Hoo Wee

Hoo Wee
I slept well then woke up much earlier than my normal get-out-of-bed time. When I didn’t have to make a bathroom run, I rolled over to make myself more comfortable and went back to sleep. Bad idea. Because I’m retired and I had nothing pressing in the early hour of the day, it was no maajor problem. Not only did I sleep longer than I wanted to do, but I had a weird dream. It is that dream I want to describe.
My close neighbor Fred Brown who has been dead for several years was opening a medical clinic. He was never a doctor, but was a grocer who did butchering of animals on the side. He would occasionally make a “drawing salve” from the renderings of animal scraps, but that was as close to a physician that he came. His clinic although close to my house within easy walking distance was at the end of a narrow rock-filled debris laden roaadway. (This may have been caused because of the scenes of flooding and severe damages tto roads from southern Utah. The racing, raging water making short work of the roads leaving only destroyed and rock strewn highways.)
My dad was driving me there. (My dad Carl Beck has also been dead for several years.) There was no parking lot and if he had not been driving a pickup truck, I never would havee made it. Dad drove slowly over the fit-for-ATV traffic, I’m sure I would never have made it. The “Parking lot” was a grassy field with water running through it and no path to the building. I made it inside. I was wet to midcalf.
Inside was a tiny waiting area. Three older women were there. I was greeted by a beautiful young lady. Smooth face and dark, short cut hair, pale skin, and lovely smile. I offered her my photocopy of my medications. She refused saying, “We have nothing to do with BlueCross.”
Later this young gal asked, “Had I ever tried hemp?” I was surprised and said, “No.”
She came out of the “office area” and fetched a small plastic box filled with hard thin spaghetti sticks that rattled when she shook it. Opening it she took a piece out and fastened into my slowly thinning hair. This ended my visit to Fred Brown’s neighborhood clinic, but I sure wish I had the phone number of the young receptionist. LOL 

Autumn Chill

 Autumn Chill
The bright sunny days of summer have somehow slipped away. It’s yielded to slightly cooler days and even chillier nights. An extra blanket feels more comfortable when I allow my bedroom window to be cracked open in an otherwise stuffy room. I’ve decided to bring out the flannel sheets; washing and air drying them to remove the stale stored smell. I also need to wash my king sized, hand-sewn patchwork quilt. It’s in the tumbling block pattern. The material is recycled double knit fabric, yarn-knotted to a flannel sheet. Almost every diamond shaped piece has a family story attached to it. The blocks were at one time, someone’s skirt, pants, shirt or blouse. They are easily recognizable by the color or the print pattern. Each block reconnects to a page in my brain’s book of family memories.
This year the usual apples that hang on the trees in the back yard were missing. The birds have no apples to eat and the horses in the pasture behind my house got no treats. I’m thankful that I don’t have to make applesauce, apple butter, or apple schnitz this year. I still have some in my freezer and canned in my cold cellar from last year. There were none to gather a few of better ones to pare, slice, and freeze someor I may keep a few of the grimes golden to eat. There were none to fall or damaged to share with the bees or chop them when I mow my lawn.
It seems each time I attempt to downsize, I end up storing something else. To those people who say a person can’t take belongings with them to the grave, I’m sure my kids will make room in my coffin. Just teasing, my kids are sorting through some things and getting rid of some of the clutter. Too bad it only ends up with minimal results.
I have one room in my house I describe as decorated in early depression. There are old tools and enamel pots that hang on the walls. They’re too good to throw away, but no longer used for cooking or for work. I have several old photographs hanging to keep the room from looking like a hoarder’s hideaway. Because I’m thinking about getting a smaller house, I keep the Christmas decorations in that room rather than lugging them to the attic. The tub that has the artificial tree is huge and heavy.
The leaves are beginning to turn and it will soon be time to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department’s Sausage and Buckwheat Festival. This year it will be held October, 11, 12, and 13. I’m waiting for my call to join the ranks. I have volunteered for nearly fifty years, working my way up from dishwasher, to cake fryer, and finally to frying sausage.

The Cream of the Crop

The Cream of the Crop

My Grandfather Raymond Miner Owned a small farm just outside of the village of Indian Head, Pennsylvania with my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. There they raised their eight children, two boys and six girls. On the farm he usually had two work horses and two milk cows. He raised two hogs, a bull or steer to butcher at the end of the year, and two flocks of chickens, one for eggs and one for meat. Granddad worked the farm during the day and would work in the coal mines at night to feed and clothe his family.

Like most small farms he owned a cream separator. After hand-milking the cows, he would pour the raw milk into the large stainless steel chamber on the top of the machine. Initially the machine was turned by a hand crank before he installed a small electric motor to its side. The motor would spin an internal bowl at thousands of revolutions per minute. The warm, filtered raw milk was poured into the center of the metal spinning bowl and the process would begin. Located inside the bowl was a stack of cone shaped discs where the discs would spin the liquid into thin layers that helped to separate the components of lighter cream and denser skim milk by centrifugal force. The heavier skim milk was forced outward against the outer wall while the lighter cream clustered near the middle. Separate internal channels directed the two liquids out of the machine through two distinct spouts which were collected in separate buckets for cooking, selling, or churning.

Besides the daily chore of cooking and cleaning Grandma would sort and sell the eggs, bake bread, pies, and cookies, and churn butter. She would look in catalogs, see clothing fashions then cut out patterns using her mind and newspapers to stitch in-style clothing for the girls. She would sew clothes for the family (except bib overalls for Granddad), weed the garden, cut and shape squares for her quilts. Very little went to waste. Scraps of food went into a vat to feed the hogs, old scraps of worn clothing became designs in her quilts, and empty tin cans, fruit crates, scraps of lumber often were changed into toys or Christmas decorations.

Fee Fie Fo Fum I Smell

 Fee Fie Fo Fum I Smell

Since my fall with my head injury in 2020, I have had a lingering after effect of phantom smells. The odors I would smell was hot plastic or car exhaust fumes. The hot plastic smells sent me through my house on a futile safari searching for the source. The exhaust fumes I Ignored because I recognized that were no engines running nearby.
Since then the smells have evolved. They have ranged from food cooking to cleaning supplies to odd smells that I don’t recognize. The odors will change from day to day and sometimes several times per day. Somedays it becomes an entire orchestra of aromas that assaults my senses. The shifting smells don’t allow my mind to adjust and ignore the varying smells.
The changing smells are just a slight inconvenience compared to the effects that could have happened with the two bleeds in my brain. So many bad things could have resulted from my fall. The two worst things that could have occurred would have been stroke-like symptoms or having actual seizures. Either one would have limited my ability to drive or my ability to walk. I am thankful that those things haven’t happened.
One other symptom from my fall is a lack of concentration at times. On occasion I can’t recall a word that I want to use and I have to pause and think of an alternative word. Names are the most difficult to resurrect when I meet someone. I am so embarrassed when I can’t recall their name. Sometimes I wander off topic and will almost interrupt the person speaking because I fear that I might forget what I want to say while listening to them. I don’t mean to be rude and I don’t think my ideas are better than the speaker, so I do get embarrassed at times.
Yesterday I was attacked by chlorine bleach smells and an aroma of cooking food. What opposites. Whatever was cooking smelled absolutely delicious, filling my house with spicy aromas and I have to cook for myself. What a disappointment. I’m never sure whether visitors are greeted with a stinky house or not.

Wearying Weekend

Wearying Weekend
It was another weekend when I had a blank Slate. I had nothing planned, then it expanded as quickly as a Mylar balloon being filled with helium at a dollar store…PSSST. Last weekend I volunteered to be docent at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. This has become a point of debate among our members. Right now there are only three members who regularly cover the need to be open on Saturdays and to put in time keeping the doors open for our workday of Wednesday. It becomes a bit stressful at times.
One duty of being docent is to answer phone inquiries. A local Christian school wanted to tour our facility with about 20 students after visiting the nearby Flax Scutching and their presentation of the old time art of harvesting and making linen thread from the flax plant. The flax was grown by our ancestors to gain those fibers. The fibers were used to weave linen material for clothing. After the flax is grown, it is beaten to separate the fibers, combed into strands then those fibers are wound through a spinning wheel to make the thread. These yearly presentations draw crowds. These kids were to get an early tour. They contacted CRHS and made ready for them Friday, I even bought apples as souvenirs.
Three members came so we could make small groups to show them around our facility. They were a “no show” and the Societies effort was in vain. They didn’t call to cancel and after waiting for over an hour, we closed shop and went home. While I was out, I got a haircut.
Back home, I’d barely settled down when another member called. She was working the Society’s booth at the flax pavilion on Saturday. It was another annual event for the Society. Due to a last minute invitation from the Scutching’s personnel it was a hurriedly put together coverage creating a display. She asked if I was going to relieve her and friend after her four hour shift. I couldn’t say no, she is 91 and her friend will be 102 this December.
I actually went in early because of their ages. I was unsure of how well they would tolerate their four hour shift. They tolerated the event quite well but seemed glad to see me. When my shift was over I carried the money box with money from selling our cookbooks and lock it up at our showroom.
Sunday was church and Sunday school. My son Andrew and his wife Renee Largent Beck stopped by for supper and to share items I’d gathered from a nearby thrift store. (A croquet set, horse shoes, and pegs, a blaze orange hunting suit, etc.)
Sunday evening was choir practice, learning the music for the Christmas program then Sunday evening services. I was quite busy this weekend when this week’s dance card seemed bare just a few days ago.

Going for Groceries

 Going for Groceries
When people mention grocery shopping to me in the Connellsville area, most of us older folk remember the old Pechin’s Market. It was located in Dunbar, Pennsylvania and the collection of rambling add-on buildings spanned generations and a small creek. It was a place where shoppers never knew where a certain product would be on display and the meat was fresh and reasonably priced. It was so reasonably priced that people often followed the meat cart on hands and knees as it emerged.
Usually two people shopped together as one grabbed the packages of meat, the other person caught the package as it flew through the air and placed it in the shopping cart where the person guarded it. Yes, I said guarded it as with many other products. If a person stepped away from their cart and someone saw something they needed, they would take it out and put it in their own cart instead of looking for it. The hubbub over the meat cart was similar to vultures picking clean the bones of some sort of animal, occurring many times before the meat supply reached the display cases. It was a place where it was necessary to shop in pairs. One had to be on the alert at all times riding shotgun on the cart to prevent others from removing things in your cart.
Pechin’s parking lot was just shy of a war zone. The potholes looked as if it was a battlefield with mortar holes holding hands. Cars parked wherever they thought they could squeeze in, often without rhyme or reason. Most often two rows allowed easier access and egress, but sometimes a third row started trapping some cars. It happened to me. It was summer. I didn’t want what I bought to thaw or spoil I paced at my car, while waiting and fuming. When the guy who had started the correct row came out and got in his car, I knew I could escape. I reached into one of my bags and shared a bottle of ketchup with the person who created the third row…on his windshield. I smiled and drove away.
I also wanted to talk about another market, the one that sat across the street from Guiermo Reyes’ barber shop and the Showboat Lounge in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. The store was called the Market Basket. My Mom Sybil Miner Beck and my Dad Carl Beck used to shop there when I was very young, I can hardly remember anything about in other than the outside of the building and the parking lot. I can’t remember going inside even once. It may have been that Mom shopped inside while Dad and I remained in the car.

Keys

 Keys
There was a time in history that a man’s home could be made secure with a peg above a door latch or by withdrawing a leather thong back inside of the cabin, but no longer. Slowly men created ever more ingenious ways with various contraptions. Securing the home for valuables was the main reason. As mankind became less of hunter-gatherers and settled down as farmers, they accumulated more things. They were less likely to travel and less likely to have their belongings light enough to transport. As houses, furniture, cooking areas, and bedding became stationary, they needed to be protected from marauding animals, weather, and other human beings.
People gathered more and more things in homes, barns, or storage areas that were of value or necessity and doors became important. Doors needed to be made secure more that a latch could afford. The latch slowly evolved into increasingly more integral inventions. Some created locks had a wooden key to turn the hidden tumblers. They were replaced by metal contrivances and used a metal key to open the lock.
I can remember growing up, the door to our house was locked and could be opened by a skeleton key. Even though we rarely locked our doors, it gave a false feeling of security. Why, because those keys were basically universal. Everyone in the neighborhood had the same key for their home’s door also. If you lost your key, I imagine that you could go next door and borrow theirs. But then again, we rarely locked our doors.
Locks evolved with each door needing separate keys. Can you remember having one key for the front door or the back of the house or the garage and one for the ignition and one for the glove-box of your car and trunk? Locking your keys inside happened only rarely.
Now keys have been replaced by key-fobs. The computer in the car tells the auto whether the key-fob is inside of the vehicle. The push button starter will not respond without the fob being present.
The doors of homes today can be accessed by your cell phone. The phone can be used to turn on or off lights. The phone can open the garage door. I imagine you could even program your phone to have a cup of coffee ready for you when you arrive at home.
I now have my own copy of the key to the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society building. As recording secretary, I needed access to the building and because I volunteer to be docent a key was necessary. I am to open the Society for a group of school students Friday for a private tour.