Wednesday, May 24, 2017


Continued from Monday’s post…

Weekday, Workday, Weekend II
While we spent the rest of the afternoon at the cabin, other wotkers were weed whacking, mowing, making small motor repairs, tearing down the old game tent and erecting the frame of the new white Taj Mahal tent. I lost my ladder to the construction crew and finished staining as high as I could reach by the time the supper bell rang. A time of relaxation, for devotions, and showers were next, not exactly in that order. Some of the guys went in for a swim to cool off. I knew better and only pulled off my shoes and socks to soak my feet in the COLD water. It felt wonderfully refreshing, even with the fish nibbling my toes.
Once my shower was over, I joined several people who were talking and relaxing in the bleachers around the crackling campfire. Bullfrogs harrumphing in the background and the gentle splash if the nearby lake waves filled my ears and the canopy of stars overhead helped me to unwind.
Bedtime and breakfast, then we pulled, tugged, and secured the new white tent to the frame. While we were doing that one of the men in our van claimed a small excavator and began to cover some electrical cable with gravel. Many of the teenagers went back to the tasks of staining and applying polyurethane. It was time for us to pull up stakes and head for home.
There were still some unfinished chores on Mr. Fry’s list, but it would be a lot shorter by the time the other church group left. The camp will be that much closer to hosting the different weeks of youth, the teens, and a week set aside for family groups. There are also special retreats for the young at heart (those people over 55), a women’s retreat, a men’s retreat, and later in the year, a wither retreat for teens at a nearby lodge.
I would like to give a special shout out to Mr. Fry, his wife, and to the other cooks who made the visit tasty, busy but enjoyable.

Monday, May 22, 2017


Weekday, Workday, Weekend
I had a wonderful time working to complete chores at the Servant’s Heart Camp located on the outskirts of Ramey, Pennsylvania. I travelled north with three other men from our church to the Christian summer camp to help it expand and make it ready for the various weeks of summer camp. It’s a small, but growing facility. During the 2 and a half hour drive, I found that our driver and Pastor really likes the cheddar and bacon potato skin chips.
A slow drive through an open field and a curving lane through a wooded area led us to the final approach of the camp across the breast of the dam for the 7 acre lake. It was nearing dusk when we arrived and I was glad to get out and stretch my legs. Mr. Fry was there to greet us. After introductions, he introduced us to the list of chores that needed to be done. Like any good manager, the list was longer than he thought was possible, just in case miracles occurred. Because of my limited ability to lift, I was assigned to stain the posts and porch railings of a cabin still under construction for the next day.
We sat around the obligatory campfire until bedtime. After a long and difficult night of trying to sleep, I sat at the edge of the lake and rested until morning when Mrs. Fry came to the cook shack and start breakfast. I had been struggling to write some Haiku and quickly volunteered to help. I played Mr. Tote and Fetch, then began to crack and scramble eggs. Her assistant arrived and I escaped to sit under the dining tent as others joined.
After we ate, another group of young men and women, most were teenagers, arrived. Mr. Fry passed out chores and work began in earnest. Four young women were assigned to staining the outside of the cabin where I was working and two people were applying polyurethane to the wood sided walls and ceiling of the inside. My thighs were sore from squatting to coat the bottom rails when it was time for lunch break.

To be continued…

Thursday, May 18, 2017


How Quickly Things Change
I was doing some investigation on a developing character and decided to speak with a gentleman who knew something about the subject upon which I was doing research. I was hoping he could shed some light on what to do under certain situations. I can’t say too much about it for two reasons. The first is I am still writing and I never give away the plot before I am finished with the story. It’s not considered plagiarism unless someone should steal the words after I’ve written them. I am still a long way off from figuring out exactly where this story is headed. I have no idea where it will end.
The second reason is the man I spoke to, thought I was speaking about a specific person. He never divulged the person’s name, but by the facts that he was sharing. I knew immediately it was a true-to-life real person. He thought I was talking about this person, when I wasn’t. The more he spoke, the more I was certain I knew the guy of which he was sharing stories. Not the fictional stories that I write, but actual, intimate secrets of the real-life person.
Once I realized that it was something I didn’t want to know and something I shouldn’t know, I backed out of the conversation as quickly as I could. Now, I bear the burden of this secret. I am familiar with HIPPA and medical information being a secret. That was never a problem. I was always assiduous with that knowledge.
But this is different, much different. If I am talking to this “revealed” person, will I react differently when we meet? Will I let the “secret” slip out while speaking to others? How can I unhear what has already been said. I can’t, but I pray that my silence will not cause problems farther along.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017


Behind Me
Last evening I was invited to speak at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society located in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. It is a small group of people dedicated to preserving the heritage and history of the area in documents, maps, and memorabilia. Clothing, photographs, and journals line the various display cases and the walls. All in all, it is a wonderful collection of people and presentations.
Because I used to work with the president, Mrs. Gerri Marks, she asked me several months ago to speak at last night’s gathering. Each month, they have someone to visit and speak on a different topic. Since I write to pass my time since I’ve retired from nursing and have four books written, I entered her sights.
I volunteered my time. I’ve noticed that making the promise is easier than to keep than the time I have donated. As the closer the time came to actually giving the speech got shorter, my gastrointestinal tract kept note of the nearing of the date. It wasn’t actually a speech. I only shared the basics of writing and read from past writings of poetry, Haiku, short stories I’d written and excerpts from my four books. The audience was a gathering of young and old. The youngest may have been eight and the oldest in their eighties. They were great listeners. Some of the people I knew from my past, while others, I met for the first time.
One of the younger people is a passionate reader and was just beginning to enter the challenging world of writing. There are so many avenues to pursue. I told him to keep a pad and pencil close. Anytime a thought hit write it down before forgetting it. The actual writing and fleshing out of the idea can come later, but most times the flash of an idea escapes and isn’t captured again.

Thank you again, Chestnut Ridge Historical Society.

Monday, May 15, 2017


The Plot Thickens
When I first began writing, I naively thought that devising an interesting idea for a story plot or to be able to see a special view for a poem was all that it took to become an author. That is the inspiration part of being a writer. It is the germ of a thought process that has only just begun. It is followed by hours of perspiration.
Many items begin to come into play. When you write about people, are the things they do and say consistent? Are conversations they have normal and not stinted? If they have an accent or dialect, is it true to their area? When I choose a location, does it reflect the nature and weather of the place? Time of day, time of year, and the time period and period clothing and customs must remain true to form. There must be an agreement of facts. There is always someone who is more of an expert and will find fault if you stray away any minute detail. All of these items still dealing with the plot and how you share it.
After this, a writer must read through the story time after time, looking for errors in punctuations, misspellings, or grammar. Sometimes the author will insert a word that is not actually there. The reader is confused and doesn’t understand what is missing.
The fun is just starting. Most writers have a friend or several friends to read the writings. Really good friends will tear it apart. They will pick out each and every mistake that you’ve made, everything from weak places in the plot or characters to errors in punctuation, typos, and incorrectly spelled words. It’s back to the drawing board, trying to correct anything that was not done well.
I’m not complaining. I love my eagle-eyed friends. I wanted to share what it takes to have a book ready for publication.

Friday, May 12, 2017


A Store of Store Stories
Wednesday in my blog, I mentioned the stores Gabriel’s and Gabriel Brothers. Last evening I saw a television advertisement saying that they remodeled and renaming their stores. We locals always shortened the name lovingly called the stores Gabe’s. That is now their new name, emblazoned across their bright blue remodeled store fronts.
Wednesday’s story jogged the memory of my daughter Amanda. She reminded me of another Gabe’s story. My mother-in-law, Retha Morrison was shopping with our family. We had a minivan and ferrying three adults and three children wasn’t a problem. It was a winter day. Retha was wearing slacks and black, just above the ankle winter boots. She found a dress that she liked and tried it on. When she came out of the dressing room and asked, “Well, what do you think?” I immediately responded, “You have chicken legs.”
The pale skin of her thin, full calved legs were intensified as they stuck out from beneath the dark colored dress and rose above the black boots. They did indeed look like chicken legs. When Retha looked in the mirror, she had to agree.

Shopping with kids can be exacerbating. This day at Gabe’s was no different. The kids were hiding in the racks of clothing, doing a slow game of hide and seek. It was the parents’ job to keep track of them so they didn’t get lost or weren’t abducted. A rack of stiff darkly dyed jeans was a perfect place for my son Andrew to disappear. It wasn’t long until he reappeared holding out his fist. He said, “Look what I found.”
Opening his hand, he showed his discovery. He’d found about $1.50 in quarters. They’d been in one of the pockets of a pair of jeans. Their darkened color told us that the coins had been in the pants while they were being dyed. Needless to say, it caused his two sisters to join him in an unsuccessful treasure hunt.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017


What’s Wrong
My kids love to hear the story that I tell about my wife and their mom Cindy. It happened while Cindy and I were still dating, but let me set the background before I start. Back then, Gabriel’s was an outlet for seconds of clothing, not the collection of stores that it is today. Many of these seconds would likely have been called thirds today. Each item of clothing had to be examined with an eagle’s eye for any flaws. Some were minute like a snag or may be like a dye problem or tear in the cloth. Zippers had to be worked up and down to be sure they functioned properly. There were a number of ways that the item would end up on the shelves or racks of the Gabriel’s store.
This incident occurred one summer afternoon between the time that Gabriel’s store only was two houses in Uniontown, Pennsylvania connected by a covered passageway and a time when they first expanded to be Gabriel Brothers’ chain. Cindy and I had been dating for probably a year and we were sitting on a porch swing at her home at Camp Christian in Mill Run, Pennsylvania. I noticed something and said, “Did you get that blouse at Gabe’s?”
She asked, “Why?”
“The sleeves don’t match.”
She started to look over the blouse trying to see what I’d seen. “The patterns are similar, but different.” I said.
The shape of the designs was about the size of a silver dollar. They had the same colors, in the same spots, and nearly the same pattern. The pale greens, lavenders, corals, and sandy yellows all had the same placement, but one sleeve matched the rest of the blouse with seashells, fish, a sea horse, a sand dollar, and seaweed while the nonconformist sleeve had dragon flies, butterflies, flowers, and grass.
Now let me say that the blouse had been worn for quite some time and no one else noticed. She may have worn it before when we were together, if she had, I didn’t notice the difference until that afternoon. I will finish the story by saying I never saw her wear that blouse again.