Small Things

 Small Things

Sometimes it’s the small things stored in our brains that create memories that time hasn’t erased that make us the interesting and unique individuals that we are now; small things that once passed us by without a second thought and yet linger. One of my memories was of a camp fire and wiener roast at a family friend’s farm. A skinny, freckle-faced red-haired girl chased me away from the light of the fire to a dark spot behind the milk house and kissed me on the lips. Perhaps that is why many of the women in my books have red or auburn hair. I’m often teased about that fact from fellow writers.

Speaking of fellow writers, I’ll mention one who is also a retired nurse. Much of her career was spent as a hospice nurse in the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania area. She writes beautifully in vignettes, short poignant descriptions of her clients that have impacted her. Small almost inconsequential slices of their interactions with her but have impacted her life. She preserves them in the written word and often will share them with us. Those worried about HIPPA, don’t. They are all deceased and only their memories live on. She describes those memories as strings of pearls.

I have another friend who writes and has taken on the colossal task of writing an educational series of the different small insects to teach small children and their parents about these little creatures and the role they play in the ecosystems. She writes them in alphabetical order, Amusing and teaching at the same time, she writes in sets of 2 books, a reading book and a coloring book. They present the child and the parent with the facts about that insect.

I have a rabbit trail from the small idea that has caused me to think about this story. My initial thought was of a small drawstring sack that held colored, candy-covered bubble gum. It was sold at many grocery stores when I was a kid. Most of us kids carried them around as an easy way to keep bubble gum at hand and the small pull string pouch made it easy to store marbles, toys, and money after the gum was gone. I used mine to keep coins that I managed to collect, maybe all of $2.50 cents or so. The memory of this tiny bag has haunted me over many years. I hid it so well, that it has never reappeared. My siblings said they knew nothing of its disappearance and to this day its where abouts remains a mystery. 

Baring It All

Baring It All

I just had a CAT scan as a follow up to a kidney lesion that was discovered accidentally. The lesion was found by an x-ray that was done as I was being physically evaluated to participate in a study for gout. Because the medication that I was to take they had to make sure that I had good kidney function before they would allow me to start the program. It was a blessing that the lesion was discovered and now I could keep an eye on it. That lesion alone would have disqualified me for participating in the study. The uric acid level in my blood work wasn’t elevated enough to be admitted into the study either.

Finding the lesion on my kidney alerted my primary care physician and she order a consultation with an urologist. My urologist was the one who ordered the first and the recent follow up CAT scan to monitor the progress or lack of progress of the lesion. I had the second CAT scan prior to my last visit to her office. At that visit I mentioned that I had a spermatocele for many years, but on a recent self-examination, it disappeared and my left testicle seems to be surrounded in mush-like substance. After the examination, she ordered an ultrasound of my testicles. I had it done yesterday.

Because I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania as a nurse for 34 years before I retired, I prayed that the sonogram technician wouldn’t be someone that I knew. I wasn’t embarrassed to be undressed to have the test done; I just didn’t want to expose my private parts to a friendly face.

The technician was a lovely blonde who did her job quickly and did it well. When she was finished I thanked her. Then I told her that from what I have heard, I was glad that the test wasn’t as painful as mammograms. Although my testicles were tender, she didn’t cause any pain.

Now all I have to do is wait for the results.

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 and 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, 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 the grocery cart drag racer. Although when Ken grew older, he did drag race 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.

Scrambled

 Scrambled

Because of a fall in 2015, and I am only assuming that I fell, I have no recollection of what actually happened. I have been thinking about how fragile the brain actually is. A single knock on the back of my head created such confusion and chaos where coordinated thoughts and memories once resided. The thoughts, or should I say the lack of thoughts about the fall, how it happened, and how long memory loss lasted got me compare my brain and skull to an egg and the shell that protects it.

A sharp rap will crack open an egg shell and expose the delicate contents that is stored inside. The delicate shell keeps the fragile insides protected and safe. It allows for the secure storage of its vital parts in a natural way, in a receptacle created especially for it.

The brain and the skull are designed in much the same manner, although it is much more complicated. The hard calcium shell protects the fragile internal organ that is the chamber where all activity of the entire body is kept. It is the control center for every thought and all movements. It is the regulatory center for the life of the being; heartbeat, respirations, and all other bodily functions.

The hard shell of the skull protects memories, thoughts, and our very identity. Even though the skull doesn’t have to be split open to cause things to be scrambled, for thoughts to be lost, or for things to be confused. It reacts much the same way as an egg shell and when the contents are disturbed, it scrambles. It becomes mixed up. The brain and the yolk/ albumin become unable to complete the job it was intended to do. It scrambled The egg is still good for consumption, but the brain scrambled can be nearly worthless. Until it unscrambles, it will function at a very limited level. It still keeps the body alive, but it doesn’t permit the higher thoughts of creativity or complicated idea development that it was designed to do.

Scrambled brain or scrambled egg. They can be very similar. 

That Does Not Compute

That Does Not Compute

I’ve had a computer for more years than I like to count and just yesterday I found out that for all those years, I’ve been doing somethings incorrectly. I was ignorant of the proper use of the computer and its workings. I am a completely at a loss other than to use it as a typewriter, which I must have for the writing for my Blogspot and my daughter-in-law had to set that site up for me. Thank you Renee Largent Beck. The blog has given me something to do in my retirement time. Sometimes it feels more like a burden when I must think of something to share.

It was easy at first sharing family stories. I started sharing a story every day. That soon became too much and I now share posts Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. There are times that I struggle to write something that I feel might interest those readers who take the time to visit my blog. Thank you to those who do. I don’t do the writing for money, but rather to share the thoughts that leak from my memory.

In the past when I wrote and saved my remembrances, I’ve always saved my writing directly onto a flash drive, or shoud I say flash drives. I have stories stored on several flash drives, scattered willy-nilly. Many times I have struggled when I needed to retrieve a certain post. It has been a nightmare.

When my computer man Tom came yesterday to deal with another problem that I was having and as we were talking, he got this look of surprise and almost terror on his face. The last time he was here he advised me to pull all of the items from the scattered stories and put them on a single flash drive, then to make a back-up flash drive. I would have them there for safe keeping. He advised me how to keep things on the computer and not just a flash drive.

His horror was because he found out that I have been saving my stories on a flash drive, bypassing the hard drive of the computer altogether. Like I said, I am ignorant of what a computer can do and have only learned the little bits that I do know on my own.

So after another grueling time of transferring each of the nearly 2,500 poems and stories the task is done.

Are We Ever Satisfied

 Are We Ever Satisfied

Too dry, too wet, too hot, too cold; are we ever satisfied? Not enough money, too busy, bored; do we ever have enough? Worse than that, are we ever just thankful? When our needs are met, do we want more? It’s like when we’re eating and there is one slice of pot roast or a few small potatoes left, even though we’re feeling full, do we sit there wondering, “That was so tasty, maybe…” Then we decide, “I can’t let that go to waste” and it goes to our waist instead. We push away from the table, waddle over to the sofa, and collapse in a stupor, wondering why we’re so tired.

In America, too many of us have so much and yet we are so ungrateful, unthankful for what we have. In many places, food, water, and adequate housing are just a dream. They don’t want equality; they want a chance to earn what we Americans have so abundantly available. I know that there are children that go to bed hungry, according to government statistics, but with food kitchens, food pantries, and welfare, much of that should already be addressed. I don’t understand the reasons for the problem.

There was a time when churches handled these needs, but more and more the government has stepped in with so many rules and regulations, it nearly impossible for anyone but the government to function. Churches kept tabs on the people. They knew who really had a need eliminating those who choose not to work and refused to try and lift themselves out of poverty. They knew the destitute from the lazy. The churches meted out charity to meet the needs of the needy.

The government stepped in, always thinking that it could do better. There is so much waste and inefficiency in the bureaucracy that much of the resources are being lost and either fed back to the federal system or into bureaucratic pockets. The government has taken the place of the “bread winners” and “fathers” in single parent homes. Often the money distributed to feed the children goes to pay for alcohol, tobacco, and drugs. The local communities had a better handle on these situations and wouldn’t have allowed the abuse that is rampant today.

I am thankful that I’ve had enough to feed our children, but not appreciative of waste. My kids call me cheap, but I prefer to use the term frugal.

Write or Wrong

 Write or Wrong

I’ve been sitting and writing to finish several projects, so I’m glad that our church has recently padded the church pews. Although the old pews conformed to the body fairly well, an encounter from jury duty, sitting on their unpadded oak chairs and benches two years ago inflamed my sciatica that hasn’t settled yet. Using a pillow for church services became necessary until now. The padding has made a big improvement. (Because of the Courthouse’s hard benches and my sciatica, I’ve been “banned” from jury duty.”

I’m in the midst of three writing projects. The first is my ever-pressing Blogspot. Completing and posting an article of between 350 to 450 words three times a week can be intimidating. My concern comes not with the amount of words, but coming up with something that is fresh and of interest to those who take the time to read my blog. It’s also often difficult to imagine a title that will catch the attention of new readers and keep old readers coming back.

The second project with a time crunch element involves the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Assembling an eight page newsletter with assorted topics isn’t easy. The effort to search for interesting local stories and then edit them to fit into the eight page format takes time. Local history, newspaper accounts, and photos must be gathered and presented in a concise, appealing way.

Choosing the proper font is another consideration. Too small and older people have difficulty reading the words. Too large and the information won’t fit in the eight pages of the newsletter. Sometimes articles must be rewritten and condensed while trying to retain the essence of the piece.

My latest project is finishing another book. It is a novella because it is shorter in length than a true book. I’m writing it as a sequel of the latest book I wrote, Addie. I had no plans to do a sequel, but I’ve had several people press me to read more about the characters in that book.

When I write I want anyone reading my words to be able feel the emotions of the characters. This time, I may not have people ask for a sequel, because it starts out with trouble and sadness.

The scenes of my book are still local, set in the late 1950s. The story revolves around Addie’s son Ron having to return with his family to Mount Pleasant to work and to live. A chain of unfortunate circumstances force the family to move. As with Addie, I’ve done illustrations to enhance the readers’ enjoyment and aid in seeing things through my eyes.

Thoughts of Death and Dying

 Thoughts of Death and Dying

For many people the thought of death is unwelcome and even frightening, but death is a part of life. Birth marks the beginning and death is the period at the end. I was rarely touched with thoughts of death during my youth. Probably my first was the death of a pet. I’d see it not moving and my dad would bury it in the back yard. After several days of intermittent tears I’d go back to being a child.

My next remembrance of death was the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I was in junior high when the announcement filled the television and newspapers, but his death although earth-shattering was held at arms’ length, by my youth and by its distance.

While I was a naval corpsman in Iceland my grandfather Raymond Miner passed away. It was definitely a difficult position for me. Time, distance, and finances made it impossible to arrive home in time for the funeral and I was unable to be with family during this time.

The next person’s death that impacted me was my grandfather Edson Beck. He was gravely ill in the hospital. I decided to visit after work. I knew he was dying and chose to sit with him waiting for my dad, Carl Beck to arrive. When I didn’t arrive home on time mom Sybil called me. I told her that if my dad wanted to see his father while he was still alive, he needed to come right away. He didn’t because his brother told him a nurse said Granddad was okay. My mom and sister came to relieve me while I left for home. Dad never got to visit before his dad died.

My wife Cindy Morrison Beck passed away with ovarian cancer. She was symptomless except for a progressive cough and wheeze. I forced her to go to the hospital, ten days later she was dead. I wasn’t at her bedside because each time our kids went into her room they would say “C’mon Mom you can make it.” It tore me apart. I knew that she wouldn’t recover. I took them home to sleep and get away from the tension.

The next year Cindy’s mom Retha Morrison passed away with cancer of the white blood cells. Two deaths so close together was difficult. On the third anniversary of Cindy’s death, my mom Sybil Miner Beck passed away. Their deaths were in the month of March and my family now tries to avoid any major decisions in March.

Now the world has to deal with the assasination of Charlie Kirk. It is so sad and tragic, but he has laid claim to the promise of God, saved by the blood of Jesus, who also died as a martyr for our sin debt.

I continue to age and I think about my death. I don’t fear death at all I only pray it’s not painful. I know that I am saved and know where I will spend eternity. Do you?

Meeting Aunt Jemima

 Meeting Aunt Jemima

When I was between four and six years old, I remember going to Resh's Red & White store in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. I was with my dad Carl Beck. I don't remember why we went to the store, but I do remember meeting Aunt Jemima. In a niche at one side of the store, she stood behind a gas heated griddle. The grill was about eighteen inches by twenty-four. She waited until I approached and asked if I would like to try the pancake mix and syrup. I looked at my dad. He gave a nod of approval. I felt tongue-tied and could only nod my assent. I was a shy and nervous. This was the first black person I can remember meeting and I wasn't used to being addressed by strangers.

She deftly poured three small rounds of the pancake batter onto the hot griddle. She smiled and began to talk to me as I stood there watching the silver dollar sized pancakes bake. (There were no protective barriers to keep my hands from the grill. Back then, people assumed children were intelligent enough not to touch hot things and to keep hands to themselves.

As my shyness waned, I looked up at her. Aunt Jemima had deep golden skin, a warm smile, and dancing brown eyes. She was wearing a red and white gingham dress with a bright red head scarf. Around her ample waist she had a sparkling white apron tied in the back.

With practiced movements, she flipped the small pancakes over. As she did, the aroma seemed to fill the area and made my mouth water. I remember seeing steam rising from those small golden brown discs. They had been baked to a color several shades lighter than Aunt Jemima's skin.

She continued talked as the cakes baked. I can't remember what she said, but I can remember her sparkling teeth of her beautiful smile. She had a wonderful laugh that seemed to tickle, even though she never touched me.

I watched as she reached for a white paper saucer. Holding it near the griddle, she waved her  spatula and the golden coins moved to the plate. Laying her metal scepter aside, she picked up a tall glass bottle filled with Aunt Jemima pancake syrup. Unscrewing the cap, she drizzled thick, brown sweetness over the cakes on the saucer. Setting the syrup aside, a small wooden fork seemed to magically appear in her hand. She placed it on the saucer with the pancakes covered in the syrup. Handing the plate to me, she said, "Here you go. Taste them, but be careful. They’re still hot."

She smiled again. I recall that the cakes and syrup seemed to taste wonderful. I never saw the woman again, but this is a tribute to the impression that she made on me with this brief encounter. She has imprinted herself on my memory.

Picnic Quicknic

 Picnic Quicknic

Many years ago when I was just a kid, sometimes my Uncle Charles Bottomley would phone my parents and say, “Let’s go on a picnic.” Most of the time, my Dad Carl Beck and my Mom Sybil Miner Beck would say okay. Mom would head tot the fridge and cupboards. She would begin the search for anything edible and easy to transport for our lunch. Most often she’d find bread, lunch meat, and cheese with the possibility of potato chips or cellophane wrapped store-bought cookies. Finding fruit was another possibility: bananas, grapes, apples, cantaloupe, a watermelon or oranges. Occasionally when the larder had fewer choices or was actually bare, she might grab a can of baked beans, but if she did it would be necessary yo collect a can opener, paper plates and plastic forks. She would retrieve our old picnic basket, fill it with the food treasures, and stow in the trunk of the car or the rear of our station wagon.

The time to picnic didn’t happen right away. We would meet Uncle Charles somewhere and we would follow Charles closely. It was necessary for us to go for a drive and work up an appetite before we would stop for the meal. Somewhere during the trip, we would stop for something to rink. We couldn’t eat sandwiches without something to wash it down. Sometimes it would be milk, other times it would be several bottles of pop: Pepsi, Coca Cola, but most likely it would be a Frosty or A & W root beer.

After a brief pause to purchase drinks, we would continue until Uncle Charles or Dad would see a suitable spot along the road. Sometimes there would be a picnic table placed by the state of Pennsylvania, but most often the spot was a wide berm where both cars could park and there was a large grassy spot to set out our meal. We would enjoy the afternoon and the time spent with our three cousins, Alan, Duane, and Billy Bottomley.

Each picnic was an impromptu gathering. The spur of the moment decision for an adventure made the unexpected journey memorable. Most often it happened on a Sunday afternoon only in the summer or early autumn. I can’t remember a single time of picnicking in the snow or in the rain, but I still have warm memories of those warm summer drives and family picnics.

Doctor Needles

 Doctor Needles

I was working in the Emergency Department of H. C. Frick Hospital more than thirty years ago. There was a physician named Donald Yoon. He was a Korean and a very astute. a wonderful physician who knew acupuncture. I didn’t know that he was an acupuncturist until I came to work with a severe headache. It must have shown on my face, because he asked what was wrong and if I was I okay. When I explained about my severe headache, he disappeared only to return a few minutes later.

“We’re not busy now,” he said. “Go into the empty cubicle and hop up on the bed.”

When I did so, he opened his hand and placed a small metal container beside me, then turned and grabbed a handful of alcohol prep squares from a dressing cart. Dr. Yoon said, “I’m going to give you a quick treatment to ease your pain. He opened the velvet-lined metal case and removed a narrow straw-like tube, then selected a thin wire needle. It was about as thick as a human hair. Cleaning it with the alcohol he began to tap the needle onto several places on my head and my wrists. I barely felt them other than a slight pulling sensation. It was remarkable. That single treatment cut my headache in half.

A few weeks later in a lull of activity, he herded me into our lounge and said, “I’ll give you a full treatment.” The areas that he worked on were much more extensive. I was sitting in a blue plastic scoop chair and as the treatment progressed, if I hadn’t braced my feet, I would have slid out of the chair into a puddle on the floor. I was so relaxed, if someone would have thrown a bomb into the room, I wouldn’t have been able to escape. My headaches disappeared for years.

I’ve been having pain in my right knee. X-rays revealed I have arthritis but it’s not severe enough to do surgery. I visited an orthopedist who injected the knee with steroids. It gave limited relief and only for a very short period of time. After waiting six weeks, I returned to be injected with the “rooster comb” hyaluronic acid to see if that would lessen the pain. Again the relief was short-lived. I visited a pain clinic only to hear that topical ointments were my best option. There were too many vessels to try a pain blocking injection.

I visited another acupuncturist. I was on a waiting list for five months and when it finally came true, I was disappointed. It did little to relieve the pain. I wish that Dr. Yoon were still around to give me one more treatment.

Faded Memories

 

Faded Memories

Often my mom, Sybil Miner Beck would tell stories of life as she grew up in Indian Head Pennsylvania. She was from a family of six sisters and two brothers often telling tales of living on a farm and about her siblings. As with most families, some recollections were flattering and some were not, some were amusing while others quite sad. Frequently she shared anecdotes that made her family unique. Twlling these stories and sharing songs were an integral part of the person that was my mother.

Mom told us that when there was a suitor for one of her older sisters he would come to the house sing, “Miner girls won’t you come out tonight.”

Mom would often sing a ditty that would correspond to something that someone said. She regaled in sharing incidents from her past. Slowly, she lost this faculty. Alzheimer’s disease ate away at her ability to recall her past. Her life and intelligence became trapped somewhere inside of her. As the disease progressed, and we would remind her of a story she once told with relish, there was no connection. She would only say, “If you say so.” It was her response when we’d ask, “Isn’t that right, Mom?”

Her mental capacity had been in gradual decline, but took a sharp turn after the death of her sister Violet Bottomley. She and Violet talked on the phone every morning but one day as they were chatting, Violet died. I believe that incident mentally tipped Mom over the edge causing her to become mean spirited and difficult to deal with. Later as my dad Carl tried to get her to do something she didn’t want to do she threatened to stab him with a large meat fork. He couldn’t care for her at home any longer and we placed her into a nursing home with care 24 hours per day.

Granddad Raymond Miner died from the disease “hardening of the arteries” with accompanying dementia. It caused him to live in the past wanting to take care of his stock animals that were no longer there and dealing with farm memories used to be his life. Restlessly, he’d wander the house with thoughts of chores he needed to do.

Each one of his six daughters, Rachel Peck, Cora Hyatt, Violet Bottomley, Ina Nicholson, Sybil Beck, and Cosey Brothers eventually developed Alzheimer’s disease. Was it genetic? Neither Dale nor Ted lived long enough to have exhibited symptoms of the disease. These strong, vibrant women who cared for their own families were reduced to mental invalids that needed to be cared for until they died.

Cranberry Picking

 Cranberry Picking

In the area that I live, there are all sorts of berries that grow in the wild; strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, huckleberries, and cranberries. Strawberries grow in the abandoned sunny fields, raspberries and black berries in brambles claim many of the sunny nooks, and cranberries grow in wet, soggy bogs.

As children we picked strawberries in some abandoned fields near our home. We picked huckleberries in an overgrown field near Somerset, Pennsylvania with my grandfather Edson Beck. We gathered blackberries and raspberries wherever we could find their small bramble patches.

My father-in-law Bud Morrison drove his wife Retha and I to the area where the cranberry bog was located. We would pick the wild cranberries just before Thanksgiving. The trip involved traveling several back roads to get to the spot.

Bud would tell an amorous story about the cranberry bog. The tale was that he and Retha once enjoyed a time of passion while they were picking there. Retha would always smile whenever someone would mention going to pick cranberries in the bog and scold, "Bud!”

After Bud passed away, she couldn’t sleep in their bedroom. She would sleep on the couch in their living room. She thought that she might be able to sleep in it if it was remodeled. She wanted a window closed off that people could look into her bedroom from the porch and was afraid to sleep by herself. Patching the wall and sealing off the outside wall wasn’t easy, but we did it. We painted, bought a single bed, (which she wanted to try,) and rearranged the furniture.

In the end, I don’t think she spent a full night in the room. She told us that she couldn’t sleep without having something against her back. (I think she was used to have Bud sleeping against her at night.) Bringing back the double bed and putting everything back the way it was didn’t cause too much of a problem, although we did leave the window sealed off.

When Bud died, we went with Retha to the funeral home to make the arrangements. She needed to choose the casket, select the memory cards, what she wanted as announcement in which newspaper, decide on the services needed, and the dates for the funeral. Once all of the arrangements were made, the funeral director did the total and placed the contract before Retha to sign.

It still breaks my heart to recall her face as she took the pen. She looked up with tears streaming down her face. A look of hopelessness crossed her face. She couldn’t have looked more abandoned, forlorn and desolate than if she had been signing his death certificate herself.

He was buried with military honors.

The plot that they selected was beside the plot where his mother-in-law was to be buried and father-in-law was already buried. He always said that he didn’t want to sleep beside his mother-in-law for eternity, but that is where his body is.

The other thing he joked about his burial spot was that it was located on a small hill that overlooked the home of friends of Bud. He would tease the wife that she needed to close the drapes of her bedroom, because he would be able to look into her bedroom window.

Copy Cat

 Copy Cat

I’m in the midst of copying ALL of my blog stories from one flash drive onto another at the suggestion of my computer repaairman. The cool thing about him is that he has the same first name as me and he comes to my home. His rates are reasonable and he’s straightened out the problems that I manage to create. I felt really good when he visited this time. My computer keyboard has been my trusty companion for quite a number of years. It’s grown very crusty over the years. This visit I had with a clean, almost virgin keyboard for him to use.

The problem wasn’t really my fault. Several of his other customers were having the same trouble with their computers. The internet server FoxFire had changed. It was creating problems of logging onto the internet with an almost forced compliance to go through a new recognition procedure and that problem overflowed into other programs. It was frustrating. I was glad that he eliminated FoxFire from my computer. I won’t be tempted to use it again.

My computer would no longer connect to my printer. The printer’s an older HP DeskJet, but it’s still functional. An older printer that I had before my HP was required to shut down between printing jobs to prevent the ink tanks from drying out. Tom told me that it was no longer necessary and that I shouldn’t turn it off. Leave it on. I decided to cover the “on/off” switch to prevent me from turning it off. Now I feel bad for scolding my daughter when she visits and forgets to shut it off.

Right now I am in the middle of recopying all of my blog posts, my poetry, my books, and my stories that I’ve saved on other Flash Drives. I’ll now have back up for each tale that I’ve written. I believe that I have 2,500 items to save. From my Blogspot alone, the statistics say that I have nearly 2,200 posts on that site. I am sure that I have at least 300 other writings that I have saved.

It’s a long and tedious process. I know because it’s the second time that I’ve saved these stories. I had ten other flash drives with my thoughts scattered on them with no rhyme or reason. I sorted though each story and wrote a list of titles. I alphabetized the contents and copied them on the new flash drive. Now I am repeating the procedure onto the second drive. It’s such a time consuming and wearying process.