Stars and Stripes

Monday My friend needed to first visit her orthopedist for a follow up from her knee surgery. She didn’t quite feel up to driving yet. She has been a traveling companion and close friend for many years. I agreed. She also had to visit a second physician for pain control injections later in the day. Several years ago, her car was hit when the tandem wheels flew out from a trailer truck, hitting her car and forcing it off the road. The vehicle sheared off a tree 12 inches in diameter 15 feet above the ground causing her car to roll over several times before coming to rest on its roof. Her head injury was similar to a football player being hit many times, but hers were within less than a minute. She also sustained back injuries and this is the reasons for her injections at a pain clinic.

While we transitioned between the two, we had lunch at the Olive Garden, then stopped at a few craft stores. She wanted to pick up some embroidery floss and check out picture frames for her cross stitch project. One of the stores we stopped at was Hobby Lobby. A tall metal flamingo was prominent in the front window. Its price was a bit more than I wanted to spend for my sister Kathy Basinger’s birthday. (She hates flamingoes.)

While she was searching, I wandered the store, looking for a basket to use in my bathroom. I didn’t find the right shape, size, or color, so I wandered on. I did find one of the triangle display cases for the American flag. I had the flag presented to the family at my father, Edson Carl Beck’s funeral. It was stored away to protect it. The case was half off and I bought it. The flag is now on display in my living room.

My father served in WWII. His station was in the South Pacific, stationed in the Philippines and in another jungle island. Just before his death, he wrote a very short autobiography telling us that he actually visited Hiroshima. It would have to have been after the bombing. He was a poor farmer’s kid and could never have visited it before the war.

I now have the flag in a place of honor in my home. I am a Navy veteran from the Vietnam War era and it angers me to see our flag desecrated and dishonored. If these people don’t like our flag, our culture, our country, ten leave. Don’t be miserable here nor make it miserable for those who do enjoy the freedom and rights that our military have fought and died to preserve.

Incontinence

When people use the word incontinent or incontinence, they most often describe the physical body functions when a person loses control with their bladder or with their bowels. It may come with illness, accident, or even with old age, but is considered a human trait. It is rare that we would use this term when we speak of an animal. It is a natural act. They can be trained to wait or to use certain areas. Without human intervention, they will do what they deem fit.

The word actually means to lose self control, to act upon lusts without responsibility. Thoughts of assault, murder, robbery, rape, coveting a neighbors belongings or wife all are ideations, but when the person loses self-control and acts upon those thoughts, he is incontinent. When a person becomes intemperate, loses understanding of absolute truths that are laid out in Scripture, he or she trespasses and becomes incontinent.

It doesn’t take much for man’s brain to rationalize his immoral thoughts and his transgressions into another person’s freedoms and life, then to act upon them. The words of Solomon in Proverbs say, “Every way of a man is right in his own eyes…”

Men need nothing to feel right in their own hearts, yet they reach out for things that lower that threshold. Alcohol and drugs are but two of these. How many altercations, murders, and robberies were thoughts fueled into action because of these mind altering substances? How many crimes are committed while the perpetrators were under the influence? How many criminal activities are carried out because of the induced slavery of drugs or alcohol? Statistics point to rising numbers of automobile accidents due to intoxication.

Self control is the basic building block of government. Without self control, how can a person direct his family, his church, his community, and state and federal government? The lack of self control shows in the speeches and laws of our politicians. Incontinence shows in the number of single parent families. Self control has caused people to legalize abortion rather than to accept responsibility for their continued incontinence.

It’s time to for us get back to the basics. If we demand our rights, we also need to accept the responsibilities of controlling ourselves.

Rant Day Hold onto Your Drawers

I don’t often get upset and have a rant day, but I recently received a letter from the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation saying I if I wanted the Real ID that I needed a valid driver’s license, a birth certificate WITH a pressed seal, a valid passport to receive a license that allow me to board domestic commercial flights, certain federal facilities after October 21, 2020.

I have been an American citizen for nearly 70 years, a retired Naval Corpsman and Veteran of the Vietnam War era, and have paid taxes for over 42 years, yet I would have to prove who I am. But these idiots who are in power at the state level and in Washington D.C. want to give valid driver’s licenses to every illegal invader that violates the border and the laws of the United States of America.

That is a major insult and slap in the face. The politicians are unwilling and unable to control the illegal alien invaders, so they force their misconceived ideas of constraint on every law-abiding citizen of America. Their loss of common sense doesn’t make any sense.

I understand that these invaders can get a tax I.D. number to pay some taxes on the monies that they earn, then turn around and claim children, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren as dependents. These “dependents” still live in Mexico and have never lived in the United States. Because of the “dependents” the IRS will give them more in tax rebates than the amount the Illegal has paid. Can you guess from whose pocket that money comes?

How much money is being siphoned from the American economy by tactics like these? How long will the American taxpayers be forced to pay for these ill-conceived ideas? How long will our elected officials turn a blind eye to these enticement that lure more and more aliens to ignore our laws to cross our borders?

Whether you believe in the wall or not, something must be done. For decades politicians have debated what needs done without any more action that to accept illegal aliens that are already here. When are they going to do more than talk? When can we see action? When can the average citizen believe that these officials have the welfare of REAL AMERICAN CITIZENS at heart?

Gone

I saw a post showing an aisle in a variety store with boxes stacked upon boxes of plastic model boats, planes, and cars. In most stores today, we are lucky to see one small shelf in the huge toy section that has a smattering of these onetime glorious representations of the real things. Gone are the enamel paints and the plastic glue that gave a person a buzz if inhaled for a long period of time. The selection that remains is so limited, it barely stirs the imagination of the boy or girl to spend the money for the model.

At one time there was a penny candy counter at the front of almost every country Mom and Pop store. Its wide glass-faced case was often smeared by the noses of children peering inside, trying to decide what to buy with their penny or nickel. The storekeeper would reach into the cavern below and withdraw a small, brown paper sack. A practiced flick of the wrist and it opened, waiting to be filled with the child’s choices. Peppermint sticks, licorice whips, wax lips, candy cigarettes, gum balls, fire balls, chewy caramels, Black Jack, and various suckers colors enticing through clear cellophane wrappings or alluring in their brightly hued paper wrappers. A child’s decision became tantalizingly and deliciously sweet. The grocer’s hand moved to hover over the display, waiting for the child’s final decision. If the child had enough money, there were three cent chocolate bars that are now history, too. Selections made, the little bag was twisted shut and handed to the eagerly awaiting child.

Cap pistol and strips of exploding caps have been all but banned from use. Using a pointed finger pretending it’s a pistol can get a kid kicked out of school. The innocence of the buss on a cheek can land a boy or girl in trouble, if a teacher so deems it. Hot chocolate and slices of buttered toast to start the school day are long gone. Even the wonderful, flavorful school lunches have faded into nutritious nothings.

Wood shop, music, art, and home economics have been replaced by forages into climate change and social justice. The Pledge of Allegiance, Bible reading, and a time of prayer have lost their zeal and have fallen into disuse. If a man displays gentlemanly traits like opening a door for a female, often they are scourged.

Writing letters and post cards have lost their appeal, giving way to selfies, texts, and e-mails. At least greeting cards still hold some importance, although e-cards are making an inroad on that once popular method of showing that you cared.

Chilling Memories

Granddad Miner’s unpainted wood of the outhouse had a weathered exterior, but it was special with two holes. He made one larger hole for adults and a smaller one for kids. He didn’t want to lose a child into the noxious pit below.

Grandma didn’t believe in toilet paper. Old outdated catalogues filled the purpose. The whole way to the outhouse, I’d pray that there were some dull pages remained. No one wanted to the shiny ones. Those pages made sharp painful edges when crinkled for use. If they weren’t crinkled, the smooth slick surface was useless. The dull surfaced pages would soften when they were crumpled were more comfortable.

In the winter, I put off the trip to the john until my bladder bulged or I was about to lose control on my puckering string. I’d hurry across the back porch. My winter boots kept my feet safe from splinters, then I faced the danger of descending a dozen snow and ice-covered concrete stairs. Quite a few cousins chipped a tooth, cut a lip, or earned a goose egg in the rush down those stairs. There was no railing to hang onto or to steady anyone in their trip.

Bravery got me to the toilet where I’d to remove the lid for the hole. Frigid winter gales blasted through the wind tunnel I’d just created. It took real courage to unfasten my trousers, push them into a crumpled heap around my ankles, then gingerly place my bare flesh becoming a partial stopper for the arctic gusts.

The seat was frigid. I was glad that it was wood and not metal or I’d have been frozen to the seat until the spring thaw. The wind always found a way to squeeze through the hole between the cold seat and my warm flesh. It discovered new ways to slip icy fingers beneath my coat and caress my chest and back. Layers of goose bumps would appear and I’d start to shiver. I hurried to finish before my teeth began to chatter sending out distress signals in Morse code.

I leafed through the pages of the catalogue searching for a sheet of cherished dull paper. I was almost at the point of panic thinking of the torture that the shiny page would cause. Frantically… desperately, I flipped through leaves of advertisement passing over tantalizing panty and brassiere pictures would normally titillate boys to linger, were cast aside in the search for just one dull leaf of paper.

Aha, I was saved! One lone dull page remained. It was the catalogue’s index directing inquisitive minds to the locations for men’s shoes, suits, and ties. A hasty tear, the quick crush, then smoothing of the paper was the prelude to the actual cleaning.

The return of my pants to the point they could be cinched around my waist was greeted with welcome warmth. I prayed the return trip to the warmth of Grandma’s house would be uneventful as I jogged up the Everest of her back porch steps.

 

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

I can remember my mom Sybil Miner Beck singing that old song on cold mornings. With the temperature at 0 degrees Fahrenheit and a wind chill of minus 8 degrees Fahrenheit, it’s way too cold for me. In my youth school schedules were never delayed, just because it was cold. Only ice and snowy roads cancelled classes. I can remember walking to an unheated wooden bus shanty, huddling inside. At least we were out of the wind as we waited for the long yellow and black behemoth to arrive trailing a plume of steam and fumes. The brakes squealed as it stopped opening its maw. We would hurry to be swallowed by it, joining fellow students for the ride to school happy for the small but welcome warmth inside.

My mom had a quirky trait of singing a chorus of a song when it matched something one of us kids would say. The song always had some tie in with what we had just said. She only did it at home for us, so I’ve always thought that it was special for the family. If she would have tried it in public, people probably would have thought her crazy. I must have thought that it was special, because I picked up her unusual trait and will often sing a few lines from a song, but I have added telling a story or sharing a joke that mimics some word in something that was said. I did this when I supervised at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. I’m not sure if anyone thought I should be wearing a straight jacket or not, but most of the time, it did bring a smile. Hopefully, I made a fellow employee’s day go a bit better.

I decided my New Year’s resolution for several years and have been practicing. That promise is “If I am grumpy, I don’t leave home. No one wants to deal with a grumpy old man.” So far, I’ve been able to keep it. It makes people smile when I share my resolution with them. Those who enjoy it the most are the cashiers at stores where I shop. They sometimes will share a horror story of a rude or irate customer.

So, to my friends and readers, I challenge you to adopt the same New Year’s resolution.

Dog Days

Thinking back to the days of my youth and the dogs that have graced my life, I would like to share some of their names and what I can remember of them and the spots they still hold in my mind. The first dog that was introduced in my life, I can’t really remember, but because my parents told me stories of him. Although I cannot remember his name, I must include this almost mythical beast. He was a Great Dane and became my self appointed babysitter. My parent’s house was near busy highway, Rt. 711 and If I wandered too near, that dog would grab the seat of my pants and drag me back into the yard.

The next dog I’ll mention is Laddie. He was my Uncle Charles Bottomley’s dog. It was black and brown with a white patch of long hair on its chest. My uncle would talk me into holding onto the leash, then call from across the yard, “Here Laddie.” I would be jerked off my feet, but I refused to release the leash, and would be pulled along with my feet barely touching the ground while Uncle Charles laughed.

I’m sure there were other dogs, but the next I remember was Bimbo. He was my mother’s dog, a Jack Russell mix and smart as a whip. His territory in the winter was our basement. My mom, Sybil Beck would sometimes give Bimbo a bone to gnaw on. If he wasn’t chewing on it, he would bury it in the coal bin. When my parents tossed on a shovelful of coal in the furnace, I’m sure he lost several bones before he decided to rescue them before they too disappeared. Mom said, “When I entered the coal bin, Bimbo would sit there with the bone between his feet. After shoveling the coal and hanging the scoop shovel back on the peg, Bimbo would dig a new hole to hide his prize.”

I found a pup behind our home and took it to my grandparents Miner. When Gram Rebecca saw it she said “Look at those paws. It’s going to be a big dog.” She named it Laddie and decided to keep it. Laddie followed my granddad Raymond around the farm. That was a Godsend. This was the beginning of Granddad’s dementia and Laddie was his guard and guide. There were several times Granddad would wander the fields and thickets on the farm getting confused, and Laddie would always lead him home.

Tending the Flock

At Christmas 2018, my daughter Anna Elizabeth Prinkey came to my house to borrow the plywood sheep from a nativity set I made over twenty years ago. If I’m ambitious, I pose Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, the manger and two sheep in my front yard with a spot light on them. This year, I left them stored in my basement and shed. I wasn’t feeling super Christmassy and felt happy and satisfied that I was able to put up the artificial tree with all of the lights and decorations.

I was really lazy in 2017. I hadn’t put away two crèche manger scenes. They were still perched atop the barrister cabinets for this past Christmas. This year, I decided to store them away when I dismantled the tree.

The church needed sheep for the Christmas play and Anna cattle-rustled my two sheep for the scenery of the play. When the performance was over and I was able to claim my sheep, our Pastor said to me, “I really wish we could have sheep that are knee high for future plays.” The sheep I had from home were only fifteen and eighteen inches high.

I remembered that I had a half sheet of wood paneling stored in my shed. An idea slowly formed in my head. I could make a few sheep from it. I had paint left over from my bathroom remodel and craft paints from past projects. I dragged the half sheet into my basement, placed it on a table, then studied it to see how I should sketch the patterns for the most sheep from the wood I had.

By placing the heads, backs, and tail ends in different positions, I was able to design a flock of four sheep. Each one was nearly twenty-four inches high. Only one got short changed. That wooly lamb was in a laying down position with its legs tucked under it to fit the amount of space that remained.

I cut them out, painted them, and even slotted their feet to allow slotted bases to slip on. The bases allowed the sheep to stand without propping them up. Later, after several splinters in my fingers, I was able to finish the entire flock and take them to church. I had no desire to store them at my house until next Christmas.

By making the sheep, I’ve accomplished two purposes; the Pastor now has his sheep and I have less clutter at my house.
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Snow Way

My house is located off the main highways and as a result the nearby roads are less likely to be treated as quickly as Route 30, Route 31, or Route 711. The snowfall is the same as the main roads, but because there is a little less maintenance, coupled with the fact that the wind causes drifting snow to cover the road more rapidly, I have on several occasions been snowed in and unable to travel.

The minor “snowed in” times were when snow plows would deposit the drifting snow from the road just above my house and fill my driveway. Sometimes, they would push three feet of packed snow into the end of my drive. I don’t have a four-wheel drive vehicle and to escape, I have to use sweat, work, and muscle to unclog my drive.

But what I really want to talk about are the times when the snow plows themselves get stuck and are unable to keep the roadway open. There have been many times it has been a close call, only having one lane open, but there were at least twice my family and I were cut off from civilization, unable to get out, even in an emergency.

Between my house and Route 31, there are several open fields at the top of knolls. Yearly, they manage to fill with some of higher drifting snow. I can recall a time that a snow plow actually got stuck and the second came to pull it out. They both became trapped in the packed drift. The Penn Dot management finally sent a huge vehicle with a fan-like snow blower on the front to free the trucks.

Another year after working the 11-7 shift, I was able to make it home with my bumper pushing drifts much of the way. I parked my car on the road at the end of my drive until I could open the drift that barred my entrance. That was on a Saturday morning. By 10 AM Saturday morning, there was no more traffic on the road; nothing. Although the wind continued to fill my drive with drifts, I didn’t shovel. There was no use with no place to go. I felt very fortunate that the electricity stayed on. Between the wood burner and the oil furnace, we were able to stay warm. Sunday evening at 10 PM, the road was finally opened by a tractor with a large scoop bucket. It lifted the snow and dropped it to the side of the road.

Keeping Promises

I mentioned several things on my Facebook posts that needed follow up to tell the full story. I looked back through my previous Blogs and wasn’t able to find them. I have so many stored from the past. They’re listed under titles and sometimes I can’t find what I want. My titles are often obscure and don’t share the facts that are buried in the text.

There are two stories I wanted to share. The first was in response to a cartoon about a person that was too hot under a blanket, too cold without being covered, but with the body covered and one leg protruding it was “just right.” My wife Cindy had the same attitude. She called her leg “her thermostat.” Most of the time, I had no problem, but in the middle of the winter, it would get icy cold. When it became too cold for her, she would draw in back under the covers and place against my back. The shock can be a real eye-opener in the middle of the night. The worst part was, she would immediately stick her other “thermostat” out from the blankets to cool. Oh how I miss that shock therapy.

The other story was a post saying, “Don’t tell me about your childhood problems, I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk as a kid.” Lawrence Welk was a staple our Saturday evenings. Just as sure as I knew the sun was going to come up in the morning, I was positive that my dad Carl would sit in his swivel reclining rocker directly in front of our black and white television to enjoy the music, then almost immediately fall asleep. I tried on many occasions to stealthily change the channel pf that old television to anything that was more interesting than music of an accordion or “The Shrimp Boats are Coming.”

As soon as I would click the knob, my dad would sit upright and snort, “I’m watching that.” My hopes dashed, I’d turn the channel back and we’d continue to watch Lawrence. One time, I thought I’d prove Dad wrong, I slowly turned his swivel rocker to face away from the T. V. Great planning, then click…the chair bolted upright with Dad sputtering, “I was watch…” His voice faded to nothing when he wasn’t facing the set. He returned the chair to face the television and we watched Lawrence Welk. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t pleased and tried to kick my butt as I walked past. He missed and nearly fell out of his chair. Although I still don’t like to hear the bubbly music, that program continues to have a special memory for me.

Family, God and Now Doctor

It’s unanimous. They all agree, I’m too old and too whatever to climb onto the roof for repairs or to clean my chimney. After last Friday night when I became ill with nausea, dizziness, and heart palpitations, I called my doctor Monday to arrange an appointment. At the office, I filled her in with my symptoms and a bit more history of my fall in February of 2015. I shared that I’d had two bleeds in my head from the fall, that I’ve had several episodes of disequilibrium prior to the fall, and that I’ve recently had several instances of an irregular heartbeat. The irregular heartbeats occur randomly and would last about 20 minutes. I also shared that I didn’t go to the hospital because of its short duration. By the time I would go to the hospital, there would be nothing to evaluate. She nodded her head like she understood.

While a talked to her, I said that this recent incident delayed my need to climb onto the roof to clean my chimney. Her look was something akin to horror. Now she was shaking her head and telling me no, stay off the roof. Her warning coincided with my family’s wishes and God’s delays from the illness and the weather.

There’s nothing more frustrating than having someone tell me I’m too old to do something. When I get to the point in life that feel I’m too old, that is completely different, but back to my story.

She began to type on her computer. When she was done, she turned the screen to me and said, “I’m ordering some blood work. No EKG yet. Without having the symptoms now, it would accomplish nothing. It’s too soon to order a Holter monitor and with the symptoms so random it would be senseless.”

But she did order a major battery of blood tests. Myocardial enzyme tests because as a diabetic, heart attacks can be silent, only appearing as nausea. The next test was a complete blood count to rule out a sinus infection. She ordered a urinalysis and electrolytes. An A 1 C was to check my blood sugar. Because I’d complained about aches and pains in my joints, she threw in a test for Lyme’s disease. After all, I do go hunting and ticks are prevalent in Pennsylvania.

So, now I sit and wait to hear the results from the tests and dream about prancing about on the roof waving a chimney brush singing “Chim chiminey, chim chiminey, chim chim cheree.” Where is Mary Poppins when I need her?

It’s God Calling

I had plans for Friday. After taking a friend to her morning appointment for physical therapy, I had planned to pull my ladders from the basement and give my chimney a good cleaning. My son gave loan to me his chimney brush and the rods. However, on my way to the appointment my front wheel made a grating sound. That isn’t something that any driver likes to hear.

As soon as I got home, I called my mechanic. He told to bring it over to diagnose the problem. Once my car was up on the lift, he popped off the wheels and as I thought, the brake pad was wearing thin. “About a month and they’ll need to be changed.” The rotors were starting to have grooves worn into them as well. He suggested that I change them. I’m mechanically dyslexic, but I could see the wear on the brakes and the wisdom of changing them before I really had problems. He’d have to order the parts, so I go back this week for repairs. When I returned home, I decided to eat lunch and wait for the sun to completely dry off my metal roof before I attempted to climb Mt. Everest to the chimney top.

I’ve had several episodes with disequilibrium and my fall in 2015 causing two bleeds in my head, I’m not comfortable higher than one story, but I cautiously will climb onto the roof of my two story house for a chimney sweep. As I waited, I began to feel nauseated, then a bout of disequilibrium arrived. I checked my blood pressure. It was a little high, but my blood sugar was okay. I waited to see if it would pass. It didn’t and my pulse became irregular for a short period of time. No roof for me right.

The ill feeling continued all Saturday, although my pulse steadied. The irregular beats usually last 30 minutes. My kids say, “Go to the hospital,” but by the time I’d get to there, the symptoms would be gone and they would be evaluating nothing. By Saturday evening, I was feeling a bit improved, but my equilibrium was still off. Darkness interrupted my rooftop plans again.

Sunday was church day. Morning services, Sunday school, then we had a gathering for a noon meal and combined evening services. Everything had improved to the point that I may have been tempted to make an ascent to the peak, but I choose not to work on Sunday since I’ve retired. No more forced labor on the day of rest. God has spoken. I am hoping he gives a good health and weather day soon.

The Stripper

She stands in my living room waiting for me. Her limbs spread wide and waiting for me. She’s been waiting for me to touch her again. I last helped her with her holiday costume was last year. I carried the boxes that held all of her gaudy jewelry and glitter where they could be sorted through and then put in place. Many of her adornments are antiques and costly, while others are mere imitation and worth little more than a sentimental value. Her star once burned bright and she was at the top of her profession. Now, it doesn’t shine nearly as brightly.

When I show photographs of her, all my friends go “ooh and ah” over her beauty. She’s not as voluptuous as she once was and now is beginning to show her age. I started yesterday to help her put away her Christmas costume until she comes out of hiding next year and be welcomed again in tinsel town. Wrapped in lights, she hides her age well. Despite her advanced years, she stands straight and tall, no wobbles or sags.

If you haven’t guessed yet, I am the stripper… and removing the ornaments from the Christmas tree is the yearly task I like least. Each year, I tell my kids that I am only going to use the top three feet of this artificial tree and each year I cave. I drag the huge, coffin-like plastic storage container from the upstairs. One good thing has happened. Since it is only me and the cat Willow, I no longer store the chest in the attic, brave the frozen darkness, and ease the massive container down the retractable stairs.

Less than a month ago, I assembled the branches and arranged the limbs to resemble a live tree. Lights come next, then the white glittering tinsel. An old plastic star like the one that graced the top of my parents’ tree is fastened to the top branch replacing a lacey gold aluminum that could no longer be used. Next comes the hanging of the hundreds of ornaments that covers her shapely form. Ornaments that dangle, ornaments that rest on the thick places in the branches, and some that are the least breakable always are on the lowest branches, just in case Willow decides to play.

The stripping started yesterday. After removing the ornaments and storing them safely away, I removed the tinsel. The tree stands dark and forlorn, ready for me to finish, her lights dark and waiting to be removed. Each branch to be removed, bundled, tied, and laid to rest in its large blue container. Maybe I’ll use only the top three feet next year.

Happiest of Holidays

To all of my Jewish friends, Chanukah is over; to my many Christian friends, Christmas Day is now past, and to each and every one of my friends, 2018 is now history and the New Year’s celebration is over as we start a new year. I would have wished my only friend who celebrates Russian Orthodox Christmas, but alas, she too has passed away. I loved hearing her tell of all the bargains that she got, because she celebrated Christ’s birth twelve days after everyone else.

I also worked with a man who was Apostolic and corrected me when I wished him a Merry Christmas. “We don’t celebrate Christmas, but thank you for the thought.”

Rebuffed, I weakly responded, “Then have a happy New Year. I’m sure that you and your church have a new year.”

Yesterday, I tucked away the last of the passing year’s celebrations away. I visited a friend’s home for a New Year’s open house. She graciously allows her friends to gather and share all sorts of finger foods, snacks, and her usual, ham, macaroni and cheese casserole as well as memories, stories, and laughter. To lessen the burden for her guests bring various goodies to share: cookies, drink, salads, cheese, or vegetable trays. My celebration was a little hurried, because my son and his family were coming to visit at my house. My time with them was just a continuation of the festivities. I made the Pennsylvanian traditional pork, sauerkraut, and mashed potatoes. She brought the southwest traditional black-eyed peas, bean dip salsa, and corn chips. The celebration was also for my daughter-in-law Renee Beck’s birthday.

My mom always told me that whatever you do on January first you’ll continue to do all through the coming year. So, on December 31st, I did all of my laundry, I cleaned my house, and I cooked food to celebrate the New Year. I’m so happy that I won’t have to do laundry, clean, or cook in the coming year.

All that is left to tuck finally 2019 away is to take down the Christmas tree and to put away the two crèches that I was too lazy to remove and store from 2018. Do I hear any volunteers?