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.

The Name Game

 The Name Game

I can remember many years ago when my kids were much younger and my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was still alive, the kids would ask me; what can we get you for Christmas? I would tell them that I wanted the preprinted return labels: labels that came in a self-adhesive roll. Some brands of the labels had a wet and stick, while others had a peel and stick. But the one thing that all of the labels had was the name, street address, state, and zip code.

For some reason they never bought any labels for me. I don’t know why I detested taking the time to hand write my name and my address in the upper left-hand corner of envelopes, but I did. There were advertisements everywhere offering the preprinted return labels. Nearly every newspaper advertisement bundles offered them for sale. Many magazines ran an advertisement somewhere inside or the back cover wanting you to take advantage of a sale price to purchase them.

I’m a frugal guy. My kids have interpreted that word to mean cheap. My salary for two weeks as a nurse back then, is what a nurse now makes in a day. Times have certainly changed. Often it was a struggle to pay the mortgage on a house, the payments on a car, taxes, and utilities. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck taught at a private Christian school to pay for our kids’ tuition. It was my salary that kept a roof over our heads, food on the table, and shoes on our feet.

I was surprised that the bank recognized my signature when Cindy passed away. I was on night shift and Cindy often signed my name on my check to deposit it. Banks were often not open when my eyes were. She also wrote the checks to pay the bills. That was a new responsibility I had to carry when she passed away.

Suddenly every charity seeking donations began sending preprinted, self sticking name and address labels in their solicitation mail. Now I have all the name/address labels I need. Even if I live to be one hundred years old, I’ll never run out of labels and Heaven forbid if I ever change address. What will I do with the excess labels? The frugal part of me will not want to toss them out.

With Some Memories Comes Sadness

 With Some Memories Comes Sadness

As I tidy my computer room/ office I found several cards, letters, and notes that stirred many wonderful and achingly poignant memories. Most of them were sad with an occasional smile stirred into the mix. I said tidied, because there are still stacks of photos, notes, folders, and manuscripts of tales and poetry to go through. Some surfaces are still lined with dust.

I decided to get rid of old Christmas cards, birthday cards, and thank you cards that will have no meaning for others, but a valentine card signed by my granddaughters Celine and Moriah was reason for a pleasant memories stack of cards that I’m keeping. There are more cards and letters from loved ones that I will keep as well. The oldest was from a fellow corpsman and friend I met in Orlando Florida. Although he was a raging Liberal hippie, we became friends. He was reassigned to Field Medical Training School to be with Marines, during the Vietnam Conflict. He wrote me with his address and when I wrote back. I used his full name, Charles Felix Scott. His return mail thanked me for letting everyone AND God know, including fellow Marines that his middle name was Felix. Sorry Scotty. If you see this, write back. I’ve lost contact with you.

The next card and letter was from Cousin Liz Nicholson Moore. She was the daughter of Oliver and Ina Miner Nicholson. We were about the same age and always liked to be around each other until her family moved to Ohio. We still kept close with letters and cards. She has since passed away. The hardest thought for me to bear was when I sent a letter at Christmas to her and received a card with the obituary notive from her husband telling me that she’d died several months before. I still get choked up thinking about it.

The last card and letter inside was from a former Pastor and dear friend. His birthday and mine were close dates in March. We’d go to lunch and hit places that had annual book sales. He was an avid reader and bibliophile. He was also a Missionary to South Korea and left our church to teach Bible students to be missionaries at a college in North Carolina. Even after he moved, we would visit at least once a year. I’d always find a book that I knew he would enjoy. He was a dedicated servant of God with a desire to the reach the lost people in Madagascar so remote he would need to be flown in by helicopter. On the day before his departure, he died and is sorely missed. Good bye Pastor Norm.

I can’t read any of those letters for now; there is too much sadness there.

Look to the Sky

 Look to the Sky

In the past few days, the sky has been so intensely beautiful, I can’t express in words the vivid colors and design I’ve seen. Even Bob Ross with his happy little “wet on wet” painting techniques would be hard pressed to even come close to the excellent paintings of light that God has put on display. I take photographs of the most impressive and share them on Facebook, but they only stir memories of skies that I have seen in my past.

One such sky was while camping at The Great Sand Dunes of Colorado. As we arrived, vast arches of rainbows greeted us. There were three rainbows that slowly dissolved into one, growing brighter as they joined together. Later that night as we set up camp there were no lights for miles. The sky was a velvety black. Huge glistening stars hung just out of reach above our heads. A rain storm swept in with a dazzling lightning display. The air became even clearer and stars became more pronounced after the storm thundered by. The rain seemed to clean the air and polish the stars.

I’m also reminded of the hues of the sky and its reflection in the ocean at the northern tip of Newfoundland. While aboard the Northern Ranger the sky melded into the water of the bay almost becoming one. Only the position of our ship moored there gave definition to the location of the water.

The sunrises and sunsets from my home have been so very impressive. The colors have been so intense that they almost seem artificial. The smorgasbord of passing clouds adds even more interest to phenomenal designs in the sky. The skies’ palette is covered with pastel hues to brilliant primary colors. That boggles my mind. The old adage comes to my mind “A picture paints a thousand words.” But mu descriptions fail miserably at describing the beauty and colors of the sunrises and sunsets.

I like to think that this is the underside of Heaven and if the bottom of Heaven is this wonderful, I can’t imagine what Heaven will be like. I am at a loss for words to try and describe what Heaven will actually look like. I do know the Bible describes Heaven as being filled with jewels and having streets of gold. Heaven’s gates are huge pearls. It’s an eternal place where moth and rust can’t destroy. It is too great a thought for my human mind to comprehend.

 

Rainy Days ad Mondays Always Gets Me Down

 Rainy Days ad Mondays Always Gets Me Down

Even with the increasing daylight hours, the rain always makes me feel sluggish and sort of depressed at the beginning of the week. It makes me want to hide inside even knowing that spring is just around the corner. I’m glad that I have retired and don’t have to go out when the winter winds blow and snow falls. I won’t say I like the rain and sleet, but I guess it is better than the cold ice and snow.

I do have a metal roof and have heard others say how much they like to hear the rain falling on the roof, but with the windows closed, all I hear is thunder and the dull roar of a barrage of raindrops pounding on the roof. There are no sounds of music as the drops dance on the metal roof.

When the rains make everything soggy and water filled, it really makes me want to remain inside where I am dry and warm. When mankind started to build shelters I’m sure his wife wanted to be warm and dry as well. He would do all that he could to keep the rain, wind, and snow outside and to keep her happy and have their dwelling snug and secure. They had to carry water from a stream or spring for cooking and drinking. I’m also sure that fetching in the water day after day became more and more burdensome, so the woman of the house probably shared the desire to have water brought into the house with pipes and a pump. After years of wanting to keep water out of the house, now it became a luxury, then a necessity to have water brought into the house and a way to allow it to escape. Need I mention the need to go outside to use the privy?

Well, it’s Monday again and wondering if the sun will pierce the early morning mist with a golden glow. Even though the temperature is predicted to drop from yesterday’s sunny warm feeling and turn into another bone chilling wintery day, I have some small chores to do around the house. I am thankful that I can stay inside warm and dry and still get them done.

Feelings of Loneliness

 Feelings of Loneliness

I recently had a night when some those sharp pangs of a deep and painful soul wrenching episode of loneliness appeared. It’s a feeling that every widow and widower will get at some time in their lives after the death of their spouse. It also occurs with every person who has gone through a divorce. That feeling doesn’t happen frequently now for me, but when it happens it’s a real lowdown feeling. When I face an empty bed, empty arms, and it seems as though my very soul is empty.

This time that emptiness has been compounded. In the last few days I’ve driven several places and lately I have been listening to an oldie’s station on my car radio. I don’t recall how many songs were about being alone, loneliness, or being lonely. Some only hinted about those feelings of “The Last Dance” while in other lyrics, the teens were separated by death. One after another sad words filled my car: “Are you lonely tonight,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Tell Laura I Love Her,” and on and on. “Only The Lonely,” “I Am…I Said,” and “Dancing on My Own,” each one slipped through the speakers of my radio.

I can’t think of the names of the many other songs, but their sadness filled my car on the air waves. Many songs were jazz selections or the blues. One was “The Thrill is Gone.” When I had the lonelies attack, I thought about writing my blog about the feelings of loneliness, but then thought not. The subject was too depressing. I decided to let it pass like I do when those thoughts about being alone appear, but after three days of constantly being bombarded by listening to “being lonely” music, I was prodded to write about it.

Like I said, this feeling doesn’t happen often. I have friends that I lean on and God is always there, however the physical intimacy of a spouse isn’t present. That need remains buried, lurking beneath the busyness of daytime chores, appointments, and the many daily things that press that need done. I find it’s the nights that press close and there is no one to talk with that reveals the emptiness.

Excess Baggage

 Excess Baggage

While stationed in Orlando, Florida, I became friends with Lt. Chris, a Naval Episcopalian chaplain. He drove an ancient pale blue Peugeot. He was the type of a person who made friends no matter where he was. One of those friends was the widow of a merchant marine captain. The captain fetched souvenirs from all over the world and the widow was down-sizing. She was moving to a smaller home and told Chris that she wanted him to have something by which to remember her. She gave him a huge bronze incense burner. It was not a small one that might sit on a desk, but it stood over six feet tall.

Chris had a silver tongue and could cajole a monkey out of his fleas. He talked me and another corpsman into going with him to collect it in the U. S. Navy’s two and a half ton truck. If I’d known the size of it before I got to the widow’s house, I would have run the other way.

The incense burner was constructed of three large sections and several smaller pieces. The base was three feet in diameter. Each segment tapered smaller until the top piece formed a rounded dome. It had a bold relief oriental motif of entwined vines and dragons with removable leaf-shaped platforms to hold the incense. If it hadn’t been in sections we could never have moved it. There were no bolts to hold it together. Its raised lip fitted inside of the piece belpw it and its weight held it in place. The weight kept each piece secure.

The size and weight of the base alone made it difficult to handle. Lifting it into the bed of the truck was gut wrenching. I thought for sure I would have a hernia before we got it loaded. The middle section was actually the heaviest, but its smaller size made it easier to lift. We struggled to remove each piece from her home without damaging her walls, hardwood floors, or doors. The only way to remove it was to carry it through a shaded garden and down a long walkway to the truck.

Now that Chris had it, he needed a place to store it. Claiming the huge incense burner was unusual, but this was the real gist of the story. Chris talked the commanding officer of the hospital into keeping it in his office. The bronze tower was so heavy; we had to place a 3/4 inch thick square of plywood beneath it to prevent its weight from crashing through the floor behind his desk. I felt sorry for myself at having to lift and transport it, but I pitied any sailor assigned to clean and polish it.

Old Postcards

 Old Postcards

In the past I’ve shared old postcards that were left to me by my mother-in-law, Retha Morrison. Some were sent to her while others were bought traveling with my father-in-law, Bud. After Bud died, she gathered more as she travelled with her best friends, Conrad and Dorothy Auel. Conrad and Dorothy lived in Sheridan, Pennsylvania. They were great friends. They met at Camp Christian, near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. Bud was the caretaker and Retha did much of the cooking.

Sadly, all of those people are gone and I miss them terribly.

But back to the postcards, there are well over five hundred cards some postmarked and sent while others remain unsent. The earliest card that I’ve found was 1938, but I haven’t looked at al of them yet. What I once posted on Facebook had been a condensation of a camping trip for our church with the teenage kids. It was an experience that I look back on fondly.

There were things that we saw and things we shared that I will never experience again, even if I should live another hundred years. Two of the most lasting memories centered around Sundays and the two different church services that we had.

The first was at King’s Creek Campground in Utah. We actually had the service on a Saturday night, because we had to get up early for the Sunday journey. It was an open air service in an amphitheater with tall evergreen tree walls and a starry sky roof arching high overhead. It was a feeling of closeness to God that I haven’t felt since then.

The other memorable Sunday was the one following our tour of Yellowstone Park, Wyoming was our overnight stay in a small church. It was located in Wapiti Valley, Wyoming. The word wapiti means white rump according to one definition, describing an elk.

The church was built from the timber and boulders that were removed from the site where it was build. The mountains surrounding it, only enhanced its beauty. Inside, were the heads of several antlered elk hanging on the walls beneath high, wooden, cathedral ceilings and over the doors. It was s if the members were paying special attention to one of God’s creations for which the valley and church were named and we were allowed to sleep in the basement and cook inside, instead of having to set up camp to stay overnight.

We would run late if we stayed for Sunday morning service, but how could we refuse to such gracious hosts and I am glad that we did. The most memorable incidents that I can remember were the sharing of music and the collection of the offering.

Unusual memories? Not really. Our group was the special music and the “passing of the hat” was literal. When the ushers collected the offering, they used two white Stetsons as collection plates. It isn’t a memory that will quickly fade, for me and the rest of our troupe.

Should I

 Should I ?

I woke and was unsure what I should write about this morning. Several thoughts came to mind. One was pushing me to write about the rheumatoid arthritis that my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner developed in her old age. That disease caused her hands and feet to be misshapen. The joints became gnarled and painful. Her knees became large and deformed causing her stance to be bowlegged. The effect of the disease causes me pain and to a much lesser degree deformity.

The second is married to the first. This weather swings stir the arthritis to increase the aching in my joints. The cold intensifies the discomfort and sharpens its edge. I feel so blessed when the sun shines and the warmth interrupts the cold and snow.

For some reason a random thought of the dream I had last night lingers. I rarely remember the content of my dreams unless it happens right before I wake. I dreamed that I was helping a friend from Frick Hospital where I worked before retirement. She was sorting through clothing to be resold at a church bazaar. I had been working outside and came inside to help. I was wearing shorts and a Tee shirt that were filthy and filled with sweat. In my dream I thought that I could find something I could wear and change into some clothes that were more fitting, but no. She had taken all the clothes off the racks. They were jumbled together. She decided that the clothes needed to be separated differently.

I am picking through different piles, putting them on hangers then replacing them onto the racks. For some reason I intended to attend a church service adding to the haste to find something clean to wear. I can remember a though that filled my head, “If I can’t find something clean to wear, I will have to go to church in filthy, stinky shorts and a Tee shirt. That thought spurred my frantic search for something to wear. I found a pair of gray slacks. But they were ladies and much too long in the legs, but they were clean and I tried them on…then I woke. I have no idea if I kept them or not or whether I made it to the church service.

On thing I am sure of is that the arthritis is still here

Paying It Forward

 Paying It Forward

Monday morning I went to get my blood drawn as part of a trial medication study. Although I had to stop taking the meds earlier because of side effects from the medication, they wanted to keep me as a “normal” control patient. The reason I stayed in the study was that I was getting paid for having three tubes of blood drawn two times each month. All I needed to do was to fast overnight, be weighed, have my blood pressure checked, and then sit still for the blood draw. This appointment I had to answer a questionnaire. Once I was released, I drove to Valley Dairy restaurant to eat. After my food arrived I took my daily medications.

Monday was my birthday and no one was there to help me celebrate. I was feeling just a little bit down. As I sat there a tall black man came in and sat at a table near mine. He nodded and said “Good morning” his smile spreading across his face. He was a complete stranger, but his friendliness made me take notice. When I finished eating my food I decided to pay for his breakfast. I walked to the cashier to where my server was standing. I handed him my bill and cash asking him to cover the cost of the other man’s bill and keep the rest as his tip.

My next stop was Ollies. While “springing ahead” this weekend resetting my bathroom clock I was clumsy enough to drop it and the hands popped loose, useless. It had bitten the dust. It was no longer able to keep the time. I needed a few groceries and stopped at Aldi’s before heading home.

Once home I washed a load of clothing and dried them before folding and storing them away. I sat in my recliner and the boob tube claimed the rest of the day.

It wasn’t an exciting way to spend my birthday, but I’m still alive and kicking. My kids said they would celebrate another day when we can all get together.

All in all it wasn’t a bad day and I had that good feeling of anonymously paying it ahead.

Weekend Whirlwind

 Weekend Whirlwind

The weekend flew by. So much to do and so much completed. Friday was the unloading and setting up of the equipment to assemble the Gospel of Romans and St. John into booklets to be sent to missionaries in Ukraine. They will distribute the booklets to the citizens of Ukraine. The Ukrainians only had a sloppy translation of those books or they had to read and rely on a more reliable Russian translation. It was a real dilemma, to read the poorly translated Ukrainian Word of God or to read the Bible in the enemy’s language.

Seedline has been printing and sharing the Word of God in the Ukrainian language for several years now. The missionaries who are in Ukraine have been requesting more copies for the people who are fearful and in need of encouragement. They are seeking hope and the peace in a time of war that only can be found in Jesus to fill the weary soul.

Friday evening we unloaded the heavy cutting/trimmer machine, the boxes of covers, the printed copies of the Scripture, eighteen stapling machines, and the aluminum folding trays. We placed them onto our tables. As soon as the machines were set up, we began to fold the covers so they would be ready to receive the printed texts. Those assembled covers and texts were then passed on to the people who were manning the stapling machines. Once the booklets were stapled, they were stacked in piles of ten and cut by the huge blade in the trimming machine. The finished booklets were then stacked and sealed in boxes ready to be shipped in large metal shipping containers.

We started the project Friday evening at five-thirty as soon as the supplies were unloaded and set up. We worked until eight pm. We folded nearly three of the four boxes of covers only to start again at eight-thirty on Saturday morning. As one table finished their tasks, the workers moved to other tables to stuff, staple, and trim the assembled booklets. By eleven am everything was complete. Machines were reloaded and the boxes of Scripture were placed back into the trailer.

Sunday morning the Seedline director and the new assistant described the depth of the Seedline program and all the components of their ministry. The men also preached a sermon and spoke at Sunday school before heading home to Milford, Ohio.

Sunday evening I attended the Sunday evening services. I was glad to get home and prop up my feet.

Seeds of Hope

 Seeds of Hope

Dan Gill, a dear friend and an ambassador for the Seedline Ministry out of Milford, Ohio has been bringing the equipment and printed Gospel of John and Romans to our church for eight years. It has been a wonderful set of experiences to see him and the church form an exciting bond of friendship. He and his wife have driven a huge trailer filled with the heavy equipment, and supplies to allow our church to assemble the precious Word of God in so many languages to be distributed throughout the world. I’ve mentioned many of the languages before and some are translations that I cannot mention because of the fierce resistance to the Word of God. Satan has set these strongholds, but God has created ways to allow the lost in those countries to hear His voice. Many of these countries once welcomed missionaries, but now will imprison and kill the faithful who desire to share the Gospel or even are found in prayer to God, the Creator of the universe.

Dan shared that he and his wife Kelly has been coming to our church since 2015. The first year our church assembled 5,000 copies of John and Romans. We had problems learning the ins and outs. The fluorescent lighting caused the staplers to malfunction and the assembly project was done in the darkened cafeteria with a scattering of lights. Over the years we moved the assembly line (and staplers) to the gym where Mercury overhead lighting didn’t interfere. This year our total was 12,000 and the numbers in the eight years totaled 243,310 copies in multiple languages.

Form the Seedline research, it is estimated that in the third world countries, seven people will read each copy and one person will understand and be saved and will come to know Christ as their Savior. Our 12,000 copies this year is part of a shipment of 350,000 the will be loaded into shipping containers and sent to missionaries who have requested them. They were bound for Croatia. Dan spoke that Sunday morning on John 17. He shared the entire chapter, comparing it as the extended version of the Lord’s Prayer. He and his wife are coming back this week with their equipment for another assembly project. We’re not sure which language yet, but it is always enjoyable and we know that it helps to spread the Word of God.

Up and Down and All Around

 Up and Down and All Around

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

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

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

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

Preserving the Past

Preserving the Past

My writing as a blogger didn’t start out that way. I began to write stories about my family to preserve the history of my kinfolk, my life as a kid, and my schooling, Later it evolved into me sharing my time in the Navy, my time in college, and my career as a nurse. Most of the tales were recollections of specific characters, incidents, or happenings. I started out writing every day. That became too burdensome and I had to back off posting three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I usually dredge a post I’ve written about incidents of the Miner clan for the National Minard, Minor, Miner Group to share with cousins every Thursday.

I’ve allowed my chores to back up because I also edit the newsletter “Down Memory Lane” for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and with the help of other members, the autumn and winter edition is ready to be printed and mailed out. Sometimes it’s difficult to find local history to fill the eight pages. Sometimes it follows a theme and sometimes it’s filled with tales and oral histories that have been shared and stored in our archives.

So many of the artifacts, local family histories, maps, news articles, books, and paperwork are either on display or readily available for the community to stop in and view or to look for something specific about family members or incidents. We also archive obituaries to assist beginner or advanced genealogists in their search for their past.

Yesterday, I was able to finish several of the postponed chores and I am looking for several more work-concentrated days like that where I am actually eliminating the unfinished tasks. My firewood is finally stacked. I got a load of coal delivered and I’m breaking apart some old pallets that have been cluttering my yard. I have rolled up my hoses before the coming freeze and I’ve raked up and dumped some of the tree bark debris left from the dump spot of my firewood.

It’s soon time for me to take off my flannel sheets. It was nice to crawl between the warm flannel sheets and I am looking forward to the time I can slip between cool cotton sheets in the summer. I’m planning on replacing storm door’s windows with the screens to allow the warmth and scents of spring to replace my home’s stale trapped air. There is still much to do. Winter, please go somewhere else.

Remembering Versus Imagination

 Remembering Versus Imagination

I often alternate the stories of my recollections and expressing my ideas of fantasy when I write. I try to keep them separate but occasionally my real life occurrences manage to wander over to be woven into the plot of a story or two. One example was a trip driving through the northeastern states of America, the provinces of southeastern Canada, and a voyage on a ship named the “Northern Ranger.” The voyage traveled the length of the Newfoundland/ Labrador coast. It became the basis for a story I wrote for the Greensburg Writers Group. The members were to write a tale to include their favorite sleuth and his/her muse. The compilation of stories that were written were included in a book that was to have amateur detectives getting involved solving a crime while on vacation. My sleuth was Luigi Garibaldi, a professional gambler attempting to escape the wrath of a cuckolded casino owner. While aboard the ship he reluctantly became involved as a witness of a smuggling ring and a murder.

My several day voyage on the Northern Ranger gave me insight to the activities of the shipboard routine and the knowledge of the many small towns, fishing villages, and ports where the ship stopped to load and to unload its cargo. I described the scenery that I saw so well that a fellow writer said I should write travel brochures. I still haven’t figured out whether she was paying me a compliment or not.

In the books of the Tommy Two-Shoes series my trips to West Virginia and the ride on the trains there became an integral part of several chapters of these mysteries. Again the experience added flavor and helped to shape the direction of the story.

In my book titled “Addie” my familiarity of the local terrain of the hillsides of Confluence, Pennsylvania and land between to Mt. Pleasant was essential for the plot. I am barely old enough to remember the things of the 1940’s. But I used things of that time period to keep the historicity of the era correct although the plot was fictional. It’s often necessary for me to do research to keep my fictional writings believable. My readers expect the plot to have a foot in reality. Places, food, weapons must have details that are correct. An example of one small detail I researched in the book “Addie” was, when was wax paper invented? Or was the topography and details of the terrain from Confluence to Connellsville and Mt. Pleasant correct.

Tears On My Pillow

 

Tears on My Pillow

In 1958 the lyrics of “Tears on My Pillow” were written by Sylvester Bradford and Al Lewis. Anthony Gourdine, Little Anthony was the lead vocalist who first recorded it with his Do-whop group “The Imperials.” The lyrics are about a person with a broken heart and an unrequited love. When we look back in our lives, we can remember some tears that we’ve shed. There have been tears of joy; perhaps at the birth of a child or receiving a wedding proposal. Perhaps you’ve shed tears at your wedding or some other enormously happy event in your life. There were also episodes of sadness caused by the death of a loved one or a major catastrophe in your life. These are tears of sorrow.

Different types of tears have distinctly different compositions. Contrasting chemicals are released by our tear ducts composing tears that are specifically designed to fit the occasion. Many times when we cry the flow of tears will cleanse our bodies and souls of the emotions that caused us to cry in the first place. Empathetic friends will understand this. And that’s why true friends will generously offer a shoulder to cry on. They volunteer to share burdens that are being carried. They will support you, pray with you, and hold you up when you’re weak or celebrate and share your joy. There are also tears of gratitude. The Bible shares the emotion by a woman who was a sinner. She was forgiven of her sins and in gratitude washed the feet of Jesus with her tears.

The Bible has a lot to say about tears and even more about crying. The word cry or varied tenses of the word appears 434 times. The words tear or tears appears 49 times and wept or weeping is mentioned 41 times. Jesus himself wept. The shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” It occurred at the death of His friend Lazarus. Although Jesus knew he would raise Lazarus from the dead, He sorrowed at the sadness of Martha and Mary, sisters of Lazarus to share their grief.

The Bible says God gathers our tears in a bottle (Psalm 56:8) and Psalm 126:5 says, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”  The bible also says that He will wipe away our tears (Revelation 7:17) and that there will be no crying in Heaven (Revelation 21:4.)

1 Corinthians 15:55-57 “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Thursday Worse Day

 Thursday Worse Day

There is the saying if you want to hear God laugh, say, “Tomorrow a have plans.” I had several errands that I wanted to complete and get them out of the way. They weren’t the looked for “bucket list” type of chores, but were things that I allowed to pile up with the intent of doing them in one trip.

The one chore I needed to do was to replace the marine battery for the sump pump system for my basement. The pump functioned as long as the electricity was on. The Marine battery would allow the pump to work if the electric power should be interrupted for any reason. I disconnected the battery and loaded it into the trunk of my car.

My first chore was to drop off the unused trial medications at the center. I decided that since I felt that I was having side effects from the medications, I was going to withdraw from the study. That done; I drove to the National Tire & Battery store. That’s where I bought it. Making the turn into NTB I ran over the curb. The turn was sharp with other vehicles parked along the drive. inside, I found that the battery had six months on the warranty, but NTB had been purchased by another company and they no longer carried marine batteries. No one in the area sold the marine batteries from the Interstate Battery Company. The closest Interstate Company was forty-five minutes away.

A worker approached and asked if the battery was in the white Chevrolet Malibu with the flat front tire. “I said I hope not. I hadn’t driven in with one.” It was and I had to buy a replacement tire. I couldn’t replace it with the donut spare. NTB replaced the tire. With my wallet almost $150.00 lighter, I drove right across the street to the NAPA store.

Of course, they didn’t honor the warranty for the Interstate battery, but they did have a marine battery. Now I needed to make the decision whether to drive to the nearest Interstate Battery store or should I purchase the NAPA brand of marine battery. I had the money and not the time to make the drive. Back at home, I reattached the battery to my sump pump.

At home I found on my answering machine my electric company left a message. They wanted payment for my bill. The line was busy and couldn’t get through to explain that I’d sent the payment a week earlier, so I phoned the next morning. I explained that it was another USPS higher prices and less service. I said that the old excuse of the “check’s in the mail” was indeed what was happening. I wasn’t going to stop payment on a check and issue a phone payment. I will call again Monday to see if they received my check.

Oldsters Listening to Old Song Memories

 

Oldsters Listening to Old Song Memories

Several years ago I attended an event sponsored by the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society held at Brady’s Restaurant in Acme, Pennsylvania. Good food and entertainment was the recipe for the day. The evening started with buffet style food. Salads delivered to our table after the blessing the food was given. Stuffed chicken breast, ham slice, mashed potatoes, gravy, thick egg noodles, green beans, and a selection of pies and cake started the evening’s affair. The wait staff was attentive. After finishing the meal, two female singers tag-teamed the audience with renditions of classic songs, two women of Glitzando: Cathi Rhodes and Diane Paul.

I’m not quite at the age yet to have remembered all of the songs first hand, but my mother Sybil Beck would often sing parts of these older songs that coincided with something that had been said. Most of the tunes were very familiar to me. That trait is something that I still have sharing a story, a joke, or a chorus that parallels someone’s talking point. My daughters must have the same gene.

My table was at the edge of their performing area and I sat with several of my writing friends, a gentleman from the historical society, Bernie and his wife. It was a pleasant group of people and we chatted as we ate our meals.

It was time for the performance and Bernie became the master of ceremonies introducing the ladies. Apparently he’d previously been in theater productions with the two singers. Several times throughout the evening, the performers selected people from the audience to be on stage with them. It was to enhance their presence and to get the audience to be more engaged.

Of course, I being a ham joined them for two of their audience participation tunes. They had other persons who were coaxed onto the stage with them. It was during their patriotic segment a special man was lured to join them. Cathi read part of a past newsletter from the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society honoring this 94 year old veteran, Tom Dix. His survival from a minesweeper that was sunk during WWII was nothing less than a miracle. Of the 91 crewmembers, only he and 60 others survived.

The rest of the evening was filled with song and laughter. It passed all too quickly. I made my way home after shaking hands, giving hugs, and saying good night to many other familiar faces who’d attended the event.