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. 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 o r not, the ball has still retained a soft scent from the powder dumped inside over forty years ago.

I was sorting through papers too and found a paystub from Frick Hospital 1977. My take home pay then was less than a nurse earns today in one day.

Ice Cold Swimming Hole

 Ice Cold Swimming Hole

When my brother Ken and I were in our preteen and early teen years we would walk with the neighbor boys an eighth of a mile to a deep spot in the waters of Poplar Run. It was a spot under the bridge between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania along Route 711. The waters that fed this stream emanated from underground springs and the melt off of the winter’s snow and ice. The creek for the most part, flowed through shaded wooded areas where sunlight only filtered through the leaves and branches of huge trees and laurel bushes that lined its banks. The swift flowing water stayed cold all year long.

Each year a basic dare progressed into an annual challenge, we would make the trek to get into the frigid water beneath the bridge before the end of April. We weren’t quite the Polar Bear club, but it wasn’t a sunny day on the beach either.

Beneath the bridge along one side of the stream was a sand and rock stretch of beach. Before we would make our first timorous exploration into the water we would build a fire. We already knew that the water would be cold. We gathered driftwood to keep the fire going as we swam. It would be the difference between salvation and hypothermia. It would be needed.

Under the bridge the stream made a turn where the current created the deep swimming hole. The deepest part of the hole was in the shade of the bridge, so there was no heating of the water on the trip from the melted snow to our pool.

Once the fire was built and going well, we stripped down to our white briefs and crept to the water’s edge. We knew what awaited us. There was always the test of toes, praying that a miracle would have happened and the water had been somehow transformed to become warm. We hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t be as cold as it invariably was.

Each of us had our own way of getting into the water to finally immerse ourselves in the icy flow. Some of eased in; toes, ankles, calves, mid thighs, and then the part that took your breath away: the family jewels. It was no use going slow any longer and we’d dive in. No use prolonging the agony. Others were more daring and took the plunge, popping out of the water with a savage scream that echoed from the high arched walls of the concrete bridge.

One thing that was the same for all of the swimmers after we had taken the plunge and the few strokes back to shore we raced for the fire to get warm. Huddled and shivering we crouched close to the red hot coals, squatting on our haunches and holding our quivering arms to our chest as we sought more body heat. We added more wood to dry ourselves and to try to get warm before hypothermia could set in.

Once we warmed a bit, we would open a sleeve of saltines and toast them one at a time on a forked stick by holding the cracker over the hot coals. Retrieving the plastic knife we had hidden, we would smear some of the oleo from the stick “butter” onto the toasted cracker and have a feast until the last crumb was devoured.

It was a time of male bravado and bonding. About this time, we were dry and warm. Climbing back into our clothes we would head for home. All through the summer we would return to swim. When the dog days of summer and its hot sweltering temperatures engulfed our world, the swimming hole would become an oasis and refuge with its cool, refreshing water and not the springtime place that tested our manhood.

The Name Game

 The Name Game

I can remember many years ago when my kids were much younger and my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was still alive, the kids would ask me; what can we get you for Christmas? I would tell them that I wanted the preprinted return labels: labels that came in a self-adhesive roll. Some brands of the labels had a wet and stick, while others had a peel and stick. But the one thing that all of the labels had was the name, street address, state, and zip code.

For some reason they never bought any labels for me. I don’t know why I detested taking the time to hand write my name and my address in the upper left-hand corner of envelopes, but I did. There were advertisements everywhere offering the preprinted return labels. Nearly every newspaper advertisement bundles offered them for sale. Many magazines ran an advertisement somewhere inside or the back cover wanting you to take advantage of a sale price to purchase them.

I’m a frugal guy. My kids have interpreted that word to mean cheap. My salary for two weeks as a nurse back then, is what a nurse now makes in a day. Times have certainly changed. Often it was a struggle to pay the mortgage on a house, the payments on a car, taxes, and utilities. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck taught at a private Christian school to pay for our kids’ tuition. It was my salary that kept a roof over our heads, food on the table, and shoes on our feet.

I was surprised that the bank recognized my signature when Cindy passed away. I was on night shift and Cindy often signed my name on my check to deposit it. Banks were often not open when my eyes were. She also wrote the checks to pay the bills. That was a new responsibility I had to carry when she passed away.

Suddenly every charity seeking donations began sending preprinted, self sticking name and address labels in their solicitation mail. Now I have all the name/address labels I need. Even if I live to be one hundred years old, I’ll never run out of labels and Heaven forbid if I ever change address. What will I do with the excess labels? The frugal part of me will not want to toss them out.

With Some Memories Comes Sadness

 With Some Memories Comes Sadness

As I tidy my computer room/ office I found several cards, letters, and notes that stirred many wonderful and achingly poignant memories. Most of them were sad with an occasional smile stirred into the mix. I said tidied, because there are still stacks of photos, notes, folders, and manuscripts of tales and poetry to go through. Some surfaces are still lined with dust.

I decided to get rid of old Christmas cards, birthday cards, and thank you cards that will have no meaning for others, but a valentine card signed by my granddaughters Celine and Moriah was reason for a pleasant memories stack of cards that I’m keeping. There are more cards and letters from loved ones that I will keep as well. The oldest was from a fellow corpsman and friend I met in Orlando Florida. Although he was a raging Liberal hippie, we became friends. He was reassigned to Field Medical Training School to be with Marines, during the Vietnam Conflict. He wrote me with his address and when I wrote back. I used his full name, Charles Felix Scott. His return mail thanked me for letting everyone AND God know, including fellow Marines that his middle name was Felix. Sorry Scotty. If you see this, write back. I’ve lost contact with you.

The next card and letter was from Cousin Liz Nicholson Moore. She was the daughter of Oliver and Ina Miner Nicholson. We were about the same age and always liked to be around each other until her family moved to Ohio. We still kept close with letters and cards. She has since passed away. The hardest thought for me to bear was when I sent a letter at Christmas to her and received a card with the obituary notive from her husband telling me that she’d died several months before. I still get choked up thinking about it.

The last card and letter inside was from a former Pastor and dear friend. His birthday and mine were close dates in March. We’d go to lunch and hit places that had annual book sales. He was an avid reader and bibliophile. He was also a Missionary to South Korea and left our church to teach Bible students to be missionaries at a college in North Carolina. Even after he moved, we would visit at least once a year. I’d always find a book that I knew he would enjoy. He was a dedicated servant of God with a desire to the reach the lost people in Madagascar so remote he would need to be flown in by helicopter. On the day before his departure, he died and is sorely missed. Good bye Pastor Norm.

I can’t read any of those letters for now; there is too much sadness there.

Look to the Sky

 Look to the Sky

In the past few days, the sky has been so intensely beautiful, I can’t express in words the vivid colors and design I’ve seen. Even Bob Ross with his happy little “wet on wet” painting techniques would be hard pressed to even come close to the excellent paintings of light that God has put on display. I take photographs of the most impressive and share them on Facebook, but they only stir memories of skies that I have seen in my past.

One such sky was while camping at The Great Sand Dunes of Colorado. As we arrived, vast arches of rainbows greeted us. There were three rainbows that slowly dissolved into one, growing brighter as they joined together. Later that night as we set up camp there were no lights for miles. The sky was a velvety black. Huge glistening stars hung just out of reach above our heads. A rain storm swept in with a dazzling lightning display. The air became even clearer and stars became more pronounced after the storm thundered by. The rain seemed to clean the air and polish the stars.

I’m also reminded of the hues of the sky and its reflection in the ocean at the northern tip of Newfoundland. While aboard the Northern Ranger the sky melded into the water of the bay almost becoming one. Only the position of our ship moored there gave definition to the location of the water.

The sunrises and sunsets from my home have been so very impressive. The colors have been so intense that they almost seem artificial. The smorgasbord of passing clouds adds even more interest to phenomenal designs in the sky. The skies’ palette is covered with pastel hues to brilliant primary colors. That boggles my mind. The old adage comes to my mind “A picture paints a thousand words.” But mu descriptions fail miserably at describing the beauty and colors of the sunrises and sunsets.

I like to think that this is the underside of Heaven and if the bottom of Heaven is this wonderful, I can’t imagine what Heaven will be like. I am at a loss for words to try and describe what Heaven will actually look like. I do know the Bible describes Heaven as being filled with jewels and having streets of gold. Heaven’s gates are huge pearls. It’s an eternal place where moth and rust can’t destroy. It is too great a thought for my human mind to comprehend.

 

Rainy Days ad Mondays Always Gets Me Down

 Rainy Days ad Mondays Always Gets Me Down

Even with the increasing daylight hours, the rain always makes me feel sluggish and sort of depressed at the beginning of the week. It makes me want to hide inside even knowing that spring is just around the corner. I’m glad that I have retired and don’t have to go out when the winter winds blow and snow falls. I won’t say I like the rain and sleet, but I guess it is better than the cold ice and snow.

I do have a metal roof and have heard others say how much they like to hear the rain falling on the roof, but with the windows closed, all I hear is thunder and the dull roar of a barrage of raindrops pounding on the roof. There are no sounds of music as the drops dance on the metal roof.

When the rains make everything soggy and water filled, it really makes me want to remain inside where I am dry and warm. When mankind started to build shelters I’m sure his wife wanted to be warm and dry as well. He would do all that he could to keep the rain, wind, and snow outside and to keep her happy and have their dwelling snug and secure. They had to carry water from a stream or spring for cooking and drinking. I’m also sure that fetching in the water day after day became more and more burdensome, so the woman of the house probably shared the desire to have water brought into the house with pipes and a pump. After years of wanting to keep water out of the house, now it became a luxury, then a necessity to have water brought into the house and a way to allow it to escape. Need I mention the need to go outside to use the privy?

Well, it’s Monday again and wondering if the sun will pierce the early morning mist with a golden glow. Even though the temperature is predicted to drop from yesterday’s sunny warm feeling and turn into another bone chilling wintery day, I have some small chores to do around the house. I am thankful that I can stay inside warm and dry and still get them done.

Feelings of Loneliness

 Feelings of Loneliness

I recently had a night when some those sharp pangs of a deep and painful soul wrenching episode of loneliness appeared. It’s a feeling that every widow and widower will get at some time in their lives after the death of their spouse. It also occurs with every person who has gone through a divorce. That feeling doesn’t happen frequently now for me, but when it happens it’s a real lowdown feeling. When I face an empty bed, empty arms, and it seems as though my very soul is empty.

This time that emptiness has been compounded. In the last few days I’ve driven several places and lately I have been listening to an oldie’s station on my car radio. I don’t recall how many songs were about being alone, loneliness, or being lonely. Some only hinted about those feelings of “The Last Dance” while in other lyrics, the teens were separated by death. One after another sad words filled my car: “Are you lonely tonight,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Tell Laura I Love Her,” and on and on. “Only The Lonely,” “I Am…I Said,” and “Dancing on My Own,” each one slipped through the speakers of my radio.

I can’t think of the names of the many other songs, but their sadness filled my car on the air waves. Many songs were jazz selections or the blues. One was “The Thrill is Gone.” When I had the lonelies attack, I thought about writing my blog about the feelings of loneliness, but then thought not. The subject was too depressing. I decided to let it pass like I do when those thoughts about being alone appear, but after three days of constantly being bombarded by listening to “being lonely” music, I was prodded to write about it.

Like I said, this feeling doesn’t happen often. I have friends that I lean on and God is always there, however the physical intimacy of a spouse isn’t present. That need remains buried, lurking beneath the busyness of daytime chores, appointments, and the many daily things that press that need done. I find it’s the nights that press close and there is no one to talk with that reveals the emptiness.