Thomas Beck's Blog: 2025

Friday, December 5, 2025

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.

Wednesday, December 3, 2025

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?

Monday, December 1, 2025

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.

Friday, November 28, 2025

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.

Wednesday, November 26, 2025

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.

Monday, November 24, 2025

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.

Friday, November 21, 2025

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.

Wednesday, November 19, 2025

Loco Motives

My earliest recollection of riding a train was in Kiddie Land, a part of the Amusement park called Idlewild, near Ligonier, Pennsylvania. Several child sized passenger cars followed an electric version of a red and silver diesel engine that ran on a circular track. Kids were placed single file in the open air passenger cars for the short trip. It was one of the many kid enticing rides of Kiddie Land.

My next memory was of a trip, an actual excursion on board a real train. The engine was a huge black B & O locomotive. I was in the first grade of elementary school and it was our field trip. We were bused to Connellsville, Pennsylvania to begin our journey. I can remember how massive the cars seemed. The porter was there to help us board. Eager faces of my classmates soon were pressed against windows and the hiss of the engine became louder with the whistle announcing that we were off. Views of the water and rocks of the Youghiogheny River, trees, and hills sped past us until we reached our destination in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. There was no tour of the waterfalls. There were far too many kids for the teacher to keep track of. We were hustled into a waiting school bus and shuttled back to school.

The next trip on a train was in Elkins West Virginia. A travel companion and I decided to escape for a mini-vacation. We stayed in a motel over night to limit the stress on our aging bodies. The tour was a six hour trip to Spruce, West Virginia. Spruce is a ghost town. The buildings of this old lumber town were razed long ago, but placards explained the businesses and locations. It was a pleasant train ride that had several interesting stops along the way to Spruce.

With the latest train ride I was able to eliminate an item from my bucket list. I was able to enjoy another train ride, but the difference was it was riding first class with meals and snacks served in the dining car. The Potomac Eagle left the town of Romney, West Virginia. The route followed the South Branch of the Potomac River. The tour director shared a wealth of information of historic homes and sites along the trail. The engineer stopped to allow passengers to ride in a gondola car to view a stretch of the river where bald eagles nest. I wasn’t disappointed and we saw several.

The meals, snacks, and service were great. It was a truly memorable way to cross off another item from my bucket list.

Monday, November 17, 2025

Autumn Hunting Season

The Hunter's Moon is the full moon that follows the Harvest Moon, traditionally it occurs in the month of October. Its name comes from its historical use to provide extra light for hunters to track and kill game for the coming winter. This moon is also known for rising soon after sunset for several nights in a row, giving the impression of more consistent moonlight, and can sometimes be called the "sanguine moon" or "blood moon" (though this is different from a blood moon caused by a lunar eclipse). The name is rooted in the need for extra light to hunt animals that had "fatted up" during the summer so that their meat could be preserved for the winter. Native American tribes and other cultures used the full moon cycle as a calendar for important events like planting and harvesting. Another name for the Hunter's Moon is the "drying rice moon."

It’s been a tradition for men (and sometimes women) to have the first day off for the deer hunting season as a legitimate, excused day off from school to go hunting with others in their family in an attempt to secure food for the winter larders. The tradition was the “coming-of-age” for many young boys and if the youngster was able to kill a deer, it was his initiation into manhood.

Pennsylvania deer hunting requires a general hunting license and the possibility of an antlerless deer license with specific seasons for each and regulations that include wearing of fluorescent orange. The 2025-26 season dates vary by weapon and location, and hunters should be aware of the requirements for hunting in state parks and state forests. Key requirements for all hunters are a valid license, fluorescent orange gear during specific seasons, and adherence to the one-antlered-deer-per-year limit.

Deerhaus

12 ounce ground deer liver 16 ounce deer meat 12 ounce bacon 2 ¼ quart water

2 tablespoon coarse black pepper 1 1/3 tablespoon salt 3 cups cornmeal

Mix deer liver, deer meat, bacon, and water. Cook until well done. Add the black pepper and salt. Brain the meat off. Slowly stir the cornmeal into the broth. When done cooking, add meat back in and cook until very thick. Stir while cooking. Pour into bread pans. Good warm or cold. Best browned in skillet on both sides.

Deer Jerky

½ cup soy sauce ½ Worcestershire sauce 1 tsp accent 2 tsp seasoned salt

1/3 tsp garlic powder 2/3 tsp black pepper liquid smoke few drops

Stir mixture well. Slice deer meat very thin and marinate in mixture overnight. Use dehydrator or oven to dry meat. (Above recipes are available in CRHS cook book)

Friday, November 14, 2025

Seasons Pass

The Chair

The old man sits in a chair by the door

waiting for someone who's been there before.

His skin is as thin as rice paper page,

drooping face speckled with spots of his age.

Drowsy head bobbing with white hair askew,

as light leaves the sky and lawn fills with dew

No headlights appear and shaking his head

Weary he rises and shuffles to bed

The old man sits by the door in a chair

no children or friends come visit him there.

Stirring as thoughts of them surface and rise.

With muscles twitching he opens his eyes,

through rheumy lenses and limited view

he sees youth passing, amazed how time flew.

The door remains closed, sealed tightly with rust.

The chair's now empty, filled only with dust.

The Sink Window

The old woman stands and leans on the sink,

she stares through windows to look and to think

Her steps now falter on knees filled with pain.

Wistfully her eyes stare down the long lane.

Wrinkles map her face. Age spots back her hands

wearying quickly from daily demands

No family’s seen, she turns and shakes her head,

closing the curtains she hobbles to bed.

The old woman wakes and on the sink leans,

her body is bent, face lined with ravines.

She stares at her hands, once supple and sure,

resting on the sink, misshapen and sore.

Puckered lips sag into a toothless frown.

Her youth’s flown away and her clock’s wound down.

The curtains are closed as stray breezes sigh,

The windows are dark. The sink is now dry.

Wednesday, November 12, 2025

Dungaree Do No Longer

With Veteran’s Day so recently passed, my thoughts have been channeled along a military path. For me that opens an entire rabbit warren and not just down a single rabbit hole. I first recalled those in my family who served in the military: several of my uncles, my brother-in-laws, my father-in-law, and my dad E. Carl Beck as well as myself. Even though not actually military I thought of my mother-in-law Retha Johnson Morrison who worked in Washington D.C. as a secretary for the FBI during WWII.

My thoughts wandered into all parts of the world where they have served Canada, Europe, Asia, the United States, and Iceland. Once my mind completed the world tour I began to think about the uniforms that the military has worn: the dress blues, the dress whites, the fatigues, the khaki browns, and the olive drabs in plain colored cloth and in camouflage patterns. The designs were created to blend in with the area that the soldier or sailor was deployed. I guess that is no surprise that the military should be less of a target in hostile territories. They would be less noticeable.

In my intellectual wanderings I found out a fact that had escaped me until now…The United States Navy’s dungarees were retired. Because I am no longer active duty nor do I have any recent interactions or knowledge of any active duty Navy personnel, I just found out that the Navy no longer uses the work clothing called dungarees. The pale washed out looking button down shirt and the bell-bottom denim pants have been retired since 1999, which is just over 25 years. I’d been oblivious to that fact. Wow, time certainly flies and I found that I’m really behind in what’s happening, at least the small details.

Because the dungarees were the naval work uniforms, I would have not been aware of their retirement, because I wouldn’t have been in areas where the dungarees would have been worn. The Navy stopped issuing the dungarees in favor of fatigues. I guess it does make sense. If the military can purchase items in larger quantities, the price per unit should drop although it does sadden me to think a little more of me have become antiquated and my memories have been retired. They are kept alive on the pages of history books where they collect dust and cobwebs..

Monday, November 10, 2025

Light in the Darkness

The world around us is becoming more confused and dangerous. In many cities a person takes his life into his own hands if he ventures out on the street, drives on a roadway, rides a subway, or goes shopping. Even when a person stays at home he isn’t safe from invasion and assault. The world is becoming increasingly corrupt. It’s becoming a place where good is branded as evil and evil is accepted as something good to embrace. The morals upon which our country was founded are being shifted and fading. Laws that once protected citizens and their rights are consistently being weakened or totally disregarded. Lawyers and judges are twisting our laws that the rules that once guarded the innocent citizen now offer more protection for the criminal than to the victim. The truths of the Bible upon which our justice system was based and our Constitution was established are openly being disregarded as wickedness is audaciously being accepted and entrenched.

One thing remains constant; a light shines brighter as darkness grows stronger. Some men hide in the darkness hoping their sins won’t be found out, that their evil deeds won’t be exposed, and they will escape punishment for their criminal acts. They will be judged; if not here on earth, then at the Great White Throne of Judgment. Although man tries to legislate morality, the sinful human nature will do everything it can to avoid the wages of their criminal deeds. They will use every trick and every subtle means to escape the responsibility of their acts. Civilization seems to be crumbling all around us. Anarchy and self aggrandizement seems to be flourishing.

The Bible says that the evil will only get worse, but do not be discouraged or lose hope. For those who believe on Christ, hope shines brightly. Our joy and our peace cannot be dimmed by a world in which Satan seems to gain more power. Our hope is in God the Father through His Son Jesus Christ and He is the constant that guides us as we walk in the darkness. Our victory over Satan has been prophesied and sure. So no matter how dark and cruel this world becomes believers have the answer and the surety of the God’s redemptive promise. We understand that darkness is the absence of light. Jesus is the light of the world and as long as we allow that lamp to shine through us, we can be the reason for others to have hope. Keep your wick trimmed, your reservoir of oil filled, do not hide that light under a basket. Share God’s love and His gift of salvation with a dark world.

Saturday, November 8, 2025

Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

At the Veteran's Day program at the Mt. Carmel Christian School yesterday, I met a young man who was clad in Marine dress blues. He was still serving. I told him that I had been a corpsman in the U. S. Navy. He said that corpsmen were his favorite people. I told him I had several interesting stories in my blog. I thought I'd share this one to entice him to read and share my blog with others.

Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

I recall several incidents where Marines and Navy Corpsmen met; not all of them were mutually supportive of each other. Although many Naval Corpsmen were cross trained to accompany Marines in the field, they didn’t always see eye to eye. One of my friends was a prime example. His name isn’t necessary at the moment, but at one time he had a definite Hippie type personality, caught in Uncle Sam’s military machine. He preferred the feel of sandals on his feet, puka shell bead necklace around his neck, and when he talked about a joint in his hand, he wasn’t talking about a knuckle bone.

Who says that the U.S. government doesn’t have a sense of humor? The fickle finger pointed at him, sending him to Field Medical School and then assigned him to a Marine company. This occurred during the Vietnam War when the feeling between Hippies and the Marines weren’t at their best. I wrote my friend a letter and accidentally included his middle name Felix. He wrote back saying it wasn’t hard enough being with these gung-ho meatheads and now they had his middle name to harass him. Sorry man.

Another tale of crosscurrents between Marines and Corpsmen happened while I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The Marines guarded the base while the corpsmen handled the hospital and ambulance needs. There were times when they would mix at the enlisted men’s clubs to eat, drink, and gamble. One challenge that often occurred was a drinking game. A tab would be opened at the bar with the loser responsible for the bill. Beers would appear and disappear until one or the other of the contestants would allow his beers to reappear. They would take turns fetching the drinks from the bar. When the corpsman had his fill, he would pour ipecac syrup into the Marine’s beer. Ipecac is an emetic agent that induces vomiting. By then, the Marine’s taste buds were dulled and he didn’t notice the flavor change. Corpsmen rarely had to pay the tab. As a teetotaler, I was only a casual observer.

One good story shared with me happened while I was in Orlando, Florida. I was caring for a corpsman who’d been injured in Vietnam. He stepped on a land mine and had chunks from his buttocks and one calf missing. He said the Marines asked a Seabee bulldozer operator to clear a path across a field. The Seabee refused and the corpsman was the one who’d found the buried mine. Only by throwing himself forward was he able to escape death. He said that the Seabee later had fallen to friendly fire. Nobody messes with the Marines’ corpsmen.

Friday, November 7, 2025

Veterans, the Foundation of Our Liberty and Freedom

Veterans, the Foundation of Our Liberty and Freedom

Today I will attend the Veteran’s Day celebration at Mt. Carmel Christian School. The younger children from the elementary classes usually share memorized patriotic recitations and songs. The older students, clad in uniforms from the different branches of the military will share excerpts of letters from military men and women who sent back the thoughts and feelings of their trials and tribulations from the battles in which they were embroiled. Letters to wives, children, and parents give a small picture of what they’ve endured and experienced to keep all Americans and their loved ones safe and secure.

The ceremony always begins with a prayer and a parade of military flags: the Army, the Navy, the Air Force, the Coast Guard, and the Marines. Each banner will be solemnly and proudly carried down the central aisle to a place of honor at the side of the dais by students wearing donated uniforms of veterans that reflect the branch of service that the flag they bear.

The entire process of the celebration is solemn and dignified. It is centered and dedicated to the men and women who have sacrificed their time, their lives, and their limbs to protect all Americans.

I already know that there will be times that I will find a lump in my throat and will be unable to complete some stanzas of the several patriotic songs. A roll call of each veteran present will be made having each veteran stand to be recognized as their name, number of years they served, and the branch of the service is announced. Elsewhere, the respect for our American veterans is being taken lightly with so little regard for their sacrifice.

After the ceremony has concluded, a meal will be served for everyone who attends. It’s a full meal with delicious pies and cupcakes for dessert. It is a blessing that the students, teachers, and staff of Mt. Carmel Christian School are continuing this tradition to honor our veterans.

Somehow in the past my mind was drawn by thoughts of the veterans from WW II for Veteran’s Day. It could be that my dad and father-in-law fought in WWII, but as I reviewed the past Veteran Day celebrations, I understood there were veterans from many other wars; the French and Indian Wars, the Revolutionary War, to the Alamo, WW I, WWII, Korea, Vietnam, the Civil War, and men of this caliber who are still serving in wars even today May God bless our Veterans and thank you to the Mt. Carmel students and staff.

Wednesday, November 5, 2025

Remarkable

It has been fascinating to watch the skies at sunrise, sunset, and the hours in between. I have been drawn upward by the sun, clouds, moon and stars. I can be enticed even on the days when the sun refuses to shine and the vast panorama of clouds seethe and churn darkly. Occasionally the clouds are charged with twists of lightning and stirred by the deep rumbles of thunder. Sometimes the ground shakes beneath my feet as the lightning flashes are close causing the earth to quiver responding to the roar of thunder..

Sometimes the clouds are only a misty veil. It stirs, just thick enough to play a game of hide-n-seek with distant mountain tops. Sometimes the clouds sag low wrapping the trees and bushes with a damp blanket of fog yo cover the ground with a thick blanket of cotton. When the cloud is rolled away, the grass is covered with dew tat sparkles as the sun or moon rises.

The moon appears as a celestial orb, full faced and bright or as thin slices. The night shaves away slivers of light to make sickles of light. The moon becomes the smile of the Cheshire cat or fishhooks that snag stars from the dark night sky. Slowly the stars fade as the night ends and the sun begins to rise. This is where another remarkable fantasy begins. The sun’s rays pierce the darkness and dance on the passing clouds. Pale yellow light cuddles with the surface of the clouds. The light intensifies, turning the rosy glow into colors of glorious orange-gold or into a blazing hot red hue. Then the sun itself rises. It shows its brilliant face above the horizon and the clouds reclaim their virginity, white and pure.

The clouds scurry across the sky pushed by prevailing breeze. The sky’s color may vary from a pale milky blue to a deep azure blue. The wind swirl the clouds like creamer in a cup of coffee. The sun continues its journey overhead. Its path marked by shadows that the light paints on the earth beneath. Hour by hour shadows lengthen as it nears the end of the day and the time for the sun to put on its pajamas and go to sleep. The sun leaves goodbye kisses on the clouds to create fantastic scenes of light and as it settles in for the night. The sunset colors rival the morning’s sunrise, but in reverse. As the light lessens and the sun finally slips below the horizon, I sometimes think that we are looking at the underside of heaven, what will our actual view of heaven be like. It’s too grand for me to imagine. Remarkable.

Monday, November 3, 2025

Thankful for Thanksgiving

During the French and Indian War, the area known today as the “Point” was a critical military stronghold due to its strategic location at the Forks of the Ohio River. By 1758, the French controlled Fort Duquesne after thwarting several attacks by the British.

Despite their victories, the French knew British forces would eventually return with a larger army, so they decided to strategically destroy Fort Duquesne by setting fire to it and fleeing before British Gen. John Forbes arrived to capture the site in November 1758.

Following the capture of Fort Duquesne, Forbes declared the following Sunday -Nov. 26, 1758 -“a day of public thanksgiving.”

Rev. Charles Beatty conducted the first Thanksgiving service in Pittsburgh. Nearly 5,000 soldiers, including Gen. George Washington, attended the sermon. Far from a turkey-filled feast, Beatty’s sermon served as the highlight of Pittsburgh’s first Thanksgiving due to the More than 40 years later, during his first year as president of the United States, Washington designated Nov. 26, 1789, as a day of thanksgiving and prayer.

It wasn’t until Oct. 3, 1863 — three months after the Battle of Gettysburg claimed 50,000 lives during the Civil War — that President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving Day a national holiday.

We are quickly approaching the holiday of Thanksgiving season. Many American citizens have almost forgotten it and eliminated it from their calendars. If it wasn’t for many companies giving the employees a paid day off, it would be less remembered than it is. The commercialism of Halloween and Christmas has almost pushed aside this time for us to be grateful. Less money can be garnered from this holiday than the others, so stores promote it less.

We live in a country where we should be thankful for each freedom that we have. No matter how little we feel we have, we are so much better off than much of the world. Countries where they aren’t free, the people are near starvation, and they would consider having food at mealtimes a luxury. Shoes and clothing makes them rich, even having clean water at their fingertips and not having to carry it for miles after scooping it from dirty rivers and streams. We are blessed that we were born in the United States of America. Our hearts desire should be thankful a joyful expression for each blessing that we have.

Friday, October 31, 2025

Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

Wednesday, October 29, 2025

Rolling Your Own

My uncle Dale Miner worked at the same place with my dad for a short while. They worked at a factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania. Walworth made valves of various sizes from two and a half inches to three feet in diameter of brass, iron, or stainless steel. The company did everything from casting them in the foundry to shaping, welding, cutting, and assembling them. Once they were assembled, they were inspected and the high pressure valves were tested.

They made two types of valves, a ball valve and a wedge valve. The ball valve had a round ball-type device for closure. It fitted into an angled ring that regulated or stopped the flow of the contents. The wedge valve worked much in the same way. The closure device was wedge shaped and would slide up and down between two planed surfaces. Both type of valves were opened and closed by spinning a wheel that caused a screw to raise and lower the ball or wedge. The surfaces of the ball, wedge, and each surface had to be cut and polished so that the surfaces fit snugly.

Dale rode to work with my dad and two other men. When they drove by one house, a shaggy collie-looking dog would chase the car, barking. Every day the dog would run beside their car and bark. It was annoying to all, but especially to Uncle Dale. For some reason, it really irritated him.

One day, Dale asked my dad to stop the car at a saw mill before they got to the dog’s house. Dale got out of the car and walked to the discarded wood slab pile. Moving a few, he selected one and carried it back to the car.

Dale walked to the rear of Dad’s car and asked him to open the trunk. Once Dad opened the trunk, Dale climbed inside, holding the slab in his hands. Dad slipped behind the wheel and drove away. The dog ran out at the approach of Dad’s vehicle and started yapping. Dad was driving a little slower than normal because of his passenger in the trunk. Dale extended the slab out past the side of the car. When the car drove by the mongrel, the slab caught the cur and knocked it off its feet. The dog gave a loud yelp and tumbled off the side of the road in a cloud of dust. It rolled across the berm and disappeared done a small hill. Dad stopped the car a short way down the road. Dale climbed out, closed the trunk, and got back into the car after tossing the slab away.

The outcome, when Dad would drive by the dog’s house, they would see the dog in the yard, but it never chased my dad’s car again.

Monday, October 27, 2025

Reality and Cartoons Collide

When I tried to think of a topic for me to write about, two thoughts meshed. I decided to integrate them and make them my insight on life today. I was reminded of the cartoons of my youth and the reality of my aging body. The pain in my lower back from the shoveling of heavy snow made me feel as though I had gone several rounds with Joe Palooka, the comic pages boxer. Putting aside my aches and pains, I began to recall the cartoons in the Sunday paper and on television.

Dagwood and Blondie, Sad Sack, Beetle Bailey were old standbys. Dick Tracy, Prince Valiant, Felix the Cat, Lil Abner, Katzenjammer Kids captured the excitement and humor over a wide range of topics for us kids. Mutt and Jeff, Nancy and Sluggo, Heckle and Jeckle were couples that amused me. The television introduced me to Tom Terrific, Mickey Mouse, Popeye the Sailor Man. All of the cartoons started in black and white. Adventure time made the names Rodney and Knish, the Little Rascals, the Three Stooges famous to me. Kookla, Fran, and Ollie as well as Sherrie Lewis and Lamb Chop were puppets as well as Howdy Doody.

Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Daffy Duck, Pepe Le Pew, Porky Pig and Petunia, Foghorn Leghorn, Road Runner, Wylie Coyote, Sylvester and Tweety were all late comers. Caspar the Ghost and Spooky, Wendy the Witch introduced me to a gentle enchanted and supernatural world. These were the cartoons that captured my interest every Saturday morning and caused me to fight for the Sunday Pittsburgh Post Gazette funnies.

Today my writer’s creativity allowed my aging and abused body to be free and wander through the youthful hallways of my brain. I hope that by sharing my memories, that I have stirred a few of yours.

Friday, October 24, 2025

One Day Too I Will Join the Ranks

One Day Too I Will Join the Ranks

A fellow nurse with whom I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania shared that a fellow nursing supervisor had died. Most of the nursing supervisors with whom I worked are now walking the streets of gold. Because hey were in management positions, my fellow supervisors were a bit older than most of the nursing staff.

One died suffering the effects from cancer of the spleen. She was admitted to our hospital. Watching her waste away was difficult. Her family tried everything they knew of to try to save her, using all sorts of remedies, but to no avail. She continued her downhill slide, finally becoming a skin stretched skeleton. I will continue to remember her as the vibrant banty-rooster person wearing her nursing cap.

Another supervisor had the annoying habit of writing notes to herself on the back of her hand, even though she carried a sheaf of papers listing each patient in the hospital with diagnoses and room numbers. It may have been a left-over habit from her days as a floor nurse. Although she seemed like a flighty person, she knew more than appeared to me on our first meeting.

One supervisor was a strict disciplinarian with a gruff, often harsh and abrasive manner, but she had a soft soul. Unless you worked closely with her, you could very easily miss that side of her. She would gather baby clothing for nurses who were pregnant on a very tight budget and were struggling to make ends meet. She did the scheduling for her night shift nurses and made every attempt to juggle days so nurses could have the days needed for their needs. I had just started working as a floor nurse when I got married. I had earned no vacation days yet, but she managed to arrange for me to have four days in a row for my honeymoon.

This last supervisor was the most recent to pass. She worked mostly the 3-11 shift and liked it. I didn’t really care for that shift. I was shiftless at that time, working all three shifts. She smiled a lot, only surpassed by her knowledge and by her smoking cigarettes. She had a harsh cough and had to often clear her throat.

Many of my fellow employees have gone to the great beyond. There would be too many for me to list here now, but one day I shall join their ranks and I hope someone will write about me too.

Wednesday, October 22, 2025

Gone

I saw a post showing an aisle in a variety store lined with boxes stacked upon boxes of plastic model boats, planes, and cars. In most stores today, I am 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 periods of time. The selection that remains today is so limited, it barely stirs the imagination of a boy or girl to spend their 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 with colors that enticed through clear cellophane wrappings or were 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 choices. If the child had enough money, there were three cent chocolate Lunch Bars that are now history, too. Once selections were made, the little bag was twisted shut and handed to an eagerly awaiting child.

Cap pistols with strips of exploding caps have been all but banned from use today. Using a pointed finger pretending it’s a pistol can get a kid kicked out of school. The innocence of a 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 more permanent method of showing that you care.

Monday, October 20, 2025

Keeping Promises

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 Morrison Beck 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 it back under the covers and place it against my bare back. The shock can be a real eye-opener in the middle of the night. The worst part was that she would immediately stick her other “thermostat” out from under 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 of our house 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 Beck 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 of 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 return the channel back and we’d continue to watch Lawrence Welk. One time, I thought I’d prove Dad wrong and 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 was aware that 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.

Thursday, October 16, 2025

Imagine That There's No

Imagine That There’s No

Imagine that people have no imagination. Their minds are devoid of thinking abstractly. Their thoughts were only able to deal with concrete ideas that they could hold in their hands, to see with their eyes, or to taste with their tongue. Our ancestors had no televisions, no computers, no movies, and no cameras, and no mimeographs or Xerox copiers. When mankind was first established on earth, the passing on information was done by story telling. Oral tradition was the only way to pass on knowledge and tales. A person’s imagination was needed to shape and bring to life the words that were shared by another person. Slowly words were transferred by marks of charcoal, divots pressed into clay tablets, or carvings into stone. Some used the charcoal to outline beasts and beings onto cave walls to tell stories. Others took it a step farther to make pigments to paint the story onto the walls. It took only the imagination of the viewer to retell what the scene portrayed and to bring the story to life.

When the written languages proliferated, so did the expansion of information. Each idea became a shared foundation upon which another generation of ideas could be used as stepping stones or as a ladder to reach the next level of ideas. Having the written word was an improvement, but it still took imagination to fully understand what the author intended. Then it took more imagination to see beyond the writer’s plateau and to create something more.

Inventions created electricity and the telephone farther extending man’s imaginative reach. The reach cut the cord and radios were invented. Families huddled around the radio in the home to listen to the news, music, comedy, drama, and sports. It was no longer necessary to wait for word of mouth or to attend an event to be in-the-know, but the listener still needed imagination to understand what was happening. They used their mind’s eye to “each the games unfold. It took imagination for the news of the battlefront and the fighting armies of the war to be understood. Many used maps, but it didn’t relay the carnage and the struggle of the soldiers.

Today we are being spoon-fed from televisions, computers, and even our cell phones. The once necessary imagination is being starved or being overfed by the inundation of information. Whether starved or choked, today’s youth are losing their ability to use their imagination.

Wednesday, October 15, 2025

The Birth of a Notion

As I was thinking of what to write, two thoughts for the title and the direction for the subject were battling in my mind. The first title I thought to name it was “The Birth of a Nation” and I planned to share stories surrounding the birth of my three children. The initial thought was spurred by my post of our visit to Niagara Falls and the trip home. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck became nauseated as we drove home. Later as she tried to sleep, the images of electric poles sped past her like a picket fence and the nausea persisted. This was our introduction into pregnancy with our first daughter Amanda Beck Yoder. After Cindy’s symptom, I developed a craving for greasy hamburgers then and at each of her following pregnancies. With the last craving of a hamburger for our third child, Cindy said, “No need for me to go to the doctor. I’m pregnant” and she was.

The second idea that fits the chosen title of this piece was to introduce how an idea, phrase, or incident can set off a spark of creativity which eventually becomes the birth of a story, book, or poem. Many times I copy down a single thought and it stays on the paper for quite awhile. It was something I wanted to keep, but the words needed to finish it weren’t there yet. It was only the germ of a plot, a partial line of a poem, or sometimes it would find its way into a waste basket, rejected because I’d already written something similar or it wasn’t as good as my initial thought.

In my computer room, there are reams of paper with finished and unfinished manuscripts, partially written stories, and finished poems or Haiku that haven’t yet been entered into the computer. The stacks pile up, partly because of laziness on my part. I see the task and because I never took typing classes, I avoid it. I am a two, and at best a three fingered typist.

I did start to clean some of the clutter surrounding me and I found a check as payment for a book I sold. It was tucked into a Christmas card. The postmark was from a year ago. My bank was kind enough to cash it. I do hope my cousin Barb won’t be too mad that I took so long to redeem it. As you can see, even checks that haven’t been cashed can be an interesting notion to write about.

Monday, October 13, 2025

Will You Crucify Him

Will You Crucify Him?

Pure without defile, Jesus went to trial

Yet the crowd yelled, “Crucify Him.”

Barabbas was set free and Jesus it would be

That the crowd called, “Crucify Him.”

When the scourging was through, they mocked “King of the Jew”

Crying loudly, “Crucify Him.”

Parading Christ around on the blood spattered ground

They took Christ to crucify Him.

From two trials was led, thorny crown on His head

To mobs calling “Crucify Him.”

Guards cried, “Take up your cross. You’re not much of a loss.”

And the crowd roared, “Crucify Him.”

A spear thrust in His side, made sure Jesus had died

In response to “Crucify Him.”

Christ in burial clothes from His head to His toes

Wrapped after they crucified Him.

With tomb stone rolled away Jesus rose the third day

Of whom they cried, “Crucify Him.”

Even tomb couldn’t hold the one prophets foretold

And of men who’d crucify Him.

If you’d been in the crowd with crowds screaming out loud

To Pilate to “Crucify Him.

And if you standing there with the crowd would you share

With their calls to crucify Him?

Friday, October 10, 2025

Up Down and All around

Up and Down and All Around

Maybe because I have slowed down just a bit from my youth or maybe my artist’s eye is capturing more of the beauty in my surroundings, but I have really been impressed with the sky filled with clouds, sunrises, and sunsets. I’ve looked more closely at the intricate delicate beauty of flowering plants. The rich colors and subtle hues my eye sees doesn’t translate to the camera’s eye. I struggle to describe what I see. It is never as precise even when it becomes a photo on my cell phone. I try to capture and share these landscapes, but wish I could share the intensity of the scene that I see.

My home is located in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania. It sports a wide panorama of surrounding tree clad mountains. This time of years those various trees wear a variety of colors in a patchwork design. These Chestnut Ridge Mountains are but hills compared to the Rockies or the Grand Tetons that I’ve visited, but Pennsylvania remains my home. On three sides of my home I have views of each sunrise, each sunset, and the many storms that roll from the west in massive thunderheads interspersed with flashes of lightning.

Because I live in a rural area, there is a perfusion of wildflowers and the many flowers planted by my wife Cindy Morrison Beck. One wildflower that was my wife’s favorite flower is the daisy. Fresh, plain, and innocent, its white petals form a tight circle around an egg yolk yellow center. The irises and the snowball bush have bloomed. The blossoms of my apple trees, the black berry, raspberry, and strawberry blossoms all are faded and the fruit is formed and been picked.

If I look, there is always something new for me to see. Have I slowed down enough to take the time to see? Have I gained the wisdom to really look around and interpret what I see? Often when I drive I am surprised with a sudden eye widening view. It stirs my artist heart and I wonder if I could ever capture the sights I was seeing with paint or with camera. Photographs capture only a small part of the things my eyes see. But I try.

Wednesday, October 8, 2025

Only the Lonely

The forced isolation, the mandated covering of faces with masks, threats of job loss, and social distancing from a past disease entity has created a serious problem. Mankind is a social creature. The old adage of “No man is an island” is true. Depression and the suicide rates rose tremendously with the “mandates” of Federal and State government during the “pandemic.” The most grievous thing was that the “preventions,” the social distancing, the masks, and closing schools and work places have done little more than extended the impact of a recent disease. This isolation and loneliness is crippling millions.

The cause of the disease is so microscopic that masks did little to stop it unless someone coughed or sneezed in someone’s face. The provided information about “prevention” did little to prevent its spread and medications used to curtail and treat the disease did more harm than good. There are many other illnesses and organ failure that came with the “cure.” There have been no extended time-trials to study the “cure” and its long term effects. The only way laboratories could have readied the “cure” so rapidly was to have known about the disease before it “burst on the scene.” Medication that was pooh-poohed by scientists is now proved to actually work.

Imposed internet schooling for children has been a failure on so many levels, but most appalling is that kids need to learn social skills and how to live with others. Now they have limited interactions with their peers. The lack of support from others of their own age has become a flaw in their character.

Isolation has caused feelings of loneliness. It can be intensified during the sudden loss of a loved one. The grieving person has to reshape their life without the support provided by others. Friends have fallen away because those bonds have been broken. The person often feels like the third wheel on a bicycle.

Loneliness can invade slowly, an insidious malicious entity that robs the peace and joy in a person’s life. The cloud thickens until it blots out the world around them. Depression sets in. The loss of a job, loss of possessions, an injury or an illness may isolate a person from their surroundings as did the mandated isolation.

Loneliness can present itself when a certain song is played or a meaningful phrase is repeated. A certain smell can stir a wave on loneliness. It may be as intense as the initial loss of a parent, partner, or close friend.

A possible cure? Don’t expect a stranger to come to you. Reach out to others. You may find some folk are as lonely as you. They may be looking for a friend too.

Monday, October 6, 2025

A Stirring of Memories

One evening I was watching one of the nature channels on television. The program was of an explorer who goes about trying to find animals that are thought to be extinct. His quest took him to Newfoundland to look for a white wolf that was thought to be extinct for over thirty years. He first met an 80 year old man who lives in Newfoundland and kept two wolves, but not ones that were indigenous to the Island. He was familiar with wolves.

The two set out searching one arm of the eastern coast, but when they were unsuccessful there, they moved their operation to the northern part of the island. After several more days of searching, they found tracks, scat and several thermal images that prove there are still wolves in some isolated areas of Newfoundland.

I have said all of this to say much of the scenery felt familiar to me. Quite a few years ago a young man named Tim wanted to see what Newfoundland and Labrador were like. He was thinking of establishing himself as a missionary in this area of the globe. My good friend Norman Lee Johnston was our Pastor at the time and very keen on supporting missionaries. He decided to take the young man to visit that part of the world. My son Andrew, my daughter Amanda, and myself were fortunate enough to make the trip with them, making the drive from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, through the northeastern states, and into Canada. We camped in Maine before crossing the border into New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, then taking the ferry to Newfoundland.

Back on dry land, we traveled the length of Newfoundland from the southern coast to its most northern tip. All of this was to say that much of the scenery that I saw on the television program brought back the memories of a dear friend who recently passed away and of friends that we met on the trip. I miss my dear friend Pastor Norman Johnston. I also miss a missionary couple that we met on our trip, Buzz and Judy Ferguson. Just to let my missionary friends and families know that they are thought of and that they remain in my prayers. Buzz has also passed, but here's a shout out to a lovely lady Judy.

Friday, October 3, 2025

Autumn Buckwheat and Cider

It’s time again for the Autumn Buckwheat and Sausage Festival in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. This year the date falls on October 10, 11, 12 2025. The tradition of using buckwheat flour to make pancakes goes back much farther than the beginnings of the Ohiopyle Buckwheat Festival which started in 1947. The festival had very humble roots, starting out as the fund raiser for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department and by the community wanting to keep alive the history of the area. The Buckwheat Festival still remains the chief fundraiser for the fire department.

The early method to fry sausage and “bake” the buckwheat cakes started out by cooking the food in cast iron frying pans over single burner open gas flames. The spiced and ground pork was hand-shaped by helpers before they made their way into the skillets.

That way of cooking continued at least until 1974 when I started to volunteer there to spend time with my-wife-to-be, Cindy Morrison. For a few years my job was to wash dishes. That was a major undertaking. It seemed there was always something to wash.

Later I was pressed into service baking the buckwheat cakes. It was a move up in responsibility, but this takes sweat and special care. By then, the wide griddles had been introduced. It was a hot job. The temperature of the griddles must be maintained for an even baking of the cakes. That limited the air flow into that room. Smoke and heat quickly accumulated and at times it became very uncomfortable.

I was “rescued” by my father-in-law, Elmer “Bud” Morrison to fry the sausage. Soon afterwards, the sausage frying area converted to the wide grill surface. Each grill will hold nearly 3 dozen of the sausage patties. At last count, there were a dozen grills set up to thoroughly cook the pork patties before serving them to the guests. I’ve volunteered for nearly 50 years.

Chris Fennimore and WQED television would often come. One year they actually recorded the Buckwheat Festival for a program on volunteerism. Usually WQED repeats a showing this time of year. Most years he makes the trek from Pittsburgh to visit the festival.

Once cooked, the sausage patties are placed in huge roasters to be transported upstairs to the dining area or to the school building next door to keep the patties hot and ready for those who come to enjoy the autumn leaves, Ohiopyle Falls, and the meal. The only change in the menu was the addition of pancakes for the younger generation. Steaming stacks of buckwheat cakes, pancakes, sausage, freshly fried potatoes, bread and butter pickles, and applesauce are placed on the table “home-style” to assuage the hunger of the diners.