Food For Thought

 Food For Thought

When I eat certain foods, I think of certain people. With old Mrs. Carrie Hall, my mom and dad’s neighbor, I think of her soft sugar cookies, strawberry pies, and her fresh baked bread. Another of my friend’s mom would use the tube biscuits, cut a donut hole, and fry them in bacon grease and oil mixture. While they were still hot, she would dredge them through a glaze of confectioner’s sugar and milk. They were as good as any donut made by any other company.

My grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner made the most delicious chicken salad. It consisted of chopped, boiled chicken, chicken broth, salt, pepper, and chopped dill pickle. She made this from the chickens culled from the flock at the end on the egg-laying season.

The pieces of chicken served at my grandmother Anna Nichols Beck came with the story of how the chicken at meals was divided when my dad was a child. The thing that I remember most was that my grandma always ate the back and tail of the chicken. She always said that she liked it, but I’ve always thought that it was the only part of the bird that was left once the chicken was divided.

My Aunt Rachel Miner Peck would make mashed potato/peanut butter fudge. All of us kids could hardly wait until it was ready to eat. My Aunt Cora Miner Hyatt drank her tea, straight, hot or cold, without cream or sugar.

 What got me thinking about food was what I made for lunch today. I made mashed potatoes, sauerkraut, and hot dogs. My Aunt Violet Miner Bottomly would cook hot dogs in the kraut and serve them with potatoes. She would cut hot dogs into wheel, bite sized chunks which made an impression on me.

At Aunt Ina Miner Nicholson’s home, she served fresh vegetables from her garden. The delicious, juicy tomatoes freshly picked and washed, green onions and sweet green bell peppers were served at each meal with whatever she and my mom cooked.

Aunt Cosey Miner Brothers had a large garden as well. She had a large family and needed it. What I remember was her hamburgers. She used bread crumbs, catsup, and onions to stretch the ground beef. It also enhanced the flavor, served on homemade buns.

Finally speaking of hamburgers, I think of my mom, Sybil Beck. One Sunday, she made hamburgers for the family, one for each. A platter of tomatoes, lettuce, and onions claimed the center of the table. Another saucer of sliced American cheese held another place of honor. Everyone built their sandwich and started to eat. Mom stacked lettuce, tomato, onion, and cheese on her bun. She took a bite and as she chewed, she saw that a burger was still on the serving platter. After swallowing, she asked, “Who didn’t get their burger?” All of a sudden, it hit her. She was the one who hadn’t picked up her burger. She’d concentrated so much with condiments that she forgot to pick up the patty. Every time she served hamburgers, someone would say, “Who forgot their hamburger?”

Getting Mooned

 Getting Mooned
The full moon lifeless at the end of the night,
Her round face softly red then disappears
Morning rays peek as she sinks out of sight
And golden sunshine spills as daybreak nears.
The moon rises to cross the darkened sky.
Silently she glides through gossamer clouds
As a chill winter wind pushes them by
She follows a path through star fed crowds.
Full moon glistens on newly fallen snow
She spreads her milky-white gossamer gown
Softly lighting serene beauties below
Crystal white snow wears its glistening crown.
Pearlescent moon fills the dark sky with light
Casting blue shadows on white drifts below.
Ivory orb hovers in its routine flight
Sharing tender caresses of its glow.
Full moon lights the pathway for each snowflake
As they tumble down from pillowy cloud.
It’s a real life snowglobe after a shake
Perfect shade of winter wrapped in a shroud.
Monthly the moon transitions through each phase
Each night she emerges with new attire
The crack of a smile to a full firm face
As she gazes down on city or shire.
She wakes and rises at twilight’s first hint.
Her sickle edge cuts through the dark of night.
She waltzes through the clouds with twinkling glint.
Sharing her ethreal silver white light.
The moon’s thin sliver of Cheshire cat smile
A moon-made slice in velvety night pie.
Darkness strengthens with no light to defile
When the sickle moon sets and says good-bye.

Premature Twins

 Premature Twins

Last evening at church, we were asked to pray for a premature infant. It only weighed one pound five ounces and was twelve inches long. The prayer request reminded me of something that happed to me as a U. S. Naval corpsman and stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. This was before I was discharged from the Navy and earned my bachelor’s degree in nursing. The naval station at Keflavik had a small hospital that was composed of two wards, an operating room, and an emergency room. The one ward was divided into private rooms and held obstetric patients and pediatrics and an occasional officer. The other area was an open ward for the enlisted men.

A pregnant woman was admitted again. She had several previous admissions for her pre-eclampsia. Pre-eclampsia is a condition where pregnant women have changes in their body that would cause their blood pressure to dangerously rise. It required bed rest to lower the woman’s blood pressure. Each time she came in, we would tease, “You’re going to have twins.” because her abdomen was so large.

She would respond, “No. No. My doctor assures me that there is only one.” At that time, we didn’t have sonograms or other tests. It was only by listening with a fetoscope to hear the infant’s heartbeat that we could monitor a child’s progress during the pregnancy.

I was working the daylight shift after she delivered the evening before. She had indeed delivered a set of twins. She had two daughters. I was planning to tease her about having twins, but when I went into her room, I was stopped in my tracks. She was crying.

I asked. “What’s wrong? Are you having pain?”

She gave a few more sobs before managing to answer, “If I had a little girl, I planned to name her Alice. Now I don’t know what to do. If I name one of them Alice, I know I will love that one more.”

Off the top of my head, I suggested, “Well….Why don’t you name them both something close, but not Alice? How about naming them something like Alicia and Allison?”

She stopped crying, saying those names softly to herself. Those were the names she used with her new little girls. Neither name was Alice, but both were close to her cherished name.

About a month later she contacted me and I had the privilege of babysitting the girls while she and her husband had their first date night away from the twins. She said it was only fair, after all …I had named them.

Weekness How Time Flies

 Weekness How Time Hurries By

It amazes me how quickly time flies. The intern college student has almost finished his nine week intern program at our church. Nearly every summer our Pastor accepts the responsibility of taking a student from a Bible College and to mentor as they begin learning the skills necessary to be the pastor of a church. The amount of work that the pastor must handle increases with the size of the congregation and how active the church is serving in the community. The interaction with those in the surrounding area and the outreach of the church helps to determine the workload for the pastor. He needed to understand the skill of coordination.

The number of sermons the minister has to prepare for the number of services takes quite a bit of time. Our church has services Sunday morning and evening and also on Wednesday evening, so our Pastor needs the time to prepare three messages. If the pastor teaches a Sunday school class, that is another area of preparation. This work doesn’t include the time necessary to create a program for Vacation Bible School, holiday presentations, and weddings or funerals that may unexpectedly turn up.

Our student intern, Mr. Wishert was able to preach, sing, and teach to different age groups. He was able to get the feel of the workload that is necessary to become a minister and the burden of sharing the Word of God.

It is truly amazing how speedily the nine weeks have passed. He has finished his assignment here and will be returning to classes in the state of Indiana to finish his senior year. It has been a pleasure to work with him for the Vacation Bible School props and decorations. Although my singing voice competes with a crow, I enjoy singing in our choir. Mr. Wishert’s voice and skill added much to the quality of our special numbers.

When he first arrived, it was a pleasure to have him join me for lunch at a nearby restaurant: a sort of a welcoming meal. This past Saturday was his last day here with us. He seems to be a dedicated young man and pray that he will be able to finish the classes for his senior year with vigor and ease. He was sharing the classes he will be facing during the coming terms. They aren’t easy by any means and he will need God guidance to help him accomplish his goals.

Not Saying No

 Not Saying No

When our kids asked for us to buy them something and my wife and I thought it was unnecessary or too expensive, we wouldn’t say no. We would offer them another option. If it was something that they really wanted we would give them a “down payment” and a chance to earn the rest of the money. They could do chores above and beyond their normal chores. The extra chores could be in the house, basement, or yard, depending what needed done at the time. (If a request was inappropriate, we would say no.)
One example was the time my son wanted a pair of “Reebok Air” basketball shoes. It was the fad and several kids either had a pair or said that they were getting a pair. He wanted the Reebok Airs too. Those shoes were the in thing and had an air bladder that could be pumped up to fit the feet snugly and were supposed to be more comfortable than other shoes.
At that time, a good pair of tennis shoes cost about twenty-five dollars and the Reeboks cost one hundred and twenty-five dollars. (My purse strings puckered at that thought.)
Andrew came to me saying, “Dad my old shoes are about worn out. They’re getting tight. I need a new pair of shoes.”
I looked and his shoes were worn and looked tight. “We’ll go to town on Saturday and get a new pair for you.”
“Dad?” he asked quietly. “Can I have a pair of the Reebok pumps?”
He brought the advertisement over to me. When I saw the price, I didn’t say no, but said, “A good pair of tennis shoes cost twenty-five dollars. I will give you two options. I will buy the regular shoes or I can give you the twenty-five dollars toward the Reeboks. If you do extra chores for me or your mom, you can earn the rest of the money for the shoes you want.”

“Okay Dad. Do you have any chores for me now?”

“Not now, but your mom and I will make a list.”

He was eager and worked diligently. Most chores earned a dollar to three dollars depending on how long and how hard he worked.

After about a week and a half, he came to me and said, “Okay Dad. Let’s go and buy the tennis shoes you offered to buy for me.”

I think there were three things that changed his mind. Earning the money was slower and harder than he thought, the second was his shoes did look shabby, and thirdly and probably the most influential factor was his shoes were getting more and more tight as his feet grew.

We climbed into the car and went shopping for shoes.

A Dark Time

 A Dark Time

    I began the task of sorting and tossing accumulated and collected items from my office/ computer room. As usual I don't get too far because I have to read some of my writings before I can toss anything. I am leery off throwing away an unfinished manuscript or an undeveloped idea. It's hard to think of new things to share. It upsets me when a thought briefly appears then evaporates before I can capture it on paper. That is why a thought written down on paper is often precious.

    One problem with reading is while reading the words of years past, the emotions can escape and  can pummel me. Those emotions that reemerge as I read past expressions.

    "The only light comes from flickering memories that loneliness allows to slip through chunks from my past to tease and tittiilate. The darkness is so much worse as those sparks fade to return like a punch in the gut. A cruel, savage blow meant to dishearten and to rob all joy and thankfulness."

    I stopped for now, but there's always tomorrow AND if not, it will bee left for my kids to do.

A Close Shave

 A Close Shave

Shaving! What a chore; day after day, week after week, year after year. It has been the bane of my life until I retired. After I retired, I could choose when I wanted to shave or if I decided not to shave. I’ve grown a beard and I’ve shaved it off.

I can’t remember shaving much in high school or the year after graduation when I worked at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania, but it became a daily chore in boot camp at the Naval Training Center at Great Lakes. As I progressed in rank, I was able to grow a full red beard while stationed in Keflavik, Iceland.

Back home, my Mother Sybil Miner Beck didn’t say much until about one month passed and she told me that my beard made her feel old. Sometime later I shaved it off. It took her nearly two weeks to notice that it was gone then we had to convince her that I had indeed shaved and that my beard had been missing for two weeks ago. When I was bare faced with slightly longer hair, my kids saw a photo and though I looked like Stephen Hyde from “The 70’s Show.”

After I married to Cindy Morrison Beck and as we raised our family, my face underwent a wide variety of phases; a mustache only, a Van Dyke style beard with mustache, and even a full beard with mustache. It was never as full as the trappers and sawyers from the television series.

One day as I transitioned from one style to another and was allowing my facial hair to reemerge, Cindy asked me why I didn’t keep my face shaved and smooth. I explained that when she shaved her legs and underarms etc. she shaved them all at once then had several weeks to a month before she had to shave again. I told her to divide the areas that she shaves into daily parcels to clear away her hair; a lower leg one day, the other lower leg the next, a thigh one day and the other the next, shaving the underarms for another day, but because it was such a small area, she could do both on the same day. She must have understood, because she never asked again.

Slowly my full red beard evolved into a Col. Sanders white beard, but not without a fight. The hairs at the corner of my mouth turned white while the rest stayed red. I looked like a cartoon fox. For several months I dyed the white red to match, but finally gave up.

I’ve shared the wearing of Col. Sanders’ attire when I visited PNC Park. I was featured on the Jumbo-tron and Root Sports, as well as posing for photos with other baseball fans.