Cold and Windy

 Cold and Windy

No, I’m not talking about myself, but the weather outside. The more I age, the more I dread the frigid temperatures and the gust of winter air. I like to have snow, but when it gets cold and the breeze becomes something that my grandfather called a lazy wind, count me out. He said when the wind goes through you and not around you it’s a lazy wind. I want to tell Canadians to keep their refrigerator doors closed when the Arctic clippers decide to sail south.

I met my neighbor at the mailboxes and he said, “I don’t recall a December being thiis cold so early.” And I agree.

Don’t suggest that I move to Florida, although I have some relatives who want me to visit them in Florida and there are some relatives who wouldn’t mind if I left Pennsylvania, but I have no plans to make the move below the Mason Dixon Line.

I lived in Orlando, Florida for two years, courtesy of the United States Navy as a corpsman and I didn’t really like it. Mosquitoes, sand spurs, and the humid heat in the summer aren’t on my menu. The only thing I found enjoyable about Florida was the fishing and my relatives. Winters were heavy jacket weather, but no boots unless I was wading in the rain.

My uncle Amos Jacob Stahl and his wife aunt Helen Beck Stahl decided to move their family south. He was a stone mason and the seasonal work that Pennsylvania weather provided could hardly support his large brood. They packed up and moved to Florida where he could work all year round. Their one daughter Anna stayed with us until she finished her senior year in high school.

While I was in the Navy, “Jake” or one of my cousins would want me to visit every weekend that I was off duty. They were all wonderful people. Amos and Helen have passed away, but Florida is still peppered with cousins and other kin.

I frequently get invitations from them to come visit and I may. I left Florida over fifty years ago the year before Disneyland opened and haven’t been back since. Although the adventure of touring the Disneyland Park is something that entices many, I prefer to keep my memories of the less bustling metropolis of Orlando intact. Perhaps it would be nice to see the faces of my loved ones again. It may become closer to reality and become a stronger desire if these days of the lazy winds persist.

Christmas Character

 A memorable person that I met and cared for while working at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, was a wizened older gentleman who had been a mule skinner in the United States Army during the Great War. He took care of the mules that were used to drag the cannons and caissons in World War I. It wasn’t called World War I until the Second World War was fought. He told us that he had been very young when he signed on and when the war was over he went back to school and had become a doctor. He talked about the animals he had charge over and about the several that he owned rather than war stories. The time he spent with those animals that he cared for seemed to be what he chose to remember about the war.

His terminal cancer sent him to us to care for. He became weak and could no longer take care of himself or control the ever-growing pain in his cancer withered body. He came to Frick Hospital because he needed our help.

It seemed that Belladonna and opium suppositories with an occasional injection of morphine gave him the most pain relief. I tried to make time to stay with him until he was able to obtain some pain relief. He would talk to me as he waited for the pain relieving effects of the medications to take hold of his frail body. After that he would settle down to sleep until the pain woke him again.

He told us that he was a surgeon. This fellow warrior in the health field came to us just before the Christmas holidays. Some of his friends brought the gift of a small artificial Christmas tree that was covered in tiny lights and delicate ornaments. The little tree was beautiful and filled his room with soft light. This was a time when hospitals still allowed electric lights to be used.

Sometimes when we would make rounds he would be awake quietly staring at the tree. The tiny lights glowed in his eyes. He was discharged to a long term care facility shortly after Christmas and I never heard from him again, but the Stories of his life glowed in my life like the Christmas lights from that small tree glistened in his eyes even if it was only for a little bit.

Traditions

 Traditions

Most families have created traditions to celebrate the different holidays. They display different decorations; some of which have become heirlooms, passed down to their children. Certain foods are served to honor memories of childhood celebrations. At the beginning of the year, some traditions serve sauerkraut and pork. Others serve black-eyed peas, collard greens, and salted pork. Easter celebrations may share colored eggs, chocolate rabbits, or braided breads. Thanksgiving a turkey with bread stuffing, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pies topped with whipped cream may grace the table. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck would serve spaghetti carbonara and deep-fried smelt on Christmas Eve, while my mom, Sybil Miner Beck would bake deep-dish French toast for brunch on Christmas day.
Most traditions are harmless. They help pass the joyous celebrations of holidays to our children. Many times they’re links to memories and don’t affect reality. At Christmas we celebrate the arrival of the Magi at the Manger. The Bible doesn’t record that there were three Wise men, nor did the Kings arrive to worship the Christ Child in the manger. That tradition strays from the truth. Many believe that Eve ate an apple in the Garden of Eden, but that was not so. The Word of God only records that it was fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. All are minor variations, but even that can cause people to believe there are contradictions in the Bible.
When traditions conflict with the Bible, traditions are wrong and can become harmful. When tradition is promoted above the truth in the Word of God, it should be cast aside. When books are added to the Bible or an entire religion is based on “New Revelations” from God, avoid them like the plague. Galatians 1:8-9 reads, “But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed. As we said before, so say I now again, if any man preach any other gospel unto you than that ye have received, let him be accursed.”
In the Revelation, the Bible warns, “For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book.”
Celebrate family traditions, but don’t let them confuse the truth of the Bible.

A True Redhead

 A True Redhead

Often my brother, Ken and I would hop onto our bicycles and ride to our friend’s house about half of a mile away. Our friend and his brothers would join us and we would take to the shaded lanes and abandoned fields near their home. The one area where would ride was an abandoned Boy Scout campground. The deeply rutted road ran through wooded sections and through open areas of the old camp. Some of the large open meadows were where my family picked wild full-flavored strawberries. Some areas had quiet little niches where campers would place tents or small Scotty trailers. This Scout campground was abandoned but people still drove in to use the campsites.
Sometimes we would ride to the old camp just to swim in the stream that had been dammed up and other times we rode for the joy of feeling the wind in our hair. It almost seemed like a paradise to us as kids. We had the freedom to ride long distances without the fear of traffic. If we got warm we rode in the shaded areas or if we got chilled we would relax on the grass in the sunshine.
This particular morning was sunny and cool, the perfect weather for riding our bicycles. It was cool enough to ride in jeans and a polo shirt without overheating when we pedaled furiously. Here and there, wisps of fog curled in low lying areas of the road and at the campsites.
It was a time of freedom. We were riding for the sheer joy of it, feeling the cool air rush by with our shirt tails flapping behind us in the wind. The morning was filled with the aroma of honeysuckles and stale wood smoke. There had to be campers about.
Tucked tightly into one of the small campsites was an older Scotty trailer. It was turquoise and white. Coiled around its bottom was a large bank of fog, about thirty inches high. The door to the trailer was open. Framed in the dark doorway was an alabaster skinned, statuesque woman. She was sky clad…absolutely naked… not wearing a single stitch of clothing. It was as though Aphrodite herself was standing there. The fog swirled around her feet and she appeared to be standing on a cloud.
In the soft morning sun her skin shone like polished translucent milk glass. She had wide hips, a narrow waist, and breasts the size of small grapefruit. It truly was “Venus on the Half Shell” standing there in rural Pennsylvania
It was a heady and titillating moment for my brother and I. We stopped our bicycles just out of sight. We weren’t sure what to do, but it was the only road. That meant riding back past the Scotty trailer and this woman. After a short rest, we decided to ride back, but we were disappointed. The door was still open, but empty. The one thing that I can say for sure was this woman was definitely a red head.

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 ridden or driven the same two lane road in the snow. The twisting wooded lane is called Poplar Run. No matter the time of year, it’s always beautiful. The snow hanging heavy on the bare branches of beech, oak, and maple, made lacey patterns that glistened in the sunlight. At night they sparkled in the headlights of the car. Mountain laurel still line the banks of Poplar Run. Their dark glossy leaves in contrast with the white snow.

The most beautiful sight of all was the young pines standing on a steep slope with their feathery branches heavily laden with newly fallen snow. They seemed to spread their arms wide to gather 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 as I made a 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 can 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 of my dad was that 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 white clapboard Clinton Church of God, the music was already playing for the first hymn. Dad said, “Get back in 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 come in surges as did my recollections of snow ball battles, sled riding, and other scenes of cold wintertime beauty that remain stored in my brain.

I Have Never

I Have Never
I’ve never in my seventy-seven year of life seen so many politicians whose desire is to rewrite, reinterpret or actually destroy America’s founding document, the Constitution of the United States, but I am beginning to understand why. The Left has been infiltrating our positions of power with an aim of changing this bastion of freedom into a Socialist or Communist country. There is one main reason. Many of the principles were written into the Constitution by our forefathers were based on the Bible.
Our founders came to this new land to escape crippling bonds of tyranny. As they chose the ideals for this landmark document, they took into consideration many variables that might lead back into tyranny again. These farsighted men crested a plan that would prevent a central government from EVER wresting control from the people, safeguarding liberty and freedom for future generations. Their aim was to establish the rights of the average citizens and defending them from intrusion of government’s unrestrained power.
That’s why the Bill of Rights and a system of checks and balances were codified, written out in plain and easy to understand words. The definition of many of these words have been twisted and altered so Federal and State governments have chiseled away these basic inalienable rights. This assault is intentional.
The tenets upon which the Constitution and America’s laws were written had roots in the Bible and the Christian ideals. The United States stands like a light in a dark world and that’s why America has drawn downtrodden from nearly every country in the world. That light shines from the pages of the Bible.
As America continues to turn its back on God that light dims and “God bless America” is changing. God has begun to withhold His blessings. It will not take much longer before He begins to judge the United Stated, just as He’s destroyed other mighty nations of the past. I don’t claim to be a prophet calling out a warning like Jonah, but God caused him to preach repentance and a turning back to God to the evil empire of Nineveh Jonah’s plea caused the king’s heart to change, and the great city of Nineveh was spared.
Oh, that we could get our country to turn away from the evils of abortion and immorality and to return to a loving God. Jonah preached repentance. It’s not too late for America to turn back to Him.

Freedom of religion is one right not to be infringed upon, but with the Covid pandemic, the first thing government tried to control was the assembling together to worship. With this in view, how long before Christians in America will join the persecuted souls from other countries? 

And the Mountain Roared

 And the Mountain Roared

I often heard my wife’s mother describing a sound that she would hear. Retha May Morrison would pause at whatever she was doing; cock her head to one side, and say, “Shush, just listen to the mountain roar.” And indeed the wind in the trees did. She and Bud her husband were groundskeepers at Camp Christian near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. The camp was surrounded by thick wooded hillsides and was graced with a small stream running through it. When the wind would blow from a certain direction, the sound of the wind did give a low, guttural growl.

Camp Christian once had been a summer retreat for weary people from Pittsburgh and the surrounding communities. They would ride the train to spend a day, a weekend, or even a week in Killarny Park. The park was a place of escape where people could boat, swim, and fish with lodging and meals available for those who were able to afford it.  Many would pack a lunch and for the price of the train fare they could relax, hike, wade, or swim, away from the smoke and noise of the city.

The camp had a large two storied Millhouse. It was of white clapboard hotel-like bedrooms upstairs. Downstairs was a huge kitchen, a banquet room with multiple tables for eating, and an open, wraparound porch. At one end of the dining room was a large stone fireplace where a fire frequently burned in the cool of the evening. There was a chapel and also a few rental cabins with little more room than to provide shelter and sleeping quarters. The white clapboard shelters were snug and provided refuge from the rain and wind.

A large metal bell perched atop a stone pillar at the front of the Millhouse and summoned diners when the meals were ready to be served.

Eventually Killarny Park was purchased by a consortium of churches in Pittsburgh as a summer camp. Reserved on different weeks, the camp was available for adults, for couples, and for children. One week was set was always aside for the underprivileged kids of Pittsburgh. Although the Millhouse has now been replaced with a more modern dining hall and kitchen, children’s’ shouts of laughter still echo in the camp.

As I sat this morning, deciding on what to write I heard the mountain outside of my windows roar. I live near White, Pennsylvania and although the trees aren’t as close to my house as the trees that surrounded Camp Christian, my mountain roared. The wind was just right. The sound of the wind’s roar entered my home, as did the memory of Retha’s words entering my brain.