I Remember

 I Remember…

As I grew up there was a television program I Remember Mama. I can’t remember many of the episodes, but I can recall that they all centered on their Scandinavian family; day to day problems, familial love, and their integration into the American community. Black and white images still flicker across my brain, mostly still shots of their faces.

My memories of Christmas’s past do much of the same only in color. Cousins by the dozens would gather at my grandparent Ray and Rebecca Rugg Miner’s large rambling farm house in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The din and the laughter emerge from the cobwebs of my brain. Cookies of all kinds were toted in by my aunts for the occasion. My grandmother always made popcorn balls and would sometimes put the meats of butternuts in some of the syrup covered popcorn.

My grandfather, Ray was a short statured quiet man. A smile rarely left his face when he was surrounded by his raucous progeny. Now that I’ve aged, I understand that feeling. There are people who will not be here for Christmas again this year claimed either by distance or death. That saddens me, but there is still love that the Christmas season brings and eases those feelings.

My grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner was always busy. If she wasn’t cooking or baking, she was directing the aunts what to do or where to place the food. If she ran out of those, she shooed kids from under her feet. She was a larger framed person who had very few gray hairs until later in life.

Christmas at my grandparents’ Beck was more subdued. We went to their home in single family groups. As strict Pentecostals there was less decorating and less laughter, but the memories are still just as tender. The hardest thing was sitting on their old excelsior filled couch and chairs. The upholstery was scratchy and the seats were hard. It was difficult to sit while the adults talked without squirming. Usually, there were gifts for us, socks, a few dollars in a card, and maybe a piece of fruit.

When I married and began celebrating Christmas in my own home. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I tried to create memories for our own kids.  She was “worse” than I was at Christmas. We would be up late, wrapping gifts and putting them under the tree. It didn't matter what time it was that we went to bed, she would be awake at 5 a.m. or earlier and make noise until our kids would waken.

Cindy wouldn’t snoop… until the gift was wrapped. I could have placed a bag of unwrapped gifts on her side of the bed and they would be undisturbed until they were wrapped. She would make excursions to the tree to poke and prod, trying to find what she got for Christmas. It became my mission each year to disguise her gifts and make some challenges for her. I would wrap her panties around a cheap package of combs; hide jewelry in a Pringles can, or other unusual ways of camouflage.

The panties became a traditional gift for her. Struggling as most families do when first married, she walked by me, one side of her underwear came loose from the elastic and drooped. “I said, “You need to buy some new underwear.” She replied they were still okay to wear around the house. When she walked by me again, I grabbed the droop and finished ripping the material from the waistband. She said, “Now, you have to buy panties for me,” and so it became a Christmas tradition, underwear for her.

A ring I hid in the Pringles can came in a Lucite box. With her shaking, it came loose and rattled. Because of the gifts I disguised to stump her snooping, Cindy thought it was one of the kid games with the Bee Bees to shift into the holes of a picture. She tossed it back under the tree. It remained untouched until Christmas Day. It was the last gift she opened. Her eyes brightened, a smile spread across her face, and she mouthed, “Is it real?”

I guess that because the ring was real, Christmas and our love became more than real as well.

Queens of Clean

 Queens of Clean

I have met three women in my life that could have given Mr. Kleen a real run for his money. Clean was almost an obsession with each one of them. That habit was nearly to the point that there was nothing in their lives more important than to have a spotless house. I’ve told some of these stories before. This is only a few.

The first woman I’ll mention is Jean, an LPN at Frick Hospital whose habits of home cleanliness extended to her work. I’ve shared her numerous adventures in other postings. One tale was that she washed her full length white leather coat in her clothes washer. She had to stand on the top to pry the coat from the inside. Another of her cleaning escapades was that she would kneel on her basement floor to scrub the cracks with a toothbrush. She also would clean her house before thr cleaning lady would arrive. Jean took her own linens and cleaning supplies when she would go on vacation. There were similar incidents that happened at work. She thought nothing of placing a dirty child in a sink and scrubbing them clean. Sometimes her cleaning acts caused her to be reprimanded. She haas passed away and joined my aunts to keep the streets of gold in heaven shining and bright for sure.

Other women who I will mention are my aunts: Aunt Estella Strawderman and Aunt Helen Stahl. Aunt Helen had chores for each day of the week: Laundry, ironing, baking, etc, plus she would do a thorough “spring” cleaning of a different room in her house each day of the week. She was a pleasant jolly woman with a desire to provide the best home for her husband and six children.

One peculiarity she had was with her choices of colors. Each room of her house was painted a different color: turquoise, coral, and vibrant green. Her desires for bright colors may have been influenced by Anna Nichols Beck her mother and my grandmother.

My Aunt Estella was unbelievably clean. She worried when people visited her home. I’m sure that her cost of cleaning supplies rivaled her cost for food. When she washed dishes, she’d dry then wax her countertops. She laid rag rugs on her scrubbed floors and covered the rugs with newspapers. When her children visited with their family on Friday evening and left Sunday afternoon, she would wait nervously until one minute after midnight to wash the “dirty” linens. She didn’t want dirty linens in her house, but she also didn’t dare work on Sunday. She even waxed her exterior enamel painted front steps making them even more slippery.

These are my queens of clean.

Like a Freight Train

Like a Freight Train

Time is like a freight train hurtling faster and faster. It seems that each day something causes me to reevaluate my life. Age causes me to adjust what I do or when I can do and that upsets me. I once thought that I wouldn’t let my age limit my daily chores and alter my life, but time has a way of making the most determined person eat his words. Time has a way of wearing down even the tallest of mountains, bit by bit, grain by grain. My flesh is all too quickly wearing out and I’m developing a deep and intimate relationship with arthritis and diabetes. I’ve just spent two restless nights unable to find a comfortable position to sleep. Each time I tried to eliminate one ache another part of me says’ “That won’t work either, Buddy.” But like someone else has said, “If I didn’t wake up with pain, I’d think I was dead.”

The greatest thing is that I can look ahead to is a time where I will no longer have pain and not be limited by my flesh. It is a future event in my life where time has no meaning, where pain and sorrow will have no place. Heaven awaits behind huge pearly gates. Each gate is a giant pearl. Gold is so common that the streets are paved with it, only fit to be walked on. The walls are of brilliantly colored jewels.

When I look around and see the wonders displayed on the earth, I am unable to imagine what God has created in that eternal and heavenly city. It is a place where sin, death, and sorrow cannot enter in. It is a place where the corruption of rust and decay do not exist. So even though there are days when my aches and pains override the thoughts of my new body and I turn to ointments and medication for relief, I must not lose sight of the goal. I must not let the world continue to interfere with the sharing of the Good News to others.

The cost of our passage has already been paid. Daily we need to take time to more closely review the price God paid to redeem us from the grasp of death and eternal punishment. His only Son suffered terribly as He was humiliated, spat on, beaten. Although sinless He hung on a cross like the most common of criminals. Jesus bore it all so that sinful man could be reunited with God the Father. Remember that love each day as you wake. Christ died for you and me. There is no time like the present to accept Jesus as your Savior. 

Nun of My Business

 Nun of My Business

One evening when another nurse named Bill and I were working in the emergency department together three nuns were delivered to us from a nearby automobile accident. The ambulance crew hurried them one after another onto beds to have their injuries evaluated. These nuns were of the old order. They were dressed in the black full-length robes including the coif, wimple, and veil. In addition they were wearing chains, ropes, and plenty of undergarments concealed beneath.

Let me say this. Anyone who would make the decision to rape a nun either had no idea of what he is getting into or else has all the time in the world to achieve that goal. I could not believe the amount of clothing these women donned each and every day of their lives; that is until I actually started to undress them so I could examine them and get them into hospital issued gowns. It was a full fifteen minute endeavor before I saw any kind of bare flesh at all.

It was just like peeling an onion, layer after layer. Underneath the ankle-length robes were all manner of cloth folds. Every sort of binders, tee shirts, ropes, and safety pins must have added fifteen pounds of extra weight. It was a crazy patchwork quilt. After much diligence they were freed from their habits and tucked into one of our hospital gowns for examination by our doctor.

One of the registration clerks found out what we had done and was offended that men were undressing the nuns. There weren’t enough women to evaluate the nuns quickly and it was necessary for Bill and me to do a cursory examination of the nuns.

I told her, “I’m a professional” and I could “undress and examine a woman without seeing anymore than if she was wearing a bathing suit.” When it was necessary for me to help a woman undress, I would loosen and push down to the blouse to the top of her chest, then place the hospital gown over her. I’d finish removing the blouse, brazier, etc. while she was covered with the gown. I’d pull the gown over her then place a folded blanket or sheet across her middle to examine the rest of her chest, abdomen, and pelvis. Pulling the gown further down, I’d remove the slacks or skirt to examine the legs from the feet to the top of the thighs.

Once my evaluation was complete, I’d turn the examination over to the physician. The woman was covered at all times while preserving her dignity. I was just thankful that the nun’s injuries were only minor and that I didn’t have to figure out how to put all that clothing back into place.

Old Albums, Lost Memories

 Old Albums, Lost Memories

While I was looking for something else, I found an old album of photographs from my mother-in-law, Retha Johnson Morrison. It holds old photos of friends and relatives. Some I recognize and others, I have no idea who they are.

I wish that she would have written on the back side names and dates, now unless I can get someone to help they will remain nameless and probably be tossed out into the trash. I hope to label as many as I can or hide them until they become antiques and someone wants to safely store them for the beauty and strength seen in each person’s face.

Although there’s a place for colored pictures there is a special ambience to the black and white photos. The viewer is drawn by the expressions seen in the faces and not pulled aside by the color of their clothing or by colors of the background. Eyes are drawn to faces, the hair styles, and their clothing that draws viewers into the history of the moment.

It causes me to pause and try to imagine what it was like to have been living then. A time where manual labor jobs outweighed the clerical ones, small time farmers fed the nation as well as themselves, and American’s were free to worship as they chose. The wash was done by hand and dried outside all year long. There were vehicles with horse powered sleighs, wagons,single engine jobs topped with a saddle. Clothing was often hand sewn and worn until it was outgrown and passed down, or until it was too patched to be anything left but a rag.

Long distance was yelling across the street or valley or a written letter if you could afford a stamp. Telephones were just coming into vogue with party lines and the social media was found in the newspaper’s society page. Jobs were scarce, but we protected our borders. We welcomed others from distant lands and incorporated their heritage into ours. They came to become Americans not to change it into the system of government that they’d just left behind.

America is the land of hope and promise. It was a beacon for the poor and oppressed. They were welcomed if they entered legally, assimilating to the governing laws of America to became citizens of our nation.

I know that everything isn’t in black and white, but the shades of gray have become the norm not the foundation that our country was founded on and there’s no gray written in the words of our Constitution. It spells out exactly what states are responsible for and what each branch of government should do. It lists the limits of those powers. Let’s go back to the black and white of our forefathers.

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.