being punctual.
This year snow has been coming in surges interspaced with softened warm interludes, but being jerked back into reality, we face an onslaught of heavy winds and snow this weekend. Stay safe.

Insulbrick

 Insulbrick

Insulbrick covered many of the homes in western Pennsylvania homes. Many of the raw-lumber constructed homes were built without insulation. Homeowners chose to use this tar impregnated fiber paper to seal cracks and to add a layer of insulation to their houses. The tarpaper was frequently coated with brown, gray, or the most favorite color red minerals. The minerals were applied in patterns of brick or cut stone. Insulbrick came in rolls like tar paper roofing and was nailed to the house.
I can remember the house that my mom Sybil Miner Beck and my dad Edson Carl Beck bought. It had thick brown Insulbrick paper covering it. The house was little more than a cottage with half of a basement. My father and his father Edson Thomas Beck slowly expanded it over the years to accommodate our families’ needs. Our neighbors’ house was covered in Insulbrick but in the gray cut-stone pattern.
Other buildings I can remember were the ones my grandfather Edson Thomas Beck helped to build. My grandfather’s home in Indian Head, Pennsylvania was covered in the brown Insulbrick, while my aunt and uncle, Estella and Melvin Strawderman’s house next door. It was covered in the red brick mineral paper.
The last two Insulbrick covered buildings I remember are churches. One was located just at the edge of the coal mining town of Melcroft, Pennsylvania. It was situated along Route 711 on the right driving from Indian Head. I can’t remember its name, but it was a two story Pentecostal church that had theater seats. It had fold down theater seats, because once it had been a theater. My grandfather preached there often.
The other Insulbrick clad building that I fondly remember. Mt. Hope was another Pentecostal church. It was one that my Grandfather Beck helped to build. It was covered in red Insulbrick tar paper. As a lay speaker, he preached many sermons there. The church was located along Route 31 driving from Jones Mills to Somerset. The building still stands near the summit, but is now covered in boards and was a pizza joint the last I knew.

Little Hooded Men

 Little Hooded Man

Recently, we had two snows. The first was light and powdery. The second was a heavy, easily compressed snow. The wet snow caused our Pastor to express his creative spirit by building a snow man. Sunday morning, near the front door of the Mount Zion Community Church I saw a new greeter. Its silly smiling face welcomed our congregation. The frosty person wore a vest, a hat, and gloves at the ends of its stick arms. Besides the chill of the snow, a pair of sunglasses perched on its face made the snowman look really “cool.” It reminded me of another snowman that was built on the church property, but it was much smaller. It was a snowman that I built on the hood of another church member's car hood.
His automobile was an older model that still had a raised hood ornament. The shining metal ornament stood about four inches tall above the plane of the car hood. The decoration became the firm anchor for the snow person that I fashioned. It was only two snowballs high and had two sticks protruding from its thicker body as arms. The car’s dark burgundy colored hood made the little white snow buddy even more eye-catching.
When my friend and his wife came out of church, he began to chuckle and she laughed. Without actually addressing their new passenger, they climbed into their car and drove off heading to their nearby home.
Returning to church for the Sunday evening services, the snowman was still firmly ensconced on its throne at the front of their car. Talking to my friend after the service, I asked him why he hadn’t knocked it off. He replied in his usual laid back manner, “I thought it would fall off while I was driving.”
I can’t remember how that little snow buddy disappeared or when it finally fell off. I’m not sure whether it was while he was driving or whether the weather or the warmth from the motor under the hood caused him to melt, lose his grip, and slide from his once secure perch.

Ring A Ding Ding

 Ring A Ding Ding

After my wife-to-be Cynthia Morrison and I had been dating for awhile, she wanted to wear my high school graduation ring. It was much too large for her hand and she wore a metal insert to reduce the diameter. The metal sizer would bend as she wore it and she would have me bend it back into place. We became serious and the engagement ring she wanted was an opal. I bought a beautiful iridescent opal with two small dark blue sapphires on each side. I was waiting for the perfect time to present it to her. That happened at a softball game. She removed my high school ring to straighten. When I fixed it, I slipped it on my little finger and didn’t return it. We sat in my car as we left the game and I said, “I suppose you want this back?” She told me later she thought I was breaking up with her, but quickly changed her mind when I offered her the opal. Of course she said yes. Later we searched for wedding bands at several jewelers and stores. We finally found ones we liked. Of course to make the sale, the clerk said my hands should have been modeling hands for rings.
On our first wedding anniversary, we visited a local jewelry maker. I had a necklace made for her and she had a silver, turquoise and coral ring made that I designed.
Her desire to wear the opal lasted until she heard how fragile opal stones were, then she wanted a diamond. I bought a diamond ring and gave it to her at Christmas. The ring came in a clear Lucite box, but I tucked it into a Pringles can to disguise it. Once wrapped, Cindy would poke and prod any gift trying to figure out what was inside. The ring came loose with her shaking. The rattle convinced her I’d bought her a cheap game. It was the last present she opened. Surprised, she tried it on silently and mouthed, “Is it real?”
The last ring she bought for me was a silver Celtic knot ring at the Highlands Games in Ligonier, Pennsylvania. Her heritage was Scottish. Her family history can be traced back to the Isle of Lewis.
I was still wearing my wedding band a year after Cindy had passed away. I hadn’t worn our first anniversary ring in quite awhile. After her passing, I decided it was Cindy telling me it was time to store the wedding band and I replaced it with the turquoise and coral anniversary ring. I often wear the Celtic knot ring on my other hand; our first and our last.

Remembering Things

Remembering Things

Some strong memories in my life still remain very vivid. They are not necessarily important. Many are just small things, like the old cobalt blue glass jars of Vicks Vapo-rub. It was the smell of the sharp menthol salve my mom Sybil Miner Beck would rub onto my neck or my chest when I had a head or chest cold. The tingling cold sensation as she applied a thin layer and the burst of the intense menthol fumes that would escape my flannel pajama top or the white cotton undershirt. Now the jars are plastic and the ointment's aroma doesn't seem as intense.

Another remedy that my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner and my mom used was the cure for a sore throat. It wasn’t as elegant as the Vicks, but as a home remedy it sure seemed to work. My gram would stitch a thick slice of fatback bacon to a strip of folded flannel cloth. She would dribble tincture of turpentine onto the piece of fatty pork then liberally sprinkle a layer of coarse salt onto the concoction. The cure-all would be wrapped around my neck using safety pins to secure the ends and press the healing compound tightly against my neck. Turpentine fumes rose from the mixture as the heat from my fevered body would arm the mixture. In turn, the mixture would generate a deeply penetrating heat of its own. I won’t say the cure was soothing, but it seemed to do the trick, relieving the pain I felt in my throat after about an hour or so.

There was an older lady from my church as a youth who shared a sure-fire way to “draw out” an imbedded splinter or thorn. Soak a piece of white bread in milk then bind it in place over the injured area. After a few hours, the wooden shard would rise to the surface to be removed without difficulty.

My neighbor used to butcher and process meat for farmers and for his own small market. He sometimes would render the beef tallow with other ingredients into a thick, nearly tar-like paste that could be applied to wounds to act as a drawing salve. When smeared over an injury, it would draw the infection or splinter out of the cut and allow the small laceration to heal without infection. I still have a small jar in my medicine chest.

I can’t forget the donuts my gram made or the sour cream sugar cookies my neighbor Mrs. Carrie Hall used to make. There is a veritable storehouse of foods I can recall from my youth, but they will have to wait until the hunger for my recollections begins to growl.

Quilting

 Quilting

I don’t think that quilting is the most interesting subject for many readers, but it was an integral part of both my grandmothers, Anna Nichols Beck and Rebecca Rugg Miner. My Grandmother Anna’s quilts were utilitarian. Usually the quilt sizes she made were for twin beds and of dark colors of thick warm materials of wool, tweed, and occasionally there were patches of corduroy. She attached the quilt top to a flannel backing with knots of yarn. The finished product was so heavy, I’m not sure that a person would have been able to get out from under a larger than twin size once a person was covered up with it.
Grandma Becky almost always had a quilt set up on her quilting frame in her television room. When we visited she would often hand us a needle and thread to the stitch straight line patterns she had lightly drawn on the material. She did the fancy scroll and other designs herself. Much of the cotton material was from clothing that had outlived its usefulness. Some pieces were from clothing that no longer fit, were no longer in fashion, or from parts of worn clothing that were still useable. Grandma Becky made squares of many different designs. She would sew the patches into squares on her old Singer treadle sewing machine. Once the quilt top design was complete, she would pin it in layers to the batting and the muslin backing before attaching it to the wooden quilt frame’s rollers. As the quilt was hand-stitched, it would be stretched taut as each unfinished section was revealed. Gram was a busy person, making a quilt as wedding gifts for each of her thirty grandchildren.
My Mother-in-law Retha Johnson Morrison made quilts from double-knit fabric. That nylon material wore like iron. If the backing of flannel wore out, the yarn knots could be snipped and a new backing could be applied. Her first attempts were baby quilts of pastel colors attached to large bath towels by soft yarns. Gradually the quilt sizes increased and her husband Bud built a quilting frame for her. He made it large enough to hold a king sized flannel sheet as backing. I often helped her knot the quilts at the corners where the different fabrics met. Much of the material was from discarded clothing that was no longer wearable or in fashion. Many pieces of cloth had stories attached to them, recalling their past lives.
A few years ago I had a friend sew backing on three quilt tops that I inherited. They’d never had the backs applied; each one was hand sewn by my great grandmothers. I passed them on to my children as Christmas gifts.