Safety First
A military friend of mine works for a heavy construction company where safety is a constant issue. Special clothing is necessary to protect workers from injury and other health issues. Workers are required to wear steel-toed shoes, hard hats, flame retardant clothing, special gloves, and must have a respirator to prevent from breathing in dust and chemicals. Last evening my friend called me and asked for my advice. I like to talk and often share my opinion, so I was asked what to do.
A fellow worker showed up for work wearing a dress with a long skirt and high heels. He showed up without a hard hat and without the respirator saying the color clashed with his ensemble. My friend told him in no uncertain words to go home and to leave the site for his safety. About fifteen minutes later my friend got a call from the Human Relations Office about the incident. The dude in the dress had secretly videoed the entire confrontation. Apparently he immediately contacted the Human Resource personnel because his “rights” were being violated. My friend is to report to Human Resources tomorrow to discuss the incident today.
The friend called me to ask my advice. From my limited view, I could see, the man in the dress violated several of the company’s policies on the shoes, clothing, and other gear necessary to protect each employee. I stressed to my friend, say that the man was sent home because he wasn’t dressed to meet the company’s policies that had been created for each employee’s safety. The dress was certainly not flame retardant, the high heels didn’t have steel toes, he wasn’t wearing a hard hat, and he was missing the respirator. I said to stress the reason was for safety issues. The regulations were created to protect each individual worker. The dress code was also to prevent an employee from having a reason for a law suit. The guy’s refusal to wear proper attire needed to be addressed. His attire was completely unacceptable to perform his job safely and should have been sent home until he complied.
I told my friend it sounded like the guy wants to sue the construction company for a big paycheck. I told my buddy to continually bring up the reason that the man was sent home was for safety reasons and because he was improperly dressed. The man and other employees would be adversely affected and the company would be held libel if the man was injured. If asked, say, “I don’t care what the man wears at home, but there are rules to which ALL employees must adhere. I am anxious to hear the outcome.”

Old Age and the Ice Age
The power of the Ice Age glaciers is ever present in the southwestern corner of Pennsylvania. Piles of rock and stones are often spread out in the forests and wooded areas. Many of the farms have had to remove these rocky deposits before the land could be cultivated and fields are bordered by stacked stone walls. Some glacier-placed huge boulders were strewn across wide areas. There are several places near my home where massive jumbles of rock dominate the landscape. They have aged only a little over the eons. Moss, trees, rain, and snow have done little to diminish their size.
When I turn from the roadway an area I walk is a jumble of rock that forms a jigsaw terrain that’s covered in moss, leaves, and downed trees. There are animal trails and logging roads that make traversing this maze easier; however the weeds, ferns, green-briars, and fallen trees cause detours. They increase the difficulty when I decide to stray from these pathways. That is what I did on my walk Tuesday; I strayed. As I walked my hips and knees increasingly grew tired and worn. I thought I’d follow a game trail as a shortcut. It would cut down the distance that I walked.
The problem was that the game trail disappeared and I found myself in a jumble of boulders. In my old age scrambling over the moss covered boulders is not my idea of a good time. I’m not nearly as spry as I once was. My footing isn’t as sure as it was in my youth. My erratic wandering through the rock strewn woods was epic. Clusters of rocks and debris didn’t allow me to walk around many of the larger boulders. It necessitated that I had to climb up and over them. Scattered around the bases were smaller rocks that were traps for missteps that would twist and probably break an ankle or to cause me to fall on their rugged, hard surfaces. I’d gone beyond the point of no return. I could only forge ahead.
Safely crossing the boulder strewn area, I entered the leaf strewn forest floor. The dangers that were there were smaller rocks that hid an uneven and often hole-covered part that I had to cross. My skills were put to the test. I navigated myself out of the woods and into a neighboring field, making my way back to the house. I was tired to be home, glad that I’d done my shopping earlier.

Spring and Thoughts Turn to Blossoms and Flowers
Remembering flowers from my past, I think of my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. She loved flowers. In the summer she had a flowerbed of pansies and the long green porch boxes filled with red geraniums. The pansies were her favorite. She would say they reminded her of little boys with dirty faces. In the winter, her windowsills were filled with cuttings of the geraniums. Their leaves had a spicy aroma when rubbed. At the end of her upstairs hall was a huge Christmas cactus with its green leaves and deep pink blossoms cascading down the sides of a stainless steel cream separator bowl.
I can’t really remember special flowers for my Grandmother Anna Nichols Kalp Beck, but she loved a huge oak tree in her side yard and would often sit in a metal yard chair enjoying the shade.
My Mother Sybil Miner Beck loved her roses, often starting them from cuttings. She would snip a rose stem, place it under a Mason jar, then cover it with straw for some time. She’d occasionally check on its progress, until it took root and began to grow. She had several colors from a pale yellow to a bright crimson. I think her favorite was a parchment color that had a large rose blossom.
My mother-in-law Retha Johnson Morrison always had bleeding heart baskets hanging on her front porch. I can remember sitting on the swing with Cindy Morrison Beck while we were courting and watching the humming birds visiting the baskets.
My wife Cindy’s favorite was daisies. It was great for me in the summer. I’d often pick the wild daisies and make a bouquet with whatever other flowers were blooming at the time. The bouquet was there as a surprise for her when she came home after teaching. I won’t say I was cheap, but I will admit to being frugal.
My older Daughter Amanda Beck Yoder’s favorite is the calla lily. She had a large bouquet of them in her wedding. I bought a large framed picture of calla lilies as a wedding gift. It hangs on their living room wall.
My daughter-in-law Renee Largent Beck carried a wedding bouquet of wildflowers and daisies to honor my wife Cindy. Cindy died in March and the wedding was in August. Renee’s favorite flower is forget-me-nots.
My younger daughter Anna Beck Prinkey loves sunflowers. Sunflowers made up much of her wedding bouquet. The sunflowers were the usual color of gold with dark brown centers, but I don’t think it mattered what color they were. Now there are so many variations available.

Banned From the County Courthouse
Several years back I answered a call for jury duty at the Fayette County Courthouse. As a citizen of the United States and Fayette County, I felt it was my responsibility to go. I was retired and didn’t have anything else exciting to do. That day, I was blessed when the parking garage gate was open. I was able to park for free. I made my way to the courthouse and entered into a courtroom for roll call. I was amazed at the inefficiency of the officials. Instead of someone checking people as they entered, marking them on the roster and assigning a juror badge number, the juror pool sat and waited until the room was full. One by one the names were called and given badges. It was at least an hour wasted and sitting on those hard oak benches irritated my sciatic nerve.
Our group was assigned to report to another courtroom. We sat on hard oak chairs for another hour. The ache in my back worsened and my foot began to go numb. After the judge sat on his throne and lawyers made plea deal one after another, we were excused to wait in the hall. By then it was lunchtime and we were dismissed to find food nearby. When I returned, my pain had worsened. I hunted the office of the lady who was in charge of the jurors and told her about my problem with the progressive numbness in my foot. She said if I stayed until three PM, she would excuse me from jury duty.
While I was talking with her, I mentioned, “The last time I was here, the prosecutor didn’t do his job.” She looked startled. I shared, “The accused stole an air conditioner for the aluminum and the prosecutor failed to say whether it was commercial or home model and whether it was functioning or not. We could only judge the accused with scrap metal prices for the aluminum.”
At three I left AND would you believe it, the very next week, I received another jury duty summons. I sent back a scathing letter telling the courthouse that they could send the sheriff and all his deputies, but I wasn’t coming back. I also explained that I’d already been there and my sciatica problem. They sent a return letter saying it was no longer necessary for me to serve as a juror. I’d been banned.
Because my address is Acme, I also get jury summons from Westmoreland County. When I received one from Westmoreland, I returned it saying I lived in Fayette. When they responded I needed a doctor’s excuse, I phoned them. The reason for the continuing snafu is the list is generated in Harrisburg. Enough said.

 They Flew Through the Air with the Greatest of Ease
Our guest speaker at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society was Mr. Barry Hauger who shared stories about his Grandfather Clyde Hauger. Clyde was an early local pilot that helped to establish commercial flights, airports, and airmail routes in the ridges of southwest Pennsylvania. These endeavors started when he was seventeen with a purchase of a biplane. On his return from flying cross-country to our area, he joined several other daring young men in establishing temporary landing strips and permanent airports.
Barry Hauger shared that his father, brother, sister and himself were pilots who flew biplanes as well. Biplanes were more difficult to land than today’s airplanes. The landing gears were much different. Today’s plans have the smaller wheel in the front which allows the pilot to keep the nose of the plane level, giving the pilot a clear view of where he/she is aiming the plane. The old biplanes had the smaller wheel in the back making landings more difficult. The plane would approach like a duck with the nose up and the butt down. The pilot wasn’t able to see exactly where the plane was while landing.
He shared stories about his Grandfather’s friends and other pilots. He explained where the local landing strips were located. Mr. Hauger brought two scrapbooks filled with photos, news articles, and documents of Clyde’s adventures. He brought four wooden keys that were “keys to the city” from several local towns celebrating the airmail pick-ups and deliveries.
Barry also brought an actual airmail cylinder and the mail-pouch that was nestled inside to share with us. He explained collecting air-mail was a difficult task, the pilot had to fly low and make a blind snatch for the container of letters suspended between two poles only thirty feet in the air with his target having a flag to designate the target. Often fog would cause the pilot to make several attempts.

 Ga Ga…Go Go…Google
I was just a young boy and when kids our age would see a beautiful woman that would make our hearts go pitter-patter, we would say that we were Ga-Ga over them.  It meant we were enamored with her. We thought that she was beautiful. That we thought she was racy, and possibly a girl of our dreams. It was an era when soldiers would paint pictures of them on their planes or on their tanks. These were the women caused men to think of home. It was a time when mechanics kept calendars with bathing beauties pictures hung up somewhere in their garage. It was a time we listened to women’s voices as they sang. We understood the lyrics. Many of these women weren’t svelte, but their voices caused us to listen with rapt attention, unlike the gyrating Lady Ga Ga of today. I hesitate to call them artists when they flaunt themselves with more risqué attire than did the burlesque queens like Ann Rand and her fan or bubble dances. Is it to deflect from their lack of quality in lyrics, music, or the sound of their voices?
When I see the words Go GO, I am reminded of the back-up dancers wearing knee high boots, mini-skirts, and huge earrings. These Go Go dancers were the eye-candy who would dance behind the vocalists and singing artists to add visual excitement to a lone entertainer or a small group of musicians. With the introduction of groups or back up bands, many actually preferred to perform stage before a live audience and the Go Go dancers were more of a distraction than an enhancement to the program. Often dancers got in the way. One exception where the Go Go dancers were welcome and that was Laugh In. Laugh In was a mixed genre of entertainment that thrust the use of Go Go dancers to the forefront. The television comedy program used Go Go dancers to transition from one comedy routine to another.
Google is a more recent occurrence. It was launched September 4th, 1998 in California. Since then it’s grown exponentially and has become a relative monopoly as a search engine. I understand capitalism and the need to make money when you “sell” a product, but it does get frustrating when Google monitors your searches and sells them to another company. If I search for a product on line, I get flooded with companies who offer me the same product that I “Googled” just a bit earlier.
A friend posted that yesterday was the “National Bean Counter Day.” I posted that the bean counters want to know everything you do, know everywhere you go, and anything you buy; just another unwelcome extension of crypto-currency to control our lives. So needless to say, I’m not Ga Ga over Google but I often Go Go to it on the internet.

 Who Likes Bright Colors
My Grandmother Anna Nichols Kalp Beck must have some Gypsy blood flowing through her veins and passed it along to my Aunt Helen Beck Stahl. I say this because of the colors that they chose to decorate their homes. For an example, when you walked into my grandmother’s kitchen it looked like someone had plucked the tail feathers from a peacock.
The floor was covered in an intense reddish-maroon floor tile. The lower half of the wall was covered in bright blue Congoleum that was printed white liens to simulate tiles. Above the Congoleum, the walls were painted a bright yellow. It wasn’t quite as deep in color as yellow mustard, but darn close. Thankfully the ceiling remained white. But wait…there’s more. I think that Granddad Edson Beck had some mint green paint left over from the sitting room walls, because that’s what Grandma painted the homespun looking, handmade cabinets above the stove, sink, and granite-topped cabinet that sat to one side of the sink. She did keep that cabinet to match the ceiling, metal sink, and stove. AND there’s more. Apparently she didn’t have enough color yet…the ruffled curtains over the sink and another kitchen window were pale lavender. The odd thing is, although it was harsh upon entering her kitchen, it suited my Grandmother and Granddad didn’t complain.
My Aunt Helen was a little less in your face with colors, only because for the most part, you could see only one color at a time. Each of the rooms of her house had a different color. They weren’t the pale subdues hues in most homes, but the bright colors from south of the border. Bright turquoise graced the walls next to a hot red-orange melon color. In the next room might be a vibrant lime green. These were the downstairs rooms. I was never upstairs to see their bedrooms.
If you remember the ditty setting aside one day for laundry, one for ironing, one for baking, etc. Aunt Helen had that routine PLUS, each of those days she spring cleaned one room of her house.
This same aunt was struck by lightning several times. It was never a direct hit, but she was barefooted on a wet porch when the lightning struck close. The tingling in her feet made her dance. I’ve always wondered whether the bright colors reflected her joy and thankfulness of not being injured or killed by the lightning.

Something Special
There are several items that I remember from my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner’s things that she had in her house. I was able to collect several or to find similar items.  Most are not expensive or rare, but remind me of her home. A deep green fez-shaped bowl was one item that she owned. She always served a salad of vegetables fresh from her garden. I found several other smaller ones and keep them resting like nesting dolls inside the original.
She had several ruby and crystal pitchers and cups. I loved to see their colors in her rounded curio breakfront cupboard. I have a ruby cup and crystal saucer of hers. I think that is why I have collected more ruby pieces. When the sunlight pierces them, it looks so beautiful.
An item that wasn’t my grandmothers was a paste-ware creamer pitcher. The white with blue design belonged to Gram’s neighbor. When Mrs. Witt passed away they had an auction. When everything was sold and everyone had gone, my mom Sybil Miner Beck looked under Mrs. Witt’s porch where she sometimes stored things. Mom found the pitcher and claimed it. It’s been passed down to me.
Another item that impressed me was also in the breakfront cabinet. It was a white and pink cup and saucer trimmed in gold leaf. What caught my attention was that it wasn’t an ordinary cup. It was a mustache cup. A mustache cup had an extra piece of porcelain across the rim. It allowed a gentleman to sip tea through an opening without wetting his mustache. Often a gentleman’s mustache was shaped and held in place with mustache wax. Hot tea would melt the wax and allow the whiskers to droop and well as ruining the flavor of the tea.
I remembered several wire and mirrored glass bead ornaments that hung on Gram’s Christmas tree. There were stars, crosses, and even a birdhouse. This past Christmas I was able to purchase a beaded star. It was smaller in size, but it still keeps thoughts of my Grandmother alive at Christmas.
I guess the largest and most prized item that belonged to my Grandmother is her photograph in an oval frame. It hangs in the entryway of my home. I’ve written before of its history and how a fast talking photographer enticed her into buying it. In a time when money was scarce and the fact that my Gram was a frugal lady, it’s a miracle that it exists at all.

So Long Pun Jar
No, I’m not saying goodbye to a town in the country of India, I’m planning on telling you the history and location of something with a special memory to me. In the past I’ve seen many places and people that have jars set aside to collect money when a person swears or curses. The jar is called a curse jar. If a person swears or uses a curse word, he or she must place a designated amount of money into the curse jar. Along a similar vein is the Pun Jar.
Several years ago I belonged to the Mount Pleasant Writers Group. We would gather at the local library and share our recent projects, sometimes reading part of the book or poem we were writing. It was also a place to display a novel or book one of us had written. It was here I read just one story about a retired homicide detective nicknamed Tommy Two Shoes and was encouraged to write more stories about him. This encouragement caused Tommy Miner to fill four books.
After our meeting was over, several of us were hungry and we decided to hit a local restaurant. After several meals at different restaurants, we settled into the McCali Manor on the Diamond in Mt’ Pleasant, Pennsylvania. It was quiet and not very busy. It suited us to gather around a table and talk as we waited for our meals to be prepared. As with most writers, ideas pop into our heads and a curious turn of a phrase reminds us of another. Puns invariably pop into our heads and escape from our mouths. The owner used to groan at the barrage of corny jokes and sayings. She once said, “I need a Pun Jar and I’d be rich.”
After our next meeting, the Pun Jar was born. My creation sat in the middle of the table with the suggested donation of 25 cents: one pun, one quarter. It never got full, but it did collect some change…money in the jar, not a change in our sharing of puns. There was one unusual item inside, a bent fork. A cook tried a new way to cook some ribs and one of the writers bent his fork because the meat was tough. Wiped clean, it joined the money in the jar.
Alas the jar is no more. Recently it went up in smoke when Mcali Manor burned. Its memory has turned to ashes and that burns me up. But what in the blazes can I do. It’s gone. So long Pun Jar.

Favorite Color
I don’t really have a favorite color. It changes with my mood. When I was in high school, I wore bland, non-descript clothing. I wore subdued colors mostly gray and black attire. After graduation, I joined the Navy and I advanced to “Navy blue.”  I got an early out to attend college. It was the age of bellbottom pants made of double-knit plaid material or blue jeans. The shirts were polyester; some were covered in wild print. But I believe most of mine were solid colors. I must admit I did wear some double-knit, plaid bellbottoms.
My favorite color after the dreary winter months is green. The grass turns from dull brown to a luxurious “need mowed” green. Shortly thereafter, the yellow of colt’s foot and dandelions add their brightness. Daffodils, hyacinths, tulips, and lilies of the mountain display their colorful hues. Apple and cherry blossoms, forsythia, and the budding leaves fill the trees and bushes. I love those colors too.
The fertile brown of tilled earth soon becomes dotted with green sprouts interspaced with the rich greens of transplanted seedlings. That is also beautiful to me. The changing seasons definitely affects my favorite colors.
Red strawberries and tomatoes display their delicious colors. Soon peppers, peas, and beans dangle on the vines and plants like tasty edible earrings. Harvest time explodes with ripe colors. Different shades say they are ready to be chosen. They are ready for me to enjoy their colors.
All too soon the gardens are empty with stalks that grow brown, ready to be composted for the sake of the next generation. The glorious summer green trees share their magnificent hues of yellow, red, orange, amber, and some even purple. Just like a tapestry, in chorus they become my favorite color.
Slowly they lose their brilliant hues and develop a variety of browns, from a pale tan to a deep crimson-brown. They fall to the ground and remake monochrome tapestry, waiting to be covered by winter’s insulating blanket of snow.
Sometimes winter drifts in and sometime it swirls in, dancing snowflakes arrive. The color that catches my eye is white as it gathers on the tree branches, grass, and bushes. It is in stark contrast to the black branches. Sometimes the freezing rain appears first coating the trees with crystal ice fingers. I’m not sure if crystal can be classified as color, but it sure is beautiful and the sunshine creates rainbows and shimmering scenes.
Choosing a favorite color, probably not, but favorite colors…yes, if I’m in the mood.

Wearing Baggy Pants
Bagging pants that sag below a person’s waistline sometimes hanging beneath the butt weren’t brought into fashion by prisoners and the “wanna-be” thugs of recent years. Scenes like that occurred many years prior. Let me explain. While visiting my grandparents Ray and Becky Rugg Miner’s house, my father Carl Beck happened to walk by the bottom of the staircase as Gram was walking upstairs. Ceilings in the old farmhouse were twelve feet high and the stairway was long and lined with a dark oak banister. Gram’s arthritic knees and feet made her climb up the stairs slow, holding tightly to the banister for assistance. Dad saw something unusual. Apparently Gram forgot to pull her underwear up from half mast while using the bathroom. Part of her white cotton drawers was visible dangling below the hem of her house dress.
I’m not sure whether Dad Carl was actually being gentlemanly or whether he was too embarrassed and afraid to say something to Gram, but he found my mom Sybil Miner Beck and advised her of Gram’s problem. Mom went upstairs to help correct the situation.
My sister Kathy Beck Basinger picked up the nickname Droopy Drawers. Our mom took a photo as a toddler, wearing only her cotton underwear as she rummaging through a dresser drawer where Mom kept her purses. The underwear weren’t really baggy, but they looked as though they drooped in the seat.
My uncle Theodore, Ted was stick thin. He would cinch his trousers with a heavy belt. When he felt his pants droop, he’d put his arms against the sides of his pants and try to wrest them upwards, He called it “rootching” his pants.
Another memory of baggy underwear I have, I know I’ve shared before. When my wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I were first married, we had to count our pennies making each dollar count. One day she walked past me as I sat in the living room. The underwear she was wearing had the elastic separating from the panty’s cotton material. It gave the panties a lopsided appearance of a person who’s had a stroke where the one side of the person’s face droops down. I said, “Surely we have enough money to buy more underwear.
She replied, “I can still wear them. They’re good enough for everyday.”
As she walked by me the next time, I snatched at them, separating the elastic and panties even more. I said, “Now they’re not.” I knew that she hated mending clothing and this was beyond her usual repair from a bevy of safety pins. She stopped, turned and said, “You tore them. Now you’ll have to buy me new ones.” And I did. Every year for Christmas, Cindy was assured of one gift…new underwear.
 

 At the Edge of the Midnight Woods
Have you ever wakened with your heart pounding because you’ve just had a nightmare, where a parade of weird shapes, weird scenarios, and abstract thoughts that don’t in any way fit together? The images make absolutely no sense have somehow run rampant and fill your head. For some reason the line “At the edge of the midnight woods” I read triggered my creative juices to flow into the following poem.
At the edge of the midnight woods
Roam bizarre shapes wrapped in dark hoods
Nightmares haunting bedtime dreams
Severe specters filled with harsh screams
At the edge of midnight’s forest
Spirits whisper in the darkness
Dizzying heights, bottomless lows
Distorted, rippled shadows flow
At the edge of midnight’s thicket
 Terrors rush from fearful spigots
At the edge of the midnight copse
Black fear laughs at the death of hopes
Shuffling zombies mime silent songs
Devils march waving spear’s three prongs
At the edge of midnight bower
Where werewolves howl and ghosts cower
A weird winds whirls and terrors dwell
Dark shades of Hades, flames of Hell
At the edge of the midnight groves
Masked friends appear undead in droves
Distorted, twisting facts as lies
Where dying lives and living dies.
At the edge of midnight’s timber
Walk ghosts with limbs loose and limber
Twisted landscapes turned upside down
Ghastly scenes, realities drown
At the edge of the midnight trees
Decayed branches bared by disease
Slowed by cobwebs that cling and grasp
Serpents slither with scales that rasp
At the edge of midnight’s shadows
Light disappears and darkness flows
Only waking do nightmares flee
Only waking are we set free
Waking nightmares are understood
At the edge of the midnight wood.

 Friday Evening Entertainment
Friday evening I was invited to a 6th Grade County Chorus for the Westmoreland County Music Education Association by my granddaughter who was singing as part of the presentation. The energy and the sound of their combined voices were enjoyable to see and hear. The choices were varied and diverse. One theme did seem to dominate the program; togetherness that can change the world.
I agree that it is in the hands of our children and grandchildren to change things, to face the many challenges, and to solve problems, but that is a two edged sword. What is being taught in public schools to prepare them for those challenges? Are they being indoctrinated into “Woke” theology? Are they being introduced into gender fluidity? Is climate change a vital core issue? Is the red carpet being laid for a one world government? Is this togetherness a part of that?
Are things like local and American history being taught? Is pride in our country and loyalty to our nation and the flag being shared or being discarded? Does the course of Civics still exist? Is parental consent being upheld or have those rights been taken over by the government and school boards? There are so many other areas that government controlled schools are failing our future generations.
At one time school taxes paid for teachers’ salaries, provided paper, pencils, and texts. They paid for buildings and maintenance. But slowly the government began to demand paperwork to see that their “standards” were being met. More and more records must be kept to show those demands were being met, and the monies meant to educate our children shifted to mountains of paperwork to prove the school was meeting those standards. There’s the rub. Less education and more of a demand into a single, Federal controlled education system. When President Obama said teach “Common Core Math,” he implied that schools that refrained would lose finances or gain monies depending on whether or not they complied.
The songs that concerned me were “Together We Are Better,” “You and I Can Change the World,” and although the title is rather bland, “Why We Sing.” At first glance they are very nice, but only if the field of further education and be plowed and planted properly.