In My Dreams
I rarely remember my dreams. For the past two days I heve remembered them. I know there are those who “interpret” dreams like Joseph did as a boy and while he was jailed in Egypt, but Im not one of them. I don’t own a book of dreams that tells someone what the detaills of a dream means. There are others who believe that a dream is just warped replay of things that have occurred over the past few days like a marred reception on a television where wires get crossed. I don’t know if either are correct, I just know what I have dreamed.
When I woke this morning, the impression that remained was the American slowy furling and unfurling. There was a gentle breeze stirring it. The flag was partially hidden behind a sign. A soft light illuminated the flag, but not the sign hanging in front of the flag. The sign remained blaack. The backdrop was a foggy haze without distinguishing features. It wasn’t a scary dream, just a curious one.
The other dream that I remembered from the past week was a dream where I became lost inside a mall like structure with halls and walls almost like a maze, As I wandered, I couldn’t recall getting there and couldn’t remember the way to leave the building. I had no idea why I was there; I only remember my frustration as to how I got there and had no idea how to escape.
But there is more. I am outside without any knowledge how I got there. I only have a vague memory of pushing out through a double glass door into the cold and snowy parking lot. None of the cars in the area are familiar to me and I continue my attempt to leave the area. Although the lot is coveered in snow, the cars are not. The cars are free of snow and I can see the sea of vehicles as I meander through the maze of steel bodies searching for mine.
My dreams always seem bizarre, unlike my Gram Rebecca Rugg Miner. She would tell us stories about her dreams that came true. The simplest to believe was the dream of the snake in her flower garden. She recognized the situation from her dream and killed the snake.
The most illogical was her dream of a car driving down their farm lane. She was looking out her bedroom window. Looking down, it seemed that the driver had no head. It came true. A car drove by, the porch light was on and the shadow cast put the driver’s head in shadow and he lookes as though he was headless.

 Shanks Mare
Shank’s mare is one of those idioms that my dad Carl Beck and the older generation used. A person using their legs to propel themselves instead of riding a horse, buggy, or car when travelling would say they were walking or going by shank’s mare. I’d been avoiding my daily walks, blaming the cold windy weather or the rainy days, but much of it was because I’m a couch potato and too often just too lazy. I think much of my recent feelings of tiredness and sluggishness was because I haven’t been taking my daily walks.
I started yesterday by going to my local polling center to vote in the primary electtions. I saw that Nicki Haley was on the ballot with Donald Trump. I was surprised to see her name still on the ballot. My next stop was to the gas station for a fill-up. No surprise there, the price for gasoline will continue to rise until the United States drills ardently for its own oil, completes the pipeline, and stops trying to force those ill-imagined electrical vehicles on the public. The high cost of the EV, its limited mileage, and the lack of charging stations is an attempt to control the public. It’s to force people to live in cities and limit Americans’ mobility. If the government can force American citicens to use electricity to heat their homes, cook their food, and drive vehicles, they can cut the power to anyone and control every part of their lives.
Next I stopped at the bank to withdraw a few bucks before heading to Wal-mart. I always meet someone at Wal-mart who I’ve worked with and today was no exception. But many times I will talk with complete strangers. I live alone and it is nice to talk with someone, even a stranger.
Back home after the groceries were unloaded and put away, I decided that it was too nice to stay indoors and felt the need to spend some time in the sunshine. It was just a shorter walk, but it was a beginning. I believe that I walked about an eighth of a mile. I managed to take a few photographs of blossoming trees, the road I walked on, and a few ragged cattails with lush green grass background.
I rescued my neighbor girl’s ball that had blown across the road and into a ditch. It had been forgotten. Sometimes the wind where I live can be fierce. I’m sure that it blew the ball from the neighbor’s yard into the ditch.
So I am starting to “ride” shank’s mare again and my legs actually feel good with no cramping yet. Giddy-up.

 Juat What You’re Looking For
Unusual incidents somehow connect with others in my past. In February I purchased a reclining chair to replace a recliner that a spring had broken. Of course the broken spring occurred about two months after the “year warrenty” ran out. I ordered a replacement spring on line. It was the correct length, but not the proper strength. The chair works, but not very well. There are several bolts in the chair that loosen and must br tightened. It is a comfortable chair, so despite all its faults, I kept it and still use it.
Back to the February chair. After the problem with the first chair, I purchased the extended warrenty. Last week I moved the February chair to vacuum around and under it and what to mu wandering eyes appeared but a black single bolt. The head of the bolt had a star shaped opening for a specialized screwdriver. I upturned the February chair to try to find where the bolt came from. I was unable to find a spot in the tangle of metal parts beneath the seat where the bolt had escaped.
I called the furniture company and explained my situation. Because it was so recently purchased and it was still under warrenty, they set an appointment for a technician to come to my home to service it. The appointment day came and so did the technician. We upturned the chair and he knelt behind it, peering into the metal skeleton beneath. We both searched and could see nothing. As a matter of fact, there were no other bolts with the same star shaped heads anywhere in the chair. It seemed to be a strange bolt from some other piece of furniture.
I will share another odd incident that my dad, Carl Beck shared about one of his relatives. She had purchased a brand new 1956 Ford.I can’t remember the model, but soon after she began driving it, she heard a rattle. The rattle irritated her. A brand new car shouldn’t have a rattle. It seemed to be in the doorpost just behind her head. After several trips to the dealership and several times the mechanics insisting that there should be nothing thee to rattle, they finally removed the panel. Inside was a Coke bottle and inside the bottle was a note that read, “I’ll bet you had a hard time finding this one.” I’m wondering if the extra bolt in my chair was tossed in at the fatory without a note.

 Traditions
It became a tradition for our family to go to our grandparents Miner’s house for a meal on New Year’s Day. It wasn’t the traditional New Year’s Eve foods of pork and sauerkraut; it was something a lot less traditional. My Dad Carl Beck would buy a couple of cans of oysters and a gallon of vanilla ice cream. He’d also buy the little wafer-like oyster crackers.
Granddad Raymond Miner had a small farm with cows providing fresh butter, cream, and milk. He made lard from the pigs he butchered and Grandma Rebecca Rugg Miner canned apples and would bake two apple pies. Her crusts were nice and light from the lard that she used and the apples were seasoned just right for the filling.
As soon as we walked inside my glasses would steam up, assaulted by the cinnamon-spicy aroma of the pies and the warmth of the coal cook stove in her kitchen. There would be the scent of percolated coffee adding richness to the festivities. The ice cream would go into the freezer and the oysters would go into a large pot with creamy farm milk, home-churned butter and salt and pepper. Nothing else was needed to make a rich light soup. All we had to do was to wait and waiting was hard for us kids. The pleasantly warm smells made our stomachs growl.
Grandma would get up occasionally to stir the pot. We would all watch in anticipation for her to nod that the meal was ready and were disappointed when she returned and sat back down. When it would seem I could wait no longer, Grandma would say, “Let’s eat.” There was no need for a second call when the oyster broth was cooked and ready to be served.
Grandma would use a large ladle and lift out steaming broth and a few of the meaty oysters into bowls; smaller ones for us kids, and larger ones for the adults. When the savory soup was placed in front of me I would take a deep sniff, wanting to just have a taste of it, but I knew that all had to be served and grace needed said, the crackers would be passed around to spill into our bowls.
I always wanted to lift the bowl and drink it right down, but I would take one spoonful at a time makimg it last as long as I could. I knew the soup was steaming hot and it would have scalded my throat. Grandma would continue to ladle the soup until the pot was empty.
The adults would sip coffee and talk. Kids would squirm in our chairs wishing the apple pie and ice cream was already in front of us. But as children, we couldn’t ask and had to wait to be served.
Eventually Grandma would rise and fetch the pies. My mom would get the ice cream. Our eyes sparkled in anticipation. Apple pie and ice cream was never a common occurrence. Grandma placed a large wedge on a saucer and Mom would scoop a heaping mound of the ice cream on top of the pie.
We drooled until everybody was served and then dove in with gusto. Barely a crumb was left on the plate when we were through. Tummies full and appetite sated we cleared the table to play dominoes or Parcheesi. Some sadness would creep in. We’d have to wait another full year for the oyster stew and apple pie.

 Into the Darkness
I remember reading stories of pioneers who would find themselves returning to their family after traveling all day, coming home after darkness had fallen. The weary traveller had reached the limit of their endurance completely surrounded by darkness. Often they were burdened by needed supplies. The longer the person trudged along, the harder the person strained their eyes, searching for the light that was always left burning in the cabin window by fellow family members. It was a lighthouse that drew the sailor into a safe port. It was like a beacon that brightly welcomed the traveller home.
When our church group camped at the Great Sand Dunes of Colorado there was no light from any nearby city or town. The darkness was black velvet with stars seemingly so close we could knock them down with a stick. We were not able to enjoy its beauty for long before we were beset by a tremendous storm accompanied by a fabulous display of lightning so close and bright I was sure the bottom of the tents would tingle.
An incident that happened last night; it got me thinking of how welcome a light can be. Being more frugal than ever, I’ve recently been turning off some of my night lights scattered throughout my house. During the daylight hours I’ve been turning them off; wasteful to allow them to burn energy that I have to pay for. It’s especially necessary for me when I am going to be away for several hours.
Yesterday I shut off my living room light and forgot to turn it back on before going upstairs. The low wattage light illuminates my stairs well enough that I am not travelling in darkness. Last evening I had to slowly edge my way down the stairs. It was a path I’d traversed thousands of times before, but not in the dark. Needless to say the stair rail became my best friend. Each step was a step into the unknown.
I sometimes put things on the stairs so that I am reminded to carry them upstairs with me. Being forgetful, I was unsure if I’d left anything on the steps and timidly probed with my barefoot before placing my weight on the next step. It was that dark.
I usually leave a kitchen light on, a living room light, and my office light on. I also keep a low wattage light on in my bedroom since I whacked my shins on the bottom of my bedframe. I also keep a “dollar store” night light in my bathroom. As I age, I find that my night vision needs all the help it can get.

If You Are Offended
I’ll start out by saying “I’m sorry” if I don’t identify your gender correctly or call you by a pronoun or a “gender” that you believe you are not. If you believe that you are anoother gender other than the one that God has assigned you at birth, well excuse me. I don’t have the time or the inclination to join you in your fantasy world of make-believe. Your confusion has nothing to do with my reality; I have enough trouble keeping my everyday tasks and ideas straight. If you purposely want someone to “know” what your self-identifying gender is, please wear a name tag with your preferred gender and pronouns that are listed boldly for all to see or don’t expect me and others to play a game of charades. And if you’re confused about what you want to be when you grow up…GROW UP, but before you choose a career and before you select a college major, be sure your choice can support you and be sure the amount of money you spend and time you invest can be repaid. Don’t expect me to pay for it. I enlisted in the United States Navy for four years to help pay for my nursing degree. You can too.
Many times as I worked as a nurse, I would be approached by a very young looking man with an older looking woman who would appear at the emergency department to be treated. Or an older man with a much younger woman would present themselves to be treated. Often it was necessary to question one or the oother as to what the problem that they had to initiate a chart especially when one of them was already taken back inside for necessary treatment.
I quickly learned not to make the assumptions of thinking that the younger person was a son, daughter, brother, or sister or the older-looking person was the mother, father, or wife. It often caused embarrassment on my part and would upset the person that was inadvertantly misidentified.
I quickly learned to ask the question, “How is “so-and-so” related to you?” The open-ended question solicited an answer, shifting the responsibility to identify the person with the correct answer.

 Deluge
The rain has been falling down in sheets. The constant roar of the drops on my roof seems to drown out any thoughts to write about other than the drumming of the water pouring from the heavens. It is a definite challenge to make any thoughts rise above the sound of the deluge. As I look back at stories that were told to me by my family, I can remember a powerful deluge and a flood in the area. The flood occurred in Melcroft, Pennsylvania in the year 1943. I was just talking with a ninety-nine year old about it. I couldn’t remember what year the flood occurred, but he did. This older gentleman is a member of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. This remarkable man has all of his mental facilities and has a wonderful sense of recollection.
The reason I recall the story of the flood is because my Aunt Estella Beck Strawderman and her Daughter Shirley were caught up by the flood that occurred in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. They were washed away by the high water and tossed into a tree. Estella and Shirley managed to cling to the branches until they were seen and rescued.
After the flood, my Grandfather Edson Thomas Beck tore down the family farmhouse and built two smaller homes on the banks of Indian Creek in the town of Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The homes were constructed from reclaimed lumber taken from the old farmhouse.
Behind my parents Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s house there was a small stream, runoff water from our natural spring. In the springtime melting snow caused it to overflow its banksand flood the lower flat part of the yard. Debris of trash from Route 711 would wash down and fill the stream. My dad would shovel the gravel, broken bottles, and other orts to reopen the channel. As kids we played in the stream, but had to be careful of broken glass or sharp pieces of metal.
Several years ago, another torrential rain event caused flooding in the Mount Pleasant and Connellsville areas of Pennsylvania. Many streams rose rapidly, doing much damage locally.
Because Pittsburgh is a confluence of three rivers, the snow and ice melt downs or intense rain storms in the southwestern Pennsylvania mountainside will cause flooding at the Point where the Monongehela, Allegheny, and Ohio Rivers conjoin.