Seniority or Senility

 Seniority or Senility

To some who are asking the question of seniority or senility is like asking “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” To some people seniority and senility almost mean the same thing. It isn’t so, but some days one is the shadow of the other and could be easily mistaken for the other. When a person gets up and goes into another room when the destination is only a few feet away and the person forgets what they went into another room to get, it becomes irritating, frustrating, and worrisome. The only thing worse is when the forgetfulness becomes a habit.

My most recent event is just a little different, but it ran in a similar vein. I was ensconsed in my recliner downstairs when my phone reminded me that I had a dental appointment. I had to change out of my comfy pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. My jeans and dress shirt were upstairs, so I hoisted myself from my recliner and hurried up the steps. I had to empty my pockets from my slacks and transfer the contents of my pockets into my jeans and don a clean shirt. I gathered my wallet, keys, coins and checkbook tucking them into my jeans pockets.

Now comes my confusion. I reached for my cell phone. I usually toss it on my bed while changing my pants. I wanted to slide it into my shirt pocket and I couldn’t find it. I retraced my steps in all of the rooms upstairs then went back down stairs and hunted through all the rooms: living room, kitchen, and dining room. I had no luck. I knew that it was no use to dial my cell from the house phone. I always put my cell phone on vibrate when I am in church. I had my cell phone on vibrate only.

Thhe sad thing was that I remembered I had it in my hand as I went upstairs, so I walked back upstairs to continue the search. I was still having no luck and began asking God to help me. I ddn’t want to leave the house without my phone. I was on the verge of leaving home without my lifeline when I felt a sneeze coming on. I reached into my back pocket and there that little rascal was hiding with my handkerchief. I’d slipped it into my jeans without remembering. It was in my pants pocket and not in my shirt pocket where I usually keep it.

I guess that is better than putting something in away for “safe” keeping and then being unable to remember where that safe place is.

Va-va-va-voom

 Va-va-va-voom

Recalling the time I attended a weekend wedding at a Russian Orthodox Catholic Church. I’ve never had to deal with anything like it before and pray that I never will again. I described the inside of the sanctuary of yellow brick before. It was perched on the side of a steep hill, after all it is Pittsburgh. The parking was limited and I parked in the priest’s driveway at the rectory. After all, he was going to be busy for awhile. The bridesmaid’s dresses varied a bit, but all wore black with slits up the side showing thighs. The groomsmen wore black, some with black neck ties and some with red bowties. The priest wore a silver patterned robe. The bride wore a lovely form-fitting white lace gown. Although there was no music, all seemed normal until the priest began the litany describing the virality of biblical men and the fertility of biblical women. I’m sure he would have mentioned the name of Mary’s mother if he’d known her name. The cantor (not Eddie Cantor) continued in the same vein with his off key chant. Each time the priest said “Amen” I prayed it was the end and each time he mentioned, “Mercy,” ending the litany would have been merciful. But no, he droned on.

There was one young lady in the audience who was wearing a bright red, form-fitting soft material dress. The most remarkable thing about her was she was tall. Her long straight dark hair only accentuated her height. The hem of her skirt swept up into a V slightly higher than mid thigh. I commented to my friend, “Who’s the girl wearing the red glove?” It was that tight.

The videographer had his case beside me and I teasingly said, “Did you bring enough batteries.” He said that he is a non-practicing Russian Orthodox and the ceremony we were watching was a condensed version. When the priest retreated behind the saloon doors, I teased my friend that the priest must have been upset that we clapped instead of ringing the bell-clad wands and now was getting for some sacramental wines.

There was about two hours between the ceremony and the reception. We visited with my friend’s friend’s house. At the reception I couldn’t help but notice that the girl with the red glove dress had changed into a dark green dress that shimmered like satin. It was again form-fitting, accentuating her height and shape. Only one other person drew as much attention that she did. A man wore a bright orange and black suit with jack o’lanterns emblazoned on it.

Plane and Simple

Plane and Simple

I can barely remember my first flight in an airplane. It was a very short flight from the Connellsville Airport in a small plane, probably something like a piper cub. It couldn’t have been much bigger. I remember there was just enough room for the pilot, my dad and for me. It was some special occasion when the airport and pilot were selling rides.

The second flight was in a commercial jet shortly after my induction into the Navy. The memory of the ride in an elevator at the Federal Building in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania was much more stomach lurching to experience than the actual flight to Great Lakes Naval Training Center for boot camp. I was already nervous, but when the elevator lurched upward or dropped downward, I almost lost my lunch.

After boot camp and corps school, I flew to Orlando, Florida. It was my first assignment at the Naval Hospital. It and was before Disneyland opened. The airport was a small L-shaped building with metal gates at each end that pulled down and locked overnight, much like stores at the mall. Orlando didn’t have much of a draw for tourism at that time.

I made several flights home to Pennsylvania during my two year assignment in Orlando, but there was nothing really memorable about them, but when in Florida I was on the lookout for license plates from Pennsylvania. On one trip home I remember my parents driving me home from the airport and thinking to myself, “Wow, there’s another plate from Pennsylvania.” Then I thought, “You dummy. We’re in Pennsylvania.”

The next memorable flight for me was from Florida to Keflavik, Iceland with a layover in St. John’s, Newfoundland. In Iceland a group of corpsmen were fortunate enough to hook up with a physician who needed flight hours to get his commercial license. We’d pool our money to rent a plane and the doctor would fly us at no charge. After flying in jets, the first flight felt as though the smaller plane wasn’t travelling fast enough to stay aloft and felt as though it would surely fall out of the sky. We flew to several places on the island, even crossing over the Arctic Circle to get my “blue nose” certificate. I was also able to fly to several destinations on the island in military transports delivering supplies.

I flew to Philadelphia to be discharged. The heat and humidity in the barracks lacked air conditioning and in August was almost unbearable after the 60 degree weather in Iceland. I was so glad to catch the plane to Pittsburgh and home.

Since then I’ve flown to California with a friend and to Arizona for my son Andrew’s wedding and to Texas. 

Come Blow Your Horn

 Come Blow Your Horn

I am not usually a person who blows my own horn, but as a writer and author, I do need to sell myself to sell my finished product. I’ve written for a long time, well over forty years, but because of a challenge to write a detective story to share in another writers group I wouldn’t have been published. A woman who was just starting a publishing company heard my story and suggested that I write some more tales about the retired homicide detective, Tommy Two Shoes. Because of her insistence, I now have four books with Thomas Minerd, retired Pittsburgh Police Department detective mystery books, each book is a compilation of short stories which makes it easy to pick up and put back down as it’s read.
My last book, The Walls Came Tumbling Down is a full length novel about Rahab, a Canaanite prostitute, how she met, fell in love with an enemy and married a devout Jewish man, Salmon. Their union is mentioned in later pages of the Bible.
Mary Kaufman, the new librarian for the Mt. Pleasant Public Library suggested to a couple of reporters that it might make a good story to interview Fred Adams and myself as local authors. Well, I did an interview on this last day of August. I was able to share some of my writing history and my nursing career. I was also able to introduce the newest novel to be out soon, Addie.
She seemed genuinely intrigued that I had no specific genre or subject that I liked to write about. I told her, “Whatever project I was working on was my favorite at that time:” poetry, Haiku, children’s books, love stories, and of course mysteries. She asked if I planned to write more Tommy Two Shoes stories. I was truthful and said I was burned out, but had several stories started. Tommy isn’t dead yet.
I explained that I haven’t made much money, but it pleases me when people read what I write. I told her most people say the mysteries are page turners. I did have one complaint about The Walls. They said it was too slow. Compared to the multiple short stories, it would be. The short stories have the entire tale shared within 20 pages or so, versus 200.
I have several readers who read the books before I have them published to look for weak areas, misspellings, or things that aren’t clear. One reader of Addie said, “Wow, I didn’t see that coming.” I think it is one of my better writings. Now, all I need is an agent to promote my books so I won’t have to blow my own horn.

Have You Ever

 Have You Ever

I saw a questionnaire my niece Jennifer Potosky added to Facebook. It was a challenge of sorts. I had nothing else in mind to write about and thought answering the questions posted would make a great share in my BlogSpot. It would tie together several stories I’ve already shared earlier.

The first question was, “Have you broken a bone?” Only one, my little toe, I’d been outside shoveling snow. Coming came inside, my fogged glasses caused me to misjudge a doorway, and I caught my little toe. A bit of tape solved the problem.

Did I ever fire a gun? Yes, I hunt and I have and shot some target practice, although not as much as my brother Ken.

Have I ever done skydiving…no, nor will I ever bungee jump. Until I turned 50, heights never bothered me. I had several episodes of an off-balance feeling. Now climbing onto the roof of my house is enough.

I’ve ridden in a limo, swam in the ocean, and gotten a massage, but I’ve never gotten a tattoo, had braces, or given birth. I’ve ridden a horse, ridden a train, and got a speeding ticket. I’ve watched Star Wars, eaten sushi, and dyed my hair. Let me explain the last item. When an accident victim was spitting blood over everything and everyone, I unwittingly used peroxide to clean the clots from my hair.

I haven’t scuba dived, but as a fireman wearing masks and air tanks were uncomfortable. I’ve been camping and shared many stories about our church’s tenting trip out west.

I will admit, I’ve eaten some food that’s fallen to the floor at home. The cat wouldn’t so I had to. I’ve once zip lined and have swung on ropes jumping into a creek’s swimming hole. That’s where I’ve skinny dipped with other kids after a baseball game when hot and tired.

Have I ever traveled out of country? While in the US Navy I was stationed in Iceland. Later in life I traveled into Canada as far north as Nain, Labrador. I’ve ridden in ambulances caring for a person inside and being cared for.

This question makes me laugh. Have you ever been on television? Yes. I dressed as Col. Sanders at a Pittsburgh Pirate game. White jacket, pants, shirt, fedora, and a black bowtie, I was in full regalia. Root sports television did some shots of me and I was on the Jumbotron.

Lastly, I’ve been on a cruise in Canada and have fished off Cape Canaveral in Florida. The only thing that has been pierced was my arm. As a kid, my brother tossed an ice pick off my parent’s house roof. What have you ever?

Noses

 Noses

I was watching one of the wilderness television programs from the Arctic and the captioning for the different characters would display across the television screen the locations of their homes, Kiwalik, Eagle, Huslia, Brushkana, Nenana, etc. But it also gave reference of their homes to the Arctic Circle, So many miles above or below the Circle. It caused me to think of the year that I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland as a corpsman in the Naval Hospital there.

Keflavik is located 63.9998 degrees north and 22.5583 degrees west between the North Atlantic Ocean and the Norwegian Sea. The currant of the Gulf Stream wends its way north becoming the North Atlantic Current. Because of this anomaly Iceland is much warmer than its location or name would suggest. Winter’s average temperature is 32 degrees Fahrenheit and summer’s average 55 to 60 degrees Fahrenheit in southern Iceland.

I know someone is asking by now where the “Nose” title comes into the story. No, the people of Iceland are not Eskimo and don’t rub noses, but travelers who cross the Arctic Circle above the northernmost part of the island can earn the title of “blue nose” in the Navy. I’m not sure if the same holds true to the other branches of the military.

I was blessed enough to have been friends with a doctor who wanted to log flight hours to earn his commercial pilot’s license. Several other corpsmen and I wanted to see more of Iceland and the doctor was willing to fly us for free if we paid for the plane’s rental costs. It was a small plane and if I remember correctly, it carried 4 people, 3 passengers and the pilot. We puddle jumped to many places on the island flying over huge waterfalls and glaciers. To the south we flew to the volcanic island of Surtsey. The doctor even enticed us to fly with him to Akueryi at the northern tip of Iceland so we could win a “Blue Nose” certificate. He flew over the island of Grimsey deciding not to attempt a landing because of the huge number of birds. One hit from a bird in a light plane and we’d all have been swimming in the frigid waters of the Greenland Sea.

Our return to Keflavik was a bit scary. Clouds rolled in thick and low. It limited the doctor’s ability of visual flight. The doctor was learning still the controls each time he flew. Several times we flew low enough to follow a road below us. He knew we were heading south and knew the road would eventually lead us to habitation. We made it back safely, but politely refused to fly to Scotland when he suggested that.

Rooster Tales and Other Roadway Hazards

 Rooster Tales and Other Roadway Hazards

Over my lifetime I’ve had several unusual occurrences while driving between Mill Run and Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. The last one happened over a year ago, not that a flat tire is an unusual event, but let me explain. I’d spent the day frying sausage at the Buckwheat and Sausage Festival for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department. All I wanted was to get off my feet and relax. Not long after I left the parking lot I began to feel the beginning of a flat. I was praying that I could make it through the less populated areas to Mill Run. It wasn’t to be. As I crossed the bridge below Falling Waters I felt it go completely flat. Bear Run Church and school house was next with a parking lot and a light to see what I was doing. I pulled in so the light shined on the flat. I managed to get the car jacked up, but due to a shoulder injury, I wasn’t able to loosen the wheel nuts. Just then a man in uniform (I assume he was a guard for the Conservancy) pulled in to see what I was doing. When I explained that I had a flat, he generously offered his assistance. I was so tired and so thankful.

One incident happened as I drove to the Buckwheat Festival years before. Crossing the crest of a hill there was a fawn standing in the middle of the highway. My eyes were focused on it and I missed seeing another fawn’s corpse on the road. I ran over it with a thump.

Another time I was driving to the Buckwheat festival, a rusted muffler had fallen from another car. It was in my lane. I was too close. Instead of swerving to miss it and possibly lose control of my car I straddled it. Of course it hung up on the underside of my car. The loud grating sparked brightly in the predawn darkness. I slowed planning to stop and it rolled loose as I pulled onto the berm.

I wasn’t heading to Ohiopyle, but I was visiting my brother-in-law David Morrison. As we were leaving his driveway that sloped upward it put us at eyelevel with the roadway, we heard a grating sound and waited to see what was coming. A car whizzed past with its “muffler” dragging. A huge rooster tail of sparks shot out the back. When it passed gasoline fumes flooded our car. It was the guy’s gas tank. David said, “Do you think we should follow him and let him know.” 

I said, “He knows something’s dragging and I don’t want to be anywhere near him if it blows.”