One Hundred Plus years and Still Counting

 

One Hundred Plus Years and Still Counting

Due to the Covid scare and kerfuffle six years ago our annual Rugg reunion had to be canceled and rescheduled. The delay caused several of our ill and elderly not to have survived to see the one hundredth Rugg reunion. Each reunion has been held in honor of the oldest Rugg member. Several years ago was my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner's turn. This year it was in honor of Curtis Rugg.

One of those who passed away since then was Danny, our family historian. He was the keeper of the keys, the keeper of the lineage, the person who did the research on the beginnings and marked the trail of our family's arrival into the United States and their exploits.

I've written stories before about memories that I have of past reunions and tales of aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I'm not sure if they will make an impression on future generations, but I have written those remembrances for anyone who cares to read about them. I wish I would have listened more closely to my mom, dad, and others shared memories while I was a child. In the past no one took the time to write the stories down and now some are lost. Unless someone says something that sparks a tale and drags it to my memory, they will remain lost. That makes me sad and upset with myself that I hadn't listened more closely.

One hundred years is a long time to carry on a tradition. This recently past reunion should be 106. Some things have fallen to the wayside to be replaced by others. Gone is the huge crock of lemonade that sat on the end of saw horse tables. There is still the tradition of the potluck meal, now supplemented by “store bought” fried chicken. There are still a wide variety of foods and desserts that wait to be eaten.

The Rugg men have aged and can no longer play a game of baseball, but there is still a stream in which to wade. One thing hasn't changed, that is the joy of seeing the familiar faces of the family. They've aged, but they are now bringing their kids and grandchildren to share memories with them. It's wonderful to see the future generations that will hopefully carry on the tradition of reunions far into the future.

Seeing Clouds from Bothe Sides Now

Seeing Clouds from Both Sides Now

Recently I have been paying much more attention to the clouds that daily srurround my mountain home. In all types of weather and all times of the day, they lure my vision upward. As a kid I think I was more concerned with the physical things around me, the tangible things, the here and now things. The trees and the grass, flowers, and butterflies, bugs, and other creatures drew my attention.

When I grew into adulthood I began noticing clouds more. I watched as they darkened denoting a coming storm and causing me to be sure the car windows were closed up and the windows at home were closed down. Growing even older, I began to fly on planes. My first was the year I flew to Great Lakes for boot camp. I was so nervous that I don’t recall much of that flight, because my stomach was still recalling the speedy elevator rides in the Federal building in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. While I was in the United States Navy I flew from Great Lakes to and from Pennsylvania, to and from Orlando, Florida, to and from Iceland and back to Pennsylvania.

When I was much older, I flew from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Sacramento, California with a friend. By this time, I can remember the clouds being interspaced with clear spaces where I could see the earth below as the miles rolled by.

Over the past several years I have noticed the wide variety of clouds looking up at them. I’ve seen clouds that look like ostrich feathers and ones that look like solid walls of velvety white to thick angry grays. Clouds may scurry by looking like stringy, dirty threads or tumble along like snow-white fluffy sheep. The shapes are fluid sometimes oozing slowly into fantastic mythical beasts and other times shifting quickly into castles or bizarre dreamlike shapes.

These thought about clouds barely touches the imaginative nature of clouds, but when I stir in the wide color palette of the sunrise or sunset, my thoughts explode.  Grays may lighten into brilliant reds, glowing oranges, or richest golds. Black glowering clouds may be lit by intense lightning strikes or they may evolve into a thrilling rainbow arch. Each time I think I’ve seen the extent of what clouds can do, God proves me wrong and will show me something new.

 

Dual Citizenship

 Dual Citizenship

We are reading of people who hold dual citizenship where they live in one country, but have papers that allows them to have the benefits of another country, like Canada and the United States or Great Britain and Scotland. It’s not at all that uncommon no matter what country a person lives in to obtain dual citizenship. It’s worldwide. If a person accepts Jesus Christ as their Savior, they can live on earth, but have the assurance of a home in heaven. Christians have a dual citizenship. We are sojourners here on earth. The only way to obtain that duality is to accept Jesus as Savior. He’s the door. He’s the only way to enter into that heavenly land. He’s paid redemption’s price, freeing us from the debt of sin. He’s taken all our sins and carried them to Calvary.

The gift of dual citizenship is freely offered to all people on earth. It’s a gift of true love. Those who choose to accept this gift will gain a promised home in an eternal country that waits beyond the stars. The Bible gives us a glimpse of what awaits beyond the veil of death. It describes a peek into the glorious estates beyond huge pearly gates. The gift of eternally living there depends on whether or not the gift is accepted. Christ has paid the price for each man, woman, and child, but each person must accept that gift. The price has already been paid.

The only other option is the flipside of that dual heavenly citizenship is an unimaginable life. That refusal to accept the choice is to decide to suffer an eternal life of punishment and torture for sins we’ve committed in our past. It’s a place of torment, of fire, and darkness. It’s a place where bodies feel an unending amount of pain. There’s no relief, no rest, and no end of the fire. Hell was created for Lucifer and the angels who tried to usurp the power and authority of a holy God and Creator. But those who refuse to accept the gift of redemption choose to follow Satan into the pits of Hell.

There is a dual choice for a dual citizenship. Each person must make that choice. If you have already gained that eternal home in heaven, it’s an obligation to share the options with others who haven’t yet made that choice. If you haven’t yet decided and are reading this without making that choice, it’s not too late. Time is of the essence. Death or the second coming of Christ may happen at any second. Make the choice right now. Ask Jesus to come into your heart as Lord and Savior.

Deluge

 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 u=one hundred-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 banks and flood the lower part of the yard. Debris and trash from Route 711 would wash down and fill the stream. My dad would shovel the gravel, broken bottles, and other pieces of trash to reopen the channel. As kids we played in the stream, but we 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. Lately there has been localized flooding, but more of the damages are being done by lightning and the wind.

Because Pittsburgh is a confluence of three rivers, the snow and ice that melt or intense rain storms in the southwestern Pennsylvania mountainside will cause flooding at the Point where the Monongehela and Allegheny Rivers join to form the Ohio Rivers.

Looking For Fireworks

Looking For Fireworks

My mom and dad’s house was situated halfway between the two small towns of Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania. Both towns have volunteer fire departments because they are in different townships. Often they give each other back up for fires, accidents, or rescues. Both have street fairs where they sell food and have games to earn money for day to day operations of the departments, to buy new equipment, and for the upkeep of equipment and the buildings.

Each fire company held their street fairs on different weeks so they would not compete for customers. Every night there was some type of entertainment provided as well as offerings of food, beverages, and games of chance where players could win prizes or money. All of it was designed to entice people to come and to spend their money.

The foods offered were pizza, French fries, hot dogs, hamburgers, and funnel cakes. All sorts of sodas and strong coffee werethe drinks sold. A small carnival company would set up to offer rides for the children. Miniature cars and trucks that ran in a circle, a Ferris wheel, and a swing ride were the usual offerings. They also had booths that sold caramel apples, popcorn, and cotton candy and booths of ball toss, ring toss, and darts.

We had gone earlier in the week and my dad Carl said that we weren’t going the last night of the fair. The last night was the night the fire department set off the fireworks display.

When we heard the first few dull booms from the explosions from the rockets, being a fireworks lover, Dad couldn’t resist and went upstairs to the bedrooms to look. He was hoping he might glimpse some of the displays over the tops of the trees. The fireworks were only two miles away, he could hear the explosions. He surely should be able to see something.

It wasn’t very long until we heard a “Thump. Thump. Thump.”

Sybil Miner Beck, my mom said, “Kids, your dad is stomping on the floor. He must want us to go upstairs to see the fireworks. Let’s go before he gets upset with us.”

We left the family room and went into the living room. There at the bottom of the wooden stairs, Dad lay in a crumpled heap on his back and his butt. Dad had slipped and fallen.

What caused Dad to fall happened earlier in the day. My mom told my sister, Kathy to dust the steps and the living room furniture. Instead of doing the steps first with a clean dry cloth, she dusted the furniture with Pledge, and then wiped down the stairs. Pledge coated the steps with wax and had made the stairs treads slippery.

When Dad went upstairs, he was wearing socks on his feet. When he came down, the socks lost traction and his feet flew out from under him. He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Only his pride was hurt.

Once we knew he was okay, we hurried out of the room to laugh. If he would have seen us even snicker the real fireworks would have started and we would have been in so much trouble.

Now Serving Watered Down Scotch

 Serving Watered Down Scotch

My wife Cindy Morrison Beck’s heritage was Scottish and I’m so thankful she’s no longer alive to see what is happening today. America’s Scotch/Irish forefathers fought, settled, and died for the land here in southwestern Pennsylvania against dangerous beasts, venomous serpents, inclement weather, indigenous people intent on destroying them, and often defying Great Britain’s kings. They carved their homes and farms out of a wilderness. Their safe places were called forts that were little more than bastions from which to fight. They built churches as sanctuaries to worship God as they chose, often ignoring restrictive decrees from their leaders.

They were not independence seeking people, they were just everyday folk who wanted to be left alone to raise their family and to create ways to make a living. They didn’t care that the king wore a wig, carried a snuff box, or sported high heels and stockings; they were too concerned with living from one day to the next.

With today’s men, the Scotsman’s kilt has been exchanged for a skirt, the sporran has been traded for a purse, stockings substituted for hose, and they’ve replaced their Ghillie brogues to wear the king’s high heels.

They’ve given away their God given rights to assemble and worship as they please. They are tracing their rights to bear arms for protection of self, family, property, and yes, even when freedom and liberty itself are taken away. They’re yielding their right of free speech and allowing pedophiles and mentally ill people to gain positions of power and influence.

As America‘s leaders become distanced from their people, they lose touch with reality just as King Rehoboam of Israel and as did King George of England when their subjects finally had enough and revolted. It’s becoming the same today with politicians in Washington DC. The elected officials in Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Harrisburg Pennsylvania believe they know what’s best, being fed the tainted view from cronies that surround them. They choose to make distorted and disastrous decisions. The voice of the general populace is being overridden by the Liberal media and self-aggrandizing sycophants.

They allow rioters and looters to ravage homes, businesses, and cities seemingly unaware and not caring about those who are injured and killed. They repeatedly attack our bastions of freedom, our rights, and the U.S. Constitution. They feel that it is their right to offer “safety” at the cost of increasing taxes and the destruction of the foundation for our liberty; the Constitution, the Bible and our ability to freely worship together. They are waging an all-out assault against our homes and families.

Gird yourselves with your kilts. Open your Bibles. Lift your claymores and stand firm against all encroaching evil.

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 Morrison Beck. 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 or not, the ball has still retained a soft scent from the powder dumped inside over forty years ago. I just checked it and the scent is still potent.