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.

Old Sew and Sew

 Old Sew and Sew

I was watching a television program where two veterinarians were doing an operation sewing up the incision and when they were finished, one vet asked the other whether she remembered the first time she did surgery. Her answer was, “Yes, and I felt so nervous and shaky.”

I tried to think of the first time I ever had to suture a laceration shut as a Corpsman in the United States Navy, but I couldn’t. I had no recollection of the wound that needed to be closed. I do know that suturing was one aspect that I really enjoyed doing and one thing that I was unable to do as a nurse. Each laceration was a challenge. Each wound required me to think of the best way to repair it and sew it closed.

Was it a deep wound that required several layers of suturing? Was there any skin or muscle missing? What was the age of the person? Did the wound need extensive cleaning? Were there any skin tabs that needed to be trimmed to make a smooth closure? What kind of suture material did I need? Would I need help?

In the emergency department at the Naval Training Center in Orlando, Florida there was always a physician on duty who often checked the wound before the repair and after to insure that proper procedures were followed and the wound was closed correctly. The only time the physician was required to do the repair was when it was on the face or hand of a woman for cosmetic reasons.

Often physicians would use a “papoose board” to restrain youngsters while they sutured them. It was a flat board with adjustable straps to keep the child from moving during the procedure. Many times I was able to talk tp and explain what was going to happen and I didn’t have to fasten the kid down. I enjoyed that.

One case I can remember that was too severe for me and I was not comfortable to handle was a long deep cut. A man tried to jump over a hurricane fence and the sharp twisted top made a deep gash in his forearm. I didn’t want to attempt it. I could see the man’s bone. I asked the emergency room doctor to have a look at it. He smugly said, “Finally found one you couldn’t handle?”

When I lifted the bandage, he said, “Put a moist dressing on it and call the surgeon on call.” I felt vindicated.

Noses

 Noses

I was watching one of the wilderness television programs from the Arctic and the captioning for the different characters would display across the television screen the locations of their homes, Kiwalik, Eagle, Huslia, Brushkana, Nenana, etc. But it also gave reference of their homes to the Arctic Circle, So many miles above or below the Circle. It caused me to think of the year that I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland as a corpsman in the Naval Hospital there.

Keflavik is located 63.9998 degrees north and 22.5583 degrees west between the North Atlantic Ocean and the Norwegian Sea. The currant of the Gulf Stream wends its way north becoming the North Atlantic Current. Because of this anomaly Iceland is much warmer than its location or name would suggest. Winter’s average temperature is 32 degrees Fahrenheit and summer’s average 55 to 60 degrees Fahrenheit in southern Iceland.

I know someone is asking by now where the “Nose” title comes into the story. No, the people of Iceland are not Eskimo and don’t rub noses, but travelers who cross the Arctic Circle above the northeernmost part of the island can earn the title of “blue nose” in the Navy. I’m not sure if the same holds true to the other branches of the military.

I was blessed enough to have been friends with a doctor who wanted to gain hours to earn his commercial pilot’s license. Several other corpsmen and I wanted to see more of Iceland and the doctor was willing to fly us for free if we paid for the plane’s rental costs. It was a small plane and if I remember correctly, it carried 4 people, 3 passengers and the pilot. We puddle jumped to many places on the island, flying over huge waterfalls and glaciers. To the south we flew to the volcanic island of Surtsey. The doctor even enticed us to fly with him to Akueryi at the northern tip of Iceland. The trip up was great and so we could win the “Blue Nose” certificate, he flew over the island of Grimsey. He decided not to attempt a landing because of the huge number of birds. One hit from a bird in a light plane and we’d all have been swimming in the frigid waters of the Greenland Sea.

Our return to Keflavik was a bit scary. Clouds rolled in thick and low enough to limit our visual flight. The doctor was learning the controls each time he flew. Several times we flew low enough to follow a road below us. He knew we were heading south and knew the road would eventually lead us to habitation. We made it back safely, but politely refused to fly to Scotland when he suggested that.

Any Boddy Wanna Play

 

Any Boddy Wanna Play

Friday evening I had a very pleasant time. I was able to attend my granddaughter Hannah Yoder’s high school play. It was a presentation of a plot written on the basic guidelines of the Clue Game. The concept of the game was to figure out which character committed a murder, where it occurred, and what was the weapon that was used. The weapons for a character to choose from were a revolver, a wrench, a lead pipe, a rope, a candlestick, and a dagger. The room choices in the Boddy Mansion included the hall, the lounge, the dining room, the kitchen, the ballroom, the conservatory, the billiard room, the library, and the study. Finally there was the cast of characters, Mrs. Peacock, Colonel Mustard, Miss Scarlet, Mrs White, Mr. Green, the butler, Yvette, and Mr. Boddy himself. There waas another host of other minor players to expand the actors to fill the stage with other caretaking jobs.

The stage props were limited to six labeled doors and the wide double doors to the mansion’s entrance. By shuffling the different doors and with a minimum of other items, the stage was set for the players to weave the mystery of who-done-it and where, when, and what weapon was used.

My granddaughter Hannah played the part of a plump German cook who was the first to die. She fell onto the stage with a dagger protruding from her back. Initially introduced, she stepped into the play banging a loud gong and announcing that “Dinner vas being serffed.” She made her rounds ladling soup ito the characters gathered around the dining table. The audience was fed more information about each actor as they ate. Hannah appeared in several other scenes, limp but staying dead as the various actors tried to disguise her “lifeless” form.

The mystery deepened as a rain storm roared in the background. It washed out the bridge to the mansion trapping these “innocent’ people inside the Boddy mansion with a murderer. The interplay of characters, while sorting out the guilty party, was filled with comedic lines. The dialogue and actions slowly revealed the reasons as to why these people were chosen to be brought to the mansion. The web that was being spun to hide their guilt was the binding theme of the plot to circle tighter and tighter until their individual sins were revealed.

Shopping Etiquette

                Shopping Etiquette                                                

My mom, Sybil Miner Beck was a fun-loving but firm mother in many ways.  I was reminded of a Facebook incident that was posted about shoppers. A video of a boy who looked about five or six years old continued to ram a mini-shopping cart into the person in front of the boy and his mom. The man was assaulted several times. He tried to push the cart and the child away with gentle shoves and redirections, but the child returned and continued to use his cart battering ram. Meanwhile the mother was seemingly unconcerned and repeatedly allowed the kid to push the cart into the man.

Finally the man had reached his limit. He reached into the child’s cart and removed a small carton of milk, then opened and dumped the contents onto the boy’s upturned face. The smile disappeared and so did the child. The mother apparently insulted by the male shopper’s lack of decorum grabbed her child’s hand and left the area.

My mother would never have permitted it to go that far. The incident that I was reminded of was shopping at a local grocery store. My brother Ken was pushing the cart. It was something that he liked to do when mom allowed it. I think he got bored because it was a larger store and Mom had a long list. He began to drive the cart from side to side in the aisle instead of driving in a straight line.

Soon that wasn’t enough and he looked for other ways to amuse himself. He settled on lagging behind, then charging ahead. At the last moment, he would leap into the air and slam his both of his feet onto the buggy’s back two wheels laying long black rubber wheel tracks on the floor. Mom didn’t notice what was happening until she turned to put something into the cart and caught him in the act. When she looked behind, she saw that the entire aisle had a trail of black streaks where Ken and the cart had been.

She took control of the cart and warned Ken, “If you ever do that again young man, I will march you up to the manager and you will clean the floors for him. Someone has to clean the floors at night and you are making his job harder.”

That put a stop to Ken the grocery cart drag racer. Although when Ken grew older, he did drag race in a souped up 1972 Dodge Demon. It was black with two white racing stripes from the air scooped hood across the top and back down the trunk. I teased him saying it looked like a skunk to me.