Kisses

 Kisses

Kisses, we’ve all had them from infancy up. Hershey kisses are sweet, but not as sweet as the pressing of lips. All show a degree of intimacy and love, from the peck on the cheek to the near tongue swallowing passionate ones. Kisses vary from the wet, sloppy ones given by aunts and grandmothers to the dry cheek rubbing kisses from a brother or sister. Prints of lipstick may mark territories claimed.

Sometimes there are just hugs without the kisses, but hugs may be more intimate and deeper than the kiss. When a friend or relative is in pain, sorrow, or grief, a shoulder to cry on is so unbelievably comforting. Sharing the tears and a long embrace will reach beyond the brief meeting of lips. It reaches from heart to heart, soul to soul. The tenderness of a kiss cannot reach to the very core of each person involved like the sharing of a hug.

A kiss sometimes takes more than it gives, but the very nature of a hug, the closeness of the embrace gives more than it gets or at the very least a equal sharing of emotion. The give and take allows the lessening of pain or sadness by the giving of support and a willingness to help and comfort. The hug says, “I am here. Let me help” the person in distress is able to release some of the frightening emotion that is the cause of the problem.

An embrace can also allow a person to share joy and happiness. When the elation threatens to bubble over, it becomes absolutely necessary to grab another person and allow them to become a part of that blessing in your life. The joy that is felt by one is heightened by the sharing with another.

Share a kiss; share a hug, share a bit of yourself with someone else. Give someone a reason to smile.

Jumbles

 Jumbles

I’m not thinking of any idea that I can stretch into a blog post so I will write any thoughts that tumble out of my brain as they surface. The one at the foremost is the word pardon. It was the word that was at the center ofour Sunday evening’s message. The word pardon at its minimum has a meaning that is just an “excuse me” when I bump into someone or reach in front of another with the meaning “excuse me.” Then we shift to pardon me when we say something that we shouldn’t as in “pardon my French.” At the maximum, the meaning of pardon is if we commit a crime or if we should sin and ask to be pardoned from punishment for an act that we have commited. There is a human bracket when we should ask to be pardoned by a human judge and jury or the maximum of asking to be pardoned by our eternal Father God.

The human pardon may leave a paper trail that will haunt us for the rest of our lives; while the pardon by God is a forgiveness that ccompletely blots away the sinful act and appears to never have happened.  “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red as crimson, they shall be as wool. (Isaiah 1:18)

Our church has an intern for the summer. His name is Joshua and is visiting from college in Indiana. He’s asked our men to form a choir to sing for Father’s Day. Sunday evening was our first attempt to sing together and we didn’t sound too bad.

Last evening I checked my blood sugar and it was low. It will usually hover near 100 to 110 and I tolerate that quite well. Sunday night after church, just before I go to bed it is the time that I usually check my blood sugar. I was surprised to find that it was only 69. I didn’t feel any symptoms of shakiness, weaknesss, or dizziness, but was fearful that It might drop lower. I ate a Reese’s cup then went to the kitchen for something to snack on. (I always keep some kind of candy upstairs in case of an emergency. Reese’s cup was my in-case-of-emergency candy last night.)

The snack was several crackers, 2 cheese sticks, and a beef jerky stick. By the time I finished my slower-to-digest and longer lasting snack, my hands were shaking so delayed my evening insulin. It is a long acting medication and using it so close to my low blood sugar should be okay. My morning blood sugar was 99 and I’m still alive.

Supplemental Blues

 Supplemental Blues

Several days ao I received a notification letter from my supplemental health isurance company that they are raising my rates, As of July 1st, 2026 the cost will be nearly $100.00 more per month. The rates were just raised not too long ago. I called the company and was shuffled around after listening to a plethora of menu selections. The menu passed me off to one menu to another with vaguee choices until I finally was able to speak to a human representative. I found that encounter frustrating and unfruitful. I wasted nearly forty-five minutes. The representative shared that the increase was necessary to cover costs. She said that under my policy, they must pick up the costs that Social Security doesn’t cover.

I teasingly asked if the increase in pricing was due to President Trump’s tariffs or whether it was due to the price of oil. She was not amused and rsther stiffy went into a spiel tto explain that it was necessary because they paid for the scraps leftover from my Social Security health plan.

Other than removing the flannel sheets from my bed, washing them, and hanging them outside to dry, I spent most of the morning speaking with other health insurers on the phone trying to find less costly insurance to cover my health needs. The health coverage I have now, even with the major price increase doesn’t cover vision or dental benefits.

I thought with the brand loyalty the representative would want to keep a customer who faithfully paid their premiums for over twenty years. I was wrong. If I expressed my concern to my present insurance company, why don’t they suggest a lower priced health plan, even though the substitute plan might either had a co-pay or offer less areas of coverage. So I was off wandering through other companies, their endless menus, and listening to the pre-recorded consumer’s rights, before that representative could share information from their company. What a wonderful day I had and by bedtime I had muscle tightness in my shoulder and a headache. Today I woke with the same muscle tension headache. What a wonderful way to start the day.

Changes

 Coloring Her

Eyes the color of summer skies

At evening when the sun sets

Not quite purple and not quite blue

With colors somewhere in between

With hair the color of autumn

Tawny richness of red and gold

Touched by the sun, haloed like brass

It cascades from her head in waves

Her skin is like the snows of winter

Pale alabaster smooth and white

Not ice cold, but warm and supple

Skin unmarred by scar or freckle

Cheeks pink as spring cherry blossoms

Softens the winter complexion

Gives life to the ice princess skin

Vigor and health from that hue

Loneliness Waits

Loneliness waits just outside the door

Sometimes coming to live within

They say, “No man’s an island”

Unless it’s deserted… unless it’s deserted

Alone it waits at the mercy of the see

In waves of sadness huge breakers roll

Will breakers, real breakers, heart breakers

Debilitating, binding, devastating

Controlling, incapacitating, homebound prison

Alone and afraid, isolated

Homebound, no one around trapped inside

Limited mobility, vision, and money

Too hot, too cold, too much sun, too much snow

Old bodies unable to adjust, adapt

Aging joints, weak muscles, fragile bones

Tottering steps wander the home

Forlorn and forgotten

For time unknown

Waiting for someone to call

To stop by to visit for awhile

 

If the Grim Reaper should knock

He’ll be invited inside

Passing Thoughts

 Passing Thoughts

As I awakened this morning, I was hit with the feeling of concern, “What do I write about today and what do I share with my friends?” Sometimes thoughts or recollections swiftly rise and flow into meaningful and entertaining articles. I’ve been writing and sharing since 2013. I began posting every day, but that became too heavy a burden. I began to share on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It gave my brain a chance to remember something or an event to happen in my rather routine life. Always at the back of my mind was the thought of Alzheimer’s disease. My mother Sybil Miner Beck, her five sisters, and several cousins have fallen prey to this insidious malady. That is why I write. I want my family to be able to pass on those memories, even if I am unable.

I watched my grandfather Raymond Miner prrogress as the gray a fog of dementia slowly assaulted him. He struggled all his life to provide for his wife Rebecca Rugg Miner and his eight children; laboring on his farm during the day and working in a coal mine at night. Even as dementia claimed his mind, his desire to care for his animals would often appear. Grandma would have to keep a close watch on his wanderings.

I think the history of their loss of remembrances cause me to struggle with my efforts to dredge as much as I can from my memories before the windows of my own brain’s vault closes to say, “Insufficient funds.” There are times when so many things roll unimpeded through my brain as I climb out of bed and words flow like an Artesian well bubbling out in a seeming unending flow. But sometimes it’s too early and I roll over for a bit more sleep. Oft times it caps the well and the flow of thoughts disappears. Then I worry, what have I missed sharing?

Because of a brain injury in 2015, I now have phantom smells. Thoughts of smells push forward this morning. Its not that the smells from my past are so important but they still exist as part of my memories full package. They wait to be dragged to the surface. Sometimes I wander through my house sniffing here searching for the source. Then I must decide. Is it a real odor or only a phantom smell? Since the fall, smells come and go. It’s strange. I want to keep the memories of past intact with their aromas attached, but I don’t want them corrupted with these false smells. SIGH

Watching Police Interventions

Watching Police Interventions

Recently I have watched several reels where the police have been called to investigate or to intervene with a person who is doing something illegal. The police usually corner the “criminal” in a vehicle. The police confront the “accused” after the car is stopped. From that point on the same things happen, no matter the age or race, but most often happens with women.

Thee police person raps on the window and says to turn off the engine. A battle of words and wills commence. The police demand that the driver roll down the window and produce a drivers license, proof of insurance, and owner’s card. The driver may refuse by winding up the window or reach around in the car or purse for a license or the driver may ignor the demand. The confrontation intensifies, the window may get broken and the drivver is compelled to come out of the car.

From here on, things become repetitious. The driver screams “Don’t touch me” and pulls away from the cop. The cop repeats “Get out of the car or I will pull you out.” This battle of wills and words continue until the cop loses patience and actually forces the driver out of the vehicle. The driver repeats, “Don’t touch me.” The cop says, “Put your hands behind your back,” and a struggle for control continues until the handcuffs are securely in place. Sometimes control only happens after the intervention of a taser. Stunned, the driver finally complies.

Next the driver will switch the mantra by saying, “I can’t breathe,” to mimic the chant at George Floyd’s capture and death. All the while the driver’s screams grow louder propelled by copious amounts of air. Once the breathing excuse fails, the women start, “I’m pregnant. Don’t touch me.” The police continue to secure the driver. The police only match the violence of the driver with their own while trying to avoid the possibility of injuring an unborn child.

The next struggle is to get the driver into the back seat of the police vehicle; all the while the captured driver’s screeching voice would intensify. I really don’t understand how the cop can endure the cursing, name calling, and the volume coming from the back seat during the drive to the police station. The cursing is interspaced with threats of law suits, threats to cause the officer to lose their jobs, and even threats of violence to the officer or his family, which only adds another charge to the driver.

The resullt is always the same, the vehicle window gets broken, the vehicle gets towed, and the driver is knocked down and cuffed, when cooperation would have only been a violation ticket.

One Day

 One Day

As I opened the desk drawer to gather my medications for the morning and seeing the hoard of bottles inside, I thought, “There will come a day when I won’t need all of this. I’ll obtain a new and perfect body. I’ll rise from the grave and I’ll greet death as an old friend,” not fearing what is beyond that great divide of the living and the dead. I’ll open my eyes on that great and eternal morning and I will have no more aches and pain. I won’t have fillings in my teeth, my joints will be new, and I’ll have muscles that are made to do what I ask. I’ll again have hair, I won’t have allergies, and I’ll no longer need glasses.

I’ll have the strength and endurance that I’ll need. My heart will overflow with joy, thankfulness, and gratitude. I’ll see the city of God behind huge, wide-open pearl gates. Streets there are paved with gold. The buildings will be constructed of bright gemstones: jasper, beryl, sapphires, emeralds, topaz, and amethyst. They’re so common that they’ll be used as building material. There will no longer be a need for the sun or moon. The light will emanate from Father God Himself. All glory shall surround His throne in unimaginable brightness. Angels, seraphim, and cherubim shall hover near calling out hosannas and praise.

Jesus, God’s only begotten Son will sit at His right hand. There with the Holy Spirit, they will make up the Holy Trinity; Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Their awesome majesty shall be unequalled, unmatched, and indescribable. In the heavenly courts I will wear a spotless white robe of righteousness and dwell there with other saints who have gone on before.

I’ll be lifted up when Christ appears in the clouds with other saints that will be raptured into glory. It will be a time of casting of crowns at the Lord’s feet and we shall receive eternal rewards. It is only by Christ’s blood that was shed on Calvary that sins are washed away and by His stripes we’ve been healed. It is the key to the entrance into Heaven.

Why should I fear death when so much more awaits me in that land beyond the stars?

I would be remiss if I didn’t share the only other option of an eternal dwelling place. It was created for Lucifer and other fallen angels, but has been expanded to receive those who reject Jesus as their Savior and refuse His gift of salvation. I won’t describe the horrors, pain, and tortures of Hell, but suffice it to say that Jesus offers life and in the Bible speaks warnings about Hell more than promises of Heaven.

Losing Your Cool

 Losing Your Cool

            Dot was one of the nurses with whom I worked in the emergency department. She was an older woman who was meticulous. Her uniform was spotless, her shoes were shined within an inch of their life, and she always fastened her nursing cap securely on top of her dark curls with a bevy of hair pins.

            An emergency room doctors was her complete opposite. If you remember the television program, “The Odd Couple” you can understand what I am trying to explain. His clothing was always rumpled and more often than not, covered in dog hair. He wore his gray hair longer, unkempt.   He had one big bug-a-boo. He hated when a restroom door was left ajar. He wouldn’t just close it. He would slam any door that was open. You knew when he made rounds, somewhere on the floor a door would BANG shut.

            Dot was fastening her hat in the restroom one afternoon when Dr. Vee entered the adjoining lounge. He poured his cup of coffee and as he turned to leave. He saw the door was open. BANG! He slammed it shut. Turning on his heel, he walked out to the desk at the nursing station.

            A few seconds later, Dot stormed out of the lounge. She was as hot as the doctor’s coffee. Her face was red and there was dirt and debris strewn across her hair, her hat, and spread across the shoulders of her crisp, white uniform. When the doctor slammed the door, the air pressure lifted up the ceiling tiles and dirt that had collected for years on the top side of the tiles rained down on her.

            She stood beside Dr. Vee until he sat his cup of coffee down. She grabbed his coat sleeve and dragged him back into the lounge. She shoved him into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, not just once, but… WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! We could hear it in the nursing station. She left the lounge and went into a patient’s restroom to brush off her uniform and to pick the dirt out of her hair.

            A few minutes later, a much chagrined Dr Vee emerged from the lounge with a sheepish smile on his face. He was covered in a large amount of dirt, dust, and debris scattered on his head and shoulders. He rolled his eyes, ran his hand through his hair, and brushed at the dirt on his jacket.  It didn’t seem to faze him, but rather seemed amused about it all as he picked up his cup and took a sip.

Being a Good Scout

 Being a Good Scout

While I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland, the Boy Scout leaders from the NATO base and the Icelandic leaders decided to create the first “Boy Scout World Jamboree.” They approached the commander of our naval base and asked him to supply an ambulance and a few corpsmen in case of injury or illness.

Three of us volunteered to man the first aid station. It was our weekend off and it was nice to have something different to do. It was a pleasure to leave the base and see the countryside. We were issued a “cracker box” ambulance for transportation and we loaded it up with things that we thought we might need; food, bandages, food, a large tent, food, water and more food.

When we reached the site, we hurriedly set up our first aid tent. The tent was made of olive drab canvas with matching floor, windows, door flap. It also had a heat resistant vent for a stove pipe to exit.  The sponsors had a dozen wooden pallets delivered for firewood. We knew that so few pieces of wood wouldn’t last the entire weekend and searched the field around us. We collected all the dried sheep dung we could find and stacked it inside the tent to keep dry.

One of the corpsmen brought a stove that he created from a rectangular tin “can” that once held five pounds of coffee. He used snips and wire to make two “hinged” doors, one for feeding the fuel and the other to remove ashes.

The stoves legs war made out of thick twisted strands of wire. The same heavy wires crisscrossed the inside of the box to create a grate to suspend the burning fuel above the bottom of the ash pit. Three pieces of metal stovepipe were connected to the stove to run outside through the vent hole then turning upward. The stove was ready for business.

Our tent remained warm, snug, and dry all weekend, which was a good thing because most of the weekend was cool and it rained. A mist hung heavily in the air. The wood from the pallets quickly disappeared and by now the dung still in the fields was too wet to burn. But we had an ample supply. The smoke from the burning dung actually had a pleasant smell. We had a steady stream of scouts coming into our tent to “see what we were cooking.” They wouldn’t believe that it was actually the smoke from the dried sheep dung that they were smelling. We did offer them some pieces of liver that we were frying when they visited, but they all refused our offer.

My Sister Complains

The major thing that irritates her is hearing someone using nail clippers to trim fingernails. The clicking noise almost drives her insane. At the first click she will give you “I dare you to do that again” stare. If you are brave enough to try it again, she will chew you out in no uncertain terms.

I found the best place to torture her was while we were sitting in church.

I was older and could sit with my friends while Kathy still had to sit with Mom. There would be a pause in the service, a moment of silence between hymns or at the end of a prayer and I would use the clippers; snip, click.

I would watch for her reaction out of the corner of my eyes. Kathy would stiffen and turn around, searching to locate the perpetrator of the clipper crime. The clicking sound would set her off, but she couldn’t say anything because we were in church. Putting on a face of innocence, I would watch and wait until she turned back around and settled down. I would wait a few minutes then click, another nail would be trimmed. Kathy would stiffen, turn, and stare with a look of death in her eyes. I would sit with a look of feigned innocence until she would turn around. The torture and the fun would continue as long as my fingernails remained.

The other thing that Kathy hates is pink, plastic flamingos. I think her hatred stems from her having to mow Aunt Estella’s grass. Estella had pink flamingos and other yard ornaments which Kathy had to move or mow around and that irritated her. Kathy and her husband Doug lived next door to Estella and they had to look at the ornaments when they would sit outside.

This hatred for these inanimate objects allows more ways for me to torture her. It gives me great opportunities to buy gifts for her birthday and for Christmas. Sometimes it is nothing more than a card with the pink pests on it to a pair of wire ones placed in her front lawn holding a banner of “Happy Birthday” and balloons. It could be a pair of salt and pepper shakers to a Lucite serving tray with a pitcher and glasses all bearing the likeness of her favorite character. I even found a pair of wooden home-made flower boxes that were built to look like flamingos.

But my all time favorite was the birthday present I found for her. I had an accomplice to help in the delivery of this flamingo that I had found. What I had found was a back scratcher that was shaped like a flamingo. I went to our local florist and bought half of a dozen pink roses. I had the florist insert the backscratcher among the roses and delivered to her home.

I know that she kept the roses, but I was never sure what happened to the back scratcher. She never did tell me what she thought of the “special delivery.” 

America's Sins

America’s Sins

There was a time in history that America was a God fearing country. The first men and women came to our shores seeking religious freedom; searching for the ability to worship God without interference from a king or government.  The foundation of the Constitution was based on biblical principles that God shared in His Word. The Constitution of the United States is the document that separates freedom loving people from other governments of the world.

America has been blessed. The face of God has looked favorably on our nation to make it a powerful entity and a haven for the oppressed. God has allowed our country to intervene when evil men attempted to rule the world. America has given the lives of its men and women to secure liberty for those who were being enslaved.

But year after year Americans have turned their back on God and year after year God has been saying, “I love you. Come back to me.” The government’s been straying from the principles upon which our nation was founded. Too many politicians have come to rely on their own strength and wisdom instead of seeking God, the source of all wisdom and strength.

Morality is on the decline and depravity is on the rise. Our government cannot legislate morality. If the hearts of our citizens remain unchanged, laws will do little to restrain evil or to limit its effects.

I believe that God has been showing His displeasure by the increase of earthquakes and weather disasters. When mankind is unwilling to recognize the Creator of the Earth and the weather concerns, but gives credit to “Mother Nature” or “Climate Change” it will only increase. When men do not give God honor for creation nor see these phenoma as a pronouncement of judgment, He will continue to weigh those people and allow that nation to be brought to its knees. God says that every knee will bow.

History shows that when a country removes God from its daily life other than to think of Him as a curse word or as a servant only to be beckoned when something is needed, that country fails. God will use the same hands that produced the many years of safety and blessings to also deliver the wrath of His judgment on the people of that nation.

It is time for Americans to be less proud and more humble. God is the only strength and refuge in times of trouble and fear. He is our buckler and our sword. God can bless America again if only we turn to Him and seek his forgiveness and face.

Marines Semper Fi Corpsmen Always Sly

 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 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. I’m sorting through photos and found a letter from him, complaimimg that I’d shared his name. 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 duty. There were times when they would mix at the enlisted men’s club 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. They would take turns fetching the drinks from the bar. Beer would appear and disappear until one or the other of the contestants would disgorge his drink. 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 that’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 of mines. The Seabee refused and the corpsman was the one who’d found the buried explosive. Only by throwing himself forward was he able to escape death. He said that the Seabee later had fallen to friendly fire. Nobody messed with the Marines’ corpsmen.

Caught Flatfooted

 Caught Flatfooted

As I pulled off my socks to shower this morning, I heard the telltale whisper that the skin on my feet were becoming dry and cracking. Being a diabetic, it was time to bring out the moisturizer and be proactive with my foot care and slow the winter calluses from forming. Of course, this triggered my memories of my aunt Helen Stahl and several stories about her feet.

My connecting thought was that she was a homebody and seldom wore shoes in her home. Her feet would become rough, callused, cracked, and painful. Eventually, she would sweet-talk someone into driving her from Orlando to one of the Floridian beaches. Dressed in her housecoat, she would stroll in the ocean wet sand. I never saw her wear a bathing suit, only the dusters that she wore at the house. The grit of the wet sand, wore away the calluses, smoothed the dry skin, and made it easier for the cracks to heal.

The second storey of Aunt Helen happened when I was a child. The place where my dad worked offered reduced price admission tickets to Idlewild Park in Ligonier. My parents asked if Aunt Helen and her family would like to join us. She accepted. Aunt Helen arrived at the park dressed to the nines. I can remember her full-skirted pale blue dress, a string of pearls around her neck, her red purse and she was wearing red, high-heeled shoes. For anyone who has frequented the old park knows the pathways were only pea-sized gravel. Walking on it was difficult enough, without high heels. By the end of the day, Helen said she had he blisters on her feet. The next morning, my mom Sybil Beck telephoned her and teasingly said, “Are you ready to go back to Idlewild?”

Helen said, “Just let me get my shoes on,” and snorted a laugh.

My final recollection was of Helen and lightning’s attraction for her. As I’ve said, Helen hated to wear shoes. This occurred while they were living near Indian Head, Pennsylvania. She was in the midst of cleaning her house and went outside to shake the throw rugs. Standing on the wet concrete porch, a bolt of lightning electrified the water soaked porch and made her dance.

I know that she was struck by lightning a second time, but I am not sure just where it happened.

It Came Back

 It Came Back

At the end of my last post I shared my violent and sudden attack on my body of diarrhea and the horrible retching and vomiting. It came out of nowhere, waking me form slumber and washing over me like a tidal wave. The diarrhea hit first. While I was perched on the throne, I felt wrapped from head to toe in a wave of blast furnace-like heat. I felt too hot and I struggled to remove my long-sleeved shirt. My mouth was filled with a flood of water that often will happen preceding a bout of vomiting. The purge hit while my head was buried in my shirt. I barely got it off when the geyser burst forth. I was able to grab a nearby trash can to catch the explosion. Wave after wave of my stomach contents tumbled forth; filling the trash can to the remarkable depth of three inches deep. There was nothing left, but my body didn’t know that and dry retching continued. I’d eaten cabbage roll casserole earlier and I’m not sure I will ever try to eat it again. That sour taste lingered.
The loose bowel movements continued until I was passing clear fluids. The noise form my hyperactive bowels growled like a demon from a horror movie. I finally took a tablet of Imodium in an attempt to slow the tide. I was concerned that if I stemmed the tide of loose bowel movements, it might cause a back-up and I feared for the re-emergence of the vomiting.
The symptoms eased and Monday I mowed my yard. I had planned to mow Friday when my schedule was interrupted by my illness. Sitting inside on Sunday, I heard the sounds of my neighbor mowing his lawn. I felt sick again. My lawn was a mess, ragged with bare dandelion stem wagging in the breeze.
Overnight into Tuesday morning, the diarrhea returned, muscle aches added to my symptoms. I decided to seek professional help. The hyperactive bowel sounds had never stopped and now that the loose bowel movements had returned after the short pause, I wanted to be sure of the cause.
I visited a nearby emergency care center seeking reassurance or palliative care. After signing in, a physician’s assistant listened to my history and gave me the once-over physical examination, she pronounced me ill with a virus. I was doing everything correctly to counter the bug. She said as long as I was able to eat and remained hydrated; it should disappear in ten days to two weeks. How wonderful. I guess I need to lay in a supply of toilet paper.

I Will Survive

 The Walking Dead

I am back among the living and I am able to drive my car again. Not being confined to the house or begging for a ride is a major blessing and it improves my outlook on life immeasurably. The drive into Pittsburgh is always stressful for me. City driving, even as a passenger is not for me. Born and raised in the country, I am more used to back roads.

The Pennsylvania turnpike is okay, but I never liked narrow bridges or the tunnels. To me it is like there is no place to go, if someone decides to direct their car into your lane. There is no place to evade the other driver.

Driving through larger towns was easier for me to do when my wife, Cindy Morrison Beck was alive. She was a great navigator and my GPS keeping me updated and on course. Only one time in all of the years we were married did she misdirect me. We were in the Philadelphia area and the road branched. We took the wrong one and drove through a Puerto Rican neighborhood. It seemed that all the people were on their porch stoops playing dominoes.

On the trips out west, she was a faithful copilot, even though she had fallen off Festus, a mule assigned to her for a breakfast ride at camp. I’ve talked about the trip out west before. Seven adults, seventeen teenaged kids, were tenting for seventeen days. It was a wonderful trip and I saw things that I will never have the chance to see again.

Now, that I can drive again, I hope that the weather cooperates. Coming back from the doctor’s office today, we stopped for a few groceries. Arriving home, the Penn Dot plows had our drive filled with huge chunks of snow and ice. Slick ice had formed in the driveway and I had to take care walking as I helped to unload the car.

Anna knew that I couldn’t shovel snow today, my back was still hurting from the last few storms She took it as a personal insult that our drive was filled with the flotsam of snow. Hurrying into the basement, she attacked the piles with fury, stacking the offensive white stuff along the road below the drive where the plows would push it away.

I was left to traverse the treacherous ice slickened drive and carry in the groceries. After three massive trips that probably should have taken six to unload, it was finished. We were home safe and sound, waiting for the next storm to come, but I’d rather have spring.

This last bout of flu knocked the stuffing out of me. Vomiting, diarrhea, and muscle cramps filled an entire day of my life, leaving me feeling worn and weary. However I am improved. No more rushing the bathroom and fumbling to unfasten my pants. I am feeling that I will survive.

It All Started

 It All Started

I’m running late in posting this morning. Why? It all started last evening while at church for evening revival services. The need to use the bathroom was a necessary interruption. After church at home, my stomach began to rumble and grumble, bubble and boil. The sounds sounded like dead souls took up residence in my gut. The groans and wails soon drove me to perch on the commode. More and more often I became glued to the commode. My stool became looser and looser until it was a fountain of colored water being expelled.

While on the nest, I had a hot flash and pulled off my shirt. I had put on a heavy shirt because I had felt chilled. The hot flash quickly became nausea making my mouth water; soon to follow was the violent emptying of my stomach. Time after time, the nausea turned into vomiting. I grabbed the nearby trashcan instead of having to clean the bathroom after my perch of the john.

The trash can soon contained my stomach contents from the day before, my toe nails, and the calluses from the bottom of my feet. Wave after wave of intermittent diarrhea and vomiting swept over me. Now comes the trifecta. Muscle cramps made it nearly impossible to move without agitating the sharp painful pains.

I’ve survived. Not feeling well yet, but alive.

Slip Slidin' Away

 Slip Slidin’ Away

Sliding boards were fixtures in the playgrounds of my youth. Schools and parks had sliding boards, see saws, swings, “monkey bars,” and the “roundabouts’ or merry-go-rounds. These weren’t the rubber covered, plastic playground items like the playgrounds of today. These were monstrous, man-made objects with metal-pipe bones, rusty-chain sinews, sawdust blood, and concrete pads for feet. There were no safety rails for climbing up to the top of the eight foot tall or taller metal sliding boards. The exposed metal was sun baked in the midday sun waiting to sear any bare flesh that dared to come in contact with it.

If someone would jump off the seesaw the other end would plummet hitting the ground so hard that teeth would clatter shut. The “monkey-bar,” jungle gym rose from the playground like a skeleton of a naked high-rise apartment building. Often the rungs were wet with dew or rain allowing fingers to lose their grip and kids drop onto the hard earth below or ricochet off another iron pipe. Fingers would often be pinched in the rusty chains of the swing, tempting fate with the possibility of incurring the disease of lock-jaw or tetanus. And I haven’t mentioned the merry-go-round yet. There was nothing merry about that spinning disc of death. That spinning saucer was a risk every time a kid climbed aboard when there was another “friend” there. That friend would do their best to spin the thing as fast as possible hoping that someone would fly off to their death or become dizzy and vomit. Aw yes, the wonderful playgrounds of my childhood. They were definitely not OSHA approved.

My first sliding board memory was one on the playground in Sheridan, Illinois at the park of my Uncle Fred and Aunt Cora Miner Hyatt’s town. That metal monster seemed to be at least ten feet tall, but it did have metal handrails to assist the climber to the top. The flat metal slide would clutch at bare legs and arms, giving brush-burns to an unwary child.

There were other slides that I helped lubricate with sheets of waxed paper. The waxed paper minimized the drag and sped up the descent. The last slide I rode was the double humped metal camel at Mammoth Park, Pennsylvania. That beast was about one hundred feet long with a man-made bump near the middle. The steep descent would cause the rider to often lift into the air as he or she hurtled down the metal chute. The rider would shoot off the end of the slide into a muddy landing that could injure legs, arms, or butts. This amusement wasn’t for the fainthearted but for youthful daredevils.

Places I Have Been

 Places I Have Been

Before my stint in the Navy, the only places that I visited were with my parents. My dad Carl Beck was even more frugal than I am and we spent his vacations visiting relatives. The longest trip was to Florida to visit my aunt and Uncle Helen and Jake Stahl in Orlando. Shorter trips included visiting my aunt and uncle, Cora and Fred Hyatt in Sheridan, Illinois and to see my aunt and uncle, Ina and “Nicky” Nicholson in Millersport, Ohio.

For the time while in service to my country, I started basic training and Naval Corps School at Great Lakes training center in Illinois, spending the winter there. Then I was sent to Orlando, Florida from the chill of the north to the heat of Florida. My next assignment was to Keflavik, Iceland and travelled from the hot humid south to a chilly 60 degree weather.

After completing my nursing curriculum at the Fayette campus of Penn State, I was assigned classes at State College, Pennsylvania. After graduating, I found employment at Monsour Hospital then at Frick Hospital. After my marriage to Cindy Morrison, our next trip was to visit her relatives in Jamestown, New York. We also made a short trip into Canada before heading home. Cindy felt ill while we drove home. It was our introduction to parenthood. Cindy was pregnant with our first. Only my craving for greasy hamburgers alerted us to our later two pregnancies, but that’s another story.

Family vacations included Sea World, the Knoxville World’s Fair, a visit to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and to “The Wilds” church camp in North Carolina. The next major trip for me and the family was to “the Wilds of the Rockies.” It was part of the tenting trip out west with seventeen teens, seven adults, also touring multiple National Parks for seventeen days.

My next major trip was to Newfoundland/ Labrador Canada, driving most of the way then riding a ship to Nain and returning to Newfoundland. A trip to Cottonwood, Arizona for my son Andrew’s wedding to Renee Largent was next. Later my son moved to Amarillo. That was my next long distance travel.

I joined a friend on a trip to Elkins, West Virginia to ride the train to the ghost town of Spruce. I travelled with the same friend across the southern border of Pennsylvania, up the east side, back across the northern counties, finally returning home along the western border of our state. Fifteen days of waterfalls, battlefields, and hotels wore me out. I’ve been pretty much a homebody since then. I’m just wondering it’s time for another escape vacation.

Since then, I flew to California with that same friend to visit her aunt and visit sites in California. Now my travels are to a nearby Walmart to shop.

First Sleep

First Sleep

First sleep was a term that was used commonly until late in the 19th century. It was a biphasic sleep pattern where people slept in two distinct separated by one or two hours of wakefulness known as the “watch.” People would sleep roughly from 9 p.m. until midnight, wake to read or work for a few hours, then sleep again until dawn.

First sleep began shortly after sunset. It was characterized by several hours of deep and restful sleep. The interval, “The Watch” was a period of time that was used to read, pray, talk, or tend to chores. It faded and finally disappeared from our vocabulary, our pattern of speech, and our lifestyle with the rise of electrical lighting, industrialization, and a push by society for a consolidated 8-hour period of sleep. In summer’s impressive heat, the night cooled and created a time where it became more tolerable to complete tasks and the person was strengthened and refreshed.

If there is a first sleep, it follows that there was a second sleep. That was the return to slumber-land until rising again in the morning. In the past the time to rise was just before dawn when animals needed fed, chores needed done, and breakfast needed to be cooked. It was a time of sleep that completed the cycle of rest.

What also popped into my head was a trip taken with 17 teens out West tenting. We drove by a city in Wyoming called Ten Sleep. It was named by the Crow nation referring to a 10-day mid-point travel between Big Horn Mountains and Fort Laramie,

Lately I have fallen into a first sleep pattern getting drowsy in the evening after a strenuous day of small chores and watching television. My allergies cause pressure to build behind my eyes making suggestions to my brain that I need an evening of napping. Recently I have succumbed to that siren’s song and fallen into bed for a few hours of slumber. The midnight hour will tease me into full wakefulness and I am compelled to wake, rise, read, write, and pray. For some reason I am not drawn to go downstairs to sit in my recliner to watch some late night program on the boob tube. I don’t need to be rubbed the wrong way by some Leftist comedian who thinks that he or she is funny. Their comments have become political parodies that hurl only barbed insults at anyone who opposes their singular view of reality.

So after an hour or so of putzing around, I decide to go back to bed and sleep for another five or six hours before rolling out of bed to face another day. 

Follow Up

 Follow Up

I forgot to mention from my llast post. I was docent st the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society this past Saturday and as I started my car to drive home, the “low tire pressure” light on my dashboard was iluminated. I Climbed back outsside and made a tour of my tires. None looked low and the light still glowed saying that one tire had 15 pounds pressure, I thought it might be a faulty sensor and drove home to use my handheld gage and add air if it was needed. I haave an electric pump and a bicycle manual pump. I tried to use the electric and couldn’t get it regulated then retrieved the hand pump. To my dismay, the hose had dried and was broken.

I placed a call to James Prinkey, my son-in-law who lives close and asked him for help. He’s a whizz with tools and if he was available he’d come over and rescue me. James came over and whipped a battery-powered pump from his tool box. While it was pumping, he made rounds checking my other three tires. All of them were good. As he checked them, I slid my hands ocer the surface of the low pressure tire, only tto find a thin, flat wire about two inches protruding from the tread. Even with my limited mechanical knowledge, I knew not to try to remoovee it. Similarly as a nurse I was taught not to pull an impaled object from a chest wound.

I carefully drove to the local NTB store to have “professionals”” pull the wire and replace itt with a plug. The technician was skillfully able to repair the hole and I was able to go on my way. They didn’t charge me anything, but was able to get tem to accept a small gratuity. I was very thankful that the technician was able to get me out of my dilemma.

The coincidence was astounding. The week before I went to NTB to replace my marine battery for my sump pump in my basement and hit a curb on my way into their facility. I’d bought that battery there and it was still under warrenty. However, NTB had stopped selling marine batteries. The curb had sliced the sidewall of my tire. I had to buy a new tire.There was no way I clould leave, so I had no choice but to buy a new one and have it mounted so I could leave.

Frustrating Friday

 Frustrating Friday

Friday morning wasn’t indicative of the rest of the day. I washed, hung clothes out, brought them in and folded I put them away Saturday. It’s rare I do both on the same day unless I feel the need. Since it’s only me in the house, I get lackadaisical at times. I knew I was to attend my youngest granddaughter Hannah Yoder’s high school performance of the musical “Frozen” later. Somewhere about noontime, things changed. I couldn’t find my cell phone and thus came the search-party safari. For several hours I retraced my steps. Outside, upstairs and downstairs, I retraced every step that I had ever made. I even executed several detours through spaces that I knew I knew I’d never traveled, “Going places where no man has gone before.” I became so frustrated that I finally gave up and defaulted to the old man reserve position. I showered and took a nap.

I heard my daughter Anna Prinkey come in the front door. She and I were going to the musical together. I had messaged her earlier that I had lost my phone. She dialed my phone number, but I keep it on vibrate so I am “running silent,” and the vibrations let me know that I got a message. While she was searching I got dressed to go to the musical.

She made the usual tour of my house and then decided to recheck my car. She tried dialing my cell again several times, listening for a vibrating sound. After several times, she heard a chattering on the rear floor behind the driver’s side. The phone had slipped from my pocket and her dialing vibrated from its hiding place in the seat.

The musical went well and was glad to get home to take my meds and climb into bed. I was tired from jogging up and down the stairs.

Saturday I had volunteered to be docent at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. There are only three members who are willing to carry the workload. It is hard to keep up. The numbers of workers have decreased due to old age, death, and illnesses. More and more volunteers are harder and harder to find. Historical societies and other smaller agencies are pressed to stay open. The preservation of the past is essential. It’s essential to keep our history as a foundation for the future.

Saturday evening I met with several other men who gather to pray for a revival in ourselves, our church, and in our country. Mt. Zion Community Church at the top of Kreinbrook Road begins s week of revival services the week of April 27^th. Everyone is welcome to attend. Services start at 7 pm. Thursday is special. It’s visitor’s night with a dessert fellowship to follow. Pease come.

Drained Brain

 Drained Brain

Have you ever woken up and thought “I don’t wanna? I’m not hungry. I don’t wanna eat. I don’t wanna read my Bible and pray. I don’t really wanna go to take care of chores. I don’t wanna get out of bed.” The only reason you stir at all is nature calling and your bladder is full almost to overflowing then you stumble half awake into the bathroom. Now that you’re up, what are you gonna do?

That’s what I felt like this morning. I was have no appetite, especially for breakfast foods.

When I feel like this, what do I eat for breakfast? The thought of frying an egg makes me want to head back to bed, pull the covers over my head and hide, but I’ve already taken my morning meds and I have to eat something so my blood sugar doesn’t hit rock bottom. Sometimes I pull oped the refrigerator door and study the contents in the dim light of the 25 watt bulb that resides there. Then I must make the decision, will I eat leftovers so I don’t have to cook anything, but the mashed potatoes and two chicken drumsticks leftover that I see for some reason that menu doesn’t seem too appetizing today.

I managed to sort through my refrigerator to finally find and consume a container of yogurt. I decided it would be the least offensive to my indecision and queasy stomach. At last I am able to sit in front of my blank computer screen and try to wring out today’s post. This is it. I’m sorry if it’s not up to my usual dribble, but it is what I have left in me. Maybe I can think of something better for my next post. If not I may shuffle back down stairs to search for somethin else to eat. I know I have Rice Krispies, a couple of bananas, and milk. Anyone want to join me?

A Bit of History

 A Bit of History

President Abraham Lincoln was attending the Ford Theatre in Washington D. C. The date was April 14^th 1865; Good Friday. President Lincoln was relaxing with his wife Mary Todd Lincoln. He was in high spirits as the terrible Civil War was coming to an end. They were in box seats above the stage watching the comedy, Our American Cousin when John Wilkes Booth sneaked into the box and shot President Lincoln behind the his left ear. Mrs. Lincoln cried out, “The President has been shot!”

Seated in the balcony about fifteen feet away from the Presidential box were several young Unon soldiers from the Thompson Battery. They carried President Lincoln’s unconscious body feet first from the theater across the street to a back bedroom of the boarding house owned by William and Anna Peterson and placed him on a back bedroom and placed him on a bed to await the doctor. Mr. Lincoln died the following morning.

Those four young soldiers were aged eighteen and early twenty year olds. An unusual coincidence was that all four of them were from the surrounding areas of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Who were these four young men and what happened to them?

Jabez Griffiths was from McKeesport, Pennsylvania. He died in 1898 from cancer.

William Samples, also hailed from McKeesport died in 1898 after a blast furnace exploded causing him an untold amount of agony until he blessedly passed away.

John Corey from North Versailles was a riverman who drowned in 1884 while working on a coal barge.

Jacob Soles also from North Versailles lost an eye in a coal mining accident before finally succumbing to cancer in 1936 at the age of 90.

All the World's a Stage

 All the World’s a Stage

William Shakespeare said all the world was a stage and the people in it actors, but I think that some people would be considered real characters. Some of the folk who would arrive at the emergency department when I worked at Frick hospital were called “frequent flyers.” They were repeat visitors; some as drug seekers, some were actually sick, while others wanted to be the center of interest, and then there were those who were just lonely.

We had a married couple who didn’t quite fall into any of these categories but straddled several. They came very close to be frequent flyers. I think they came just because they could come to the hospital and not have to pay for it. We named them Prince Charles and Princess Dianna. Charles and Dianna were their real names.

The closest thing to them having a royal escort occurred when Charles arrived in an ambulance accompanied by medical attendants. Charles and Dianna carried Pennsylvania’s yellow public assistance gold card. You’ve heard the commercial, “It’s the gold card, don’t leave home without it” and this couple never did.

Before anybody complains about my comment I just want to say there are people who are unable to work due to a disability and SHOULD have assistance. But there are other people who are able bodied and intelligent who should NOT be eligible.

I feel that Charles was one of the latter. He was intelligent and if he can have sex he’s able bodied enough to find a job. At an earlier visit he told me in the triage area, ‘I was teaching the old lady how to play chess tonight before we came in.” He had to have some smarts to play chess, right.

So, let me get back to the story. Charles was brought in by ambulance. As he was moved onto our bed, I noticed that under him was one of the dirtiest, filthiest, stained sheets I’ve ever seen and he was completely naked.  The spots on the sheet were not the pattern. He explained that he and his wife were having sex when his “back went out.”

He was given x-rays, medicated, and discharged. We gave him a pair of pajama bottoms because he’d arrived “au naturale” and a patient gown to wear home. He was to bring them back. I doubt that he did. The pajamas probably doubled his wardrobe.

He and Dianna had hardly disappeared through the exit door when she rushed back into the emergency room calling, “Where’s my sheet? Where’s my sheet? I need to put it back on the bed when we get home.”

The nurses looked at each other thinking the same thought. “Who’d put that filthy thing back onto the bed?” We shrugged, gloved up, and dug through the dirty linen bag to find her sheet. We returned it stuffed inside of a plastic trash bag.

The Wakeup Call

 

 The Wakeup Call

My Dad Carl Beck always went to bed earlier than my Mom Sybil Miner Beck did. He had to get up so much earlier than she did, but Dad also liked to listen to the baseball game when the Pirates played. Often he would take his portable radio to the bedroom and listen to the game before he fell to sleep. When the game was over, he would turn the radio off and slip it beneath the bed and then go to sleep. One night he forgot to turn the radio off.

The following morning after the ballgame, Mom was wakened, scared by a male voice in the bedroom saying, “Good morning!” She sprung from the bed, thinking that someone was in the bedroom, but when she settled down, she found that Dad had either fallen asleep before the game was over or that he had not shut the radio off before he slid it under the bed.

This was a time when many radio stations didn’t broadcast all night long, but would sign off at midnight until the following morning at six a.m. Mom had gone to bed after the station had signed off for the night and hadn’t known the radio was still on, but she found out at six a.m. that morning.

One of my parent’s bedroom windows was at the front of the first floor of the house. It looked out onto the walkway that led to the front door. My brother heard Mom moving inside, The blinds were closed. The window was open with an adjustable sliding screen in place. He leaned close and yelled in the window, “Whoo-oo-oop!”

Mom had been in a stage of undress. She screamed and dropped to her knees, whipping off the bedspread to cover herself.

Mom was on one of her frugal kicks and had made just one hamburger for each of us. She had cheese slices, tomato, onion, and lettuce as fillers for the sandwiches and for our bellies. The meat plate was passed around and each of us took one. We each stacked the extras onto our burgers. All of us had started eating; even Mom had taken a bite of hers. It was then she saw the “extra” ground beef patty on the plate.

“Who didn’t get their burger?” she asked. It was then she realized that she was so intent on building her burger with all the extras, she had forgotten to add her hamburger patty to her sandwich.

Remembering Flowers

 Remembering flowers from my past, I think of my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. She loved flowers. In the summer she had a flowerbed of pansies, lilies of the valley, and the long green porch boxes filled with red geraniums. The pansies were her favorite. She said they reminded her of little boys with dirty faces. In the winter her inside windowsills were filled with cuttings from the geraniums. Their leaves had a spicy aroma when rubbed. At the end of her upstairs hall was a huge Christmas cactus with its green leaves and deep pink that blossoms cascaded down the sides of a stainless steel cream separator bowl.

I can’t really remember special flowers for my Grandmother Anna Nichols Kalp Beck, but she loved the huge oak tree in her side yard. She would often sit in a metal yard chair enjoying the shade.
My Mother Sybil Miner Beck loved her roses; often she had started them from cuttings. She would snip a rose stem, place it under a Mason jar, and cover it with straw for some time. She’d keep it covered, occasionally checking on its progress, until it took root and began to grow. She had several colors from a pale yellow to a bright crimson. I think her favorite was a parchment colored rose that had a large bloom.
My mother-in-law Retha Johnson Morrison always had bleeding heart baskets hanging on her front porch. I can remember sitting on the swing with Cindy Morrison Beck while we were courting and watching the humming birds visiting the baskets.
My wife Cindy’s favorite flowers were daisies. It was great for me in the summer. I’d often pick the wild daisies and make a bouquet with whatever other flowers were blooming at the time. The bouquet was there as a surprise for her when she came home after teaching. I won’t say I was cheap, but I will admit to being frugal.
My older Daughter Amanda Beck Yoder’s favorite is the calla lily. She had a large bouquet of them in her wedding. I bought a large framed picture of calla lilies as a wedding gift. It hangs on their living room wall.
My daughter-in-law Renee Largent Beck carried a wedding bouquet of wildflowers and daisies to honor my wife Cindy. Cindy died in March and their wedding was in August. Renee’s favorite flower is forget-me-nots.
My younger daughter Anna Beck Prinkey loves sunflowers. Sunflowers made up much of her wedding bouquet. The sunflowers were the usual color of gold with dark brown centers, but I don’t think it mattered what color they were. Now that there are so many variations available.

Peeps

 Peeps

After several decades of having Fred and Doretta Brown as neighbors I now have a much younger family living there with their daughter. They’ve planted several fruit trees and have made a garden. Slowly they’ve made changes to suit them. I used to mow Fred’s yard because I could and he had difficulty. He was hard of hearing and had hip replacement surgery. It cost me nothing but a little gas and some time. It was a relief for them I am sure. When the new family moved in, I mowed their yard too, knowing they would be busy with chores and settling in. It was neighborly thing to do.

Once they became settled, the husband said he was able to mow his yard for himself. We are good neighbors and have occasionally done neighborly things for each other. The wife occasionally will bake something and share and I’ll send some scraps for their chickens to eat. (I don’t bake.) I’ve fetched their young daughter’s toys or a ball that has escaped their yard. The wind in our neighborhood is often very strong.

The young daughter will wave at me when I walk up for the mail. She sometimes looks out the front picture window. This year for Easter I bought several packages of marshmallow peeps. My kids like them. Not so much for me. I thought it would be a surprise to tape a package of blue bunny marshmallow Peeps to the window for her to find. Her mom messaged me to ask if I had done the deed. I replied that I wanted to surprise her when she claimed her spot at the window.

I also bought Redstone candy chocolate crosses for my granddaughters. I gave them to the kids early because two of the three are away from home, one in Arizona with their other Grandparents and one is attending college in Florida.

We ate our Easter meal at my son Andrew’s place and this year I managed to roast the turkey without making turkey jerky. The turkey was well done but the meat hadn’t become dried out and crispy. I also managed a no-bake orange  Creamcicle pie. It was a nice time of eating and talking. I hope everybody had a nice Easter, celebrating Resurrection Day/

Scents and Sensibilities

 Scents and Sensibilities

While I was tidying up the house again, I saw something that has been there for quite some time. It just became another part of the ordinary things that make up my house. (For those in southwest Pennsylvania, I was doing some redding up.) In a basket in my downstairs powder room, there is a bisque scent ball. It’s almost the size of a tennis ball. Its flat bottom had a small plastic plug and the top sported several small holes like a salt or pepper shaker. It was a pomander ball that was made to hold perfumed body powder and slowly release the scent over many months much like the electric room fresheners of today. Its smooth white surface has a several roses of pale pink with stems and green leaves. It sports a shiny braided gold thread through two of the holes on the top. The cord allows it to be hung in a closet or in an unobtrusive corner of a room. The “Wedgewood” brand and “Made in England” is stamped in pale green print to form a semicircle on the base.

This inexpensive little piece of clay holds a precious memory for me. Either for our first or second Christmas together, I bought it for my wife Cindy. Neither of us had much money. She’d just graduated from California State University and I was a recent Penn State graduate. We’d just bought an acre of land and set up housekeeping in a used mobile home. The land was undeveloped and had to be prepared by scraping out a pad for the trailer and for the driveway. The trailer was towed from Casparis near Connellsville to our lot just outside of Normalville, Pennsylvania. We had to have the electric, telephone, and septic systems installed. Keeping ahead of the bills and paying the mortgage ate up much of our money.

I can’t recall whether I bought the ceramic ball from a mail order catalog or one of the party circuits selling knickknacks, but I thought it was a cute item. I even filled it with some of the bath powder Cindy used. It wasn’t a practical gift and that may be why it has lasted so long. I know Cindy stored it in her lingerie drawer for many years scenting her underclothing. Believe it o r not, the ball has still retained a soft scent from the powder dumped inside over forty years ago.

I was sorting through papers too and found a paystub from Frick Hospital 1977. My take home pay then was less than a nurse earns today in one day.

Ice Cold Swimming Hole

 Ice Cold Swimming Hole

When my brother Ken and I were in our preteen and early teen years we would walk with the neighbor boys an eighth of a mile to a deep spot in the waters of Poplar Run. It was a spot under the bridge between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania along Route 711. The waters that fed this stream emanated from underground springs and the melt off of the winter’s snow and ice. The creek for the most part, flowed through shaded wooded areas where sunlight only filtered through the leaves and branches of huge trees and laurel bushes that lined its banks. The swift flowing water stayed cold all year long.

Each year a basic dare progressed into an annual challenge, we would make the trek to get into the frigid water beneath the bridge before the end of April. We weren’t quite the Polar Bear club, but it wasn’t a sunny day on the beach either.

Beneath the bridge along one side of the stream was a sand and rock stretch of beach. Before we would make our first timorous exploration into the water we would build a fire. We already knew that the water would be cold. We gathered driftwood to keep the fire going as we swam. It would be the difference between salvation and hypothermia. It would be needed.

Under the bridge the stream made a turn where the current created the deep swimming hole. The deepest part of the hole was in the shade of the bridge, so there was no heating of the water on the trip from the melted snow to our pool.

Once the fire was built and going well, we stripped down to our white briefs and crept to the water’s edge. We knew what awaited us. There was always the test of toes, praying that a miracle would have happened and the water had been somehow transformed to become warm. We hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t be as cold as it invariably was.

Each of us had our own way of getting into the water to finally immerse ourselves in the icy flow. Some of eased in; toes, ankles, calves, mid thighs, and then the part that took your breath away: the family jewels. It was no use going slow any longer and we’d dive in. No use prolonging the agony. Others were more daring and took the plunge, popping out of the water with a savage scream that echoed from the high arched walls of the concrete bridge.

One thing that was the same for all of the swimmers after we had taken the plunge and the few strokes back to shore we raced for the fire to get warm. Huddled and shivering we crouched close to the red hot coals, squatting on our haunches and holding our quivering arms to our chest as we sought more body heat. We added more wood to dry ourselves and to try to get warm before hypothermia could set in.

Once we warmed a bit, we would open a sleeve of saltines and toast them one at a time on a forked stick by holding the cracker over the hot coals. Retrieving the plastic knife we had hidden, we would smear some of the oleo from the stick “butter” onto the toasted cracker and have a feast until the last crumb was devoured.

It was a time of male bravado and bonding. About this time, we were dry and warm. Climbing back into our clothes we would head for home. All through the summer we would return to swim. When the dog days of summer and its hot sweltering temperatures engulfed our world, the swimming hole would become an oasis and refuge with its cool, refreshing water and not the springtime place that tested our manhood.