Aging

 

The Chair

The old man sits in a chair by the door

waiting for someone who's been there before.

His skin is as thin as rice paper page,

drooping face speckled with spots of his age.

Drowsy head bobbing with white hair askew,

as light leaves the sky and lawn fills with dew

No headlights appear and shaking his head

Weary he rises and shuffles to bed

The old man sits by the door in a chair

no children or friends come visit him there.

Stirring as thoughts of them surface and rise.

With muscles twitching he opens his eyes,

through rheumy lenses and limited view

he sees youth passing, amazed how time flew.

The door remains closed, sealed tightly with rust.

The chair's now empty, filled only with dust.

 

 

The Sink Window

The old woman stands and leans on the sink,

she stares through windows to look and to think

Her steps now falter on knees filled with pain.

Wistfully her eyes stare down the long lane.

Wrinkles map her face. Age spots back her hands

wearying quickly from daily demands

No family’s seen, she turns and shakes her head,

closing the curtains she hobbles to bed.

The old woman wakes and on the sink leans,

her body is bent, face lined with ravines.

She stares at her hands, once supple and sure,

resting on the sink, misshapen and sore.

Puckered lips sag into a toothless frown.

Her youth’s flown away and her clock’s wound down.

The curtains are closed as stray breezes sigh,

The windows are dark. The sink is now dry.

 

 

The Problem

Children are caught in personal affairs

no time for one who sits alone in chairs,

no time to give them, and no time to think

of someone who waits and stands at the sink.

Busy with family everyday

not recognizing how time slips away.

Someday you will be waiting for a call,

wanting affection, no matter how small.

Quickly the children grow and leave the nest,

lifetime spouses die and are laid to rest.

Embers of hope weaken and barely glows

when no one calls and no one shows.

Traveling salesmen are greeted with glee.

The “Witnesses” invited in for tea.

It will happen much sooner than you think,

It will be you with the chair or the sink.

Masquerades

 Masquerades
There was a time as I was growing up that Halloween was little more than dressing up and taking on the persona of a scarecrow, a hobo, a princess, a cowboy, a bride, an Indian, or even a clown. I’m not talking about the scary live-in-a-storm-drain clown, but the classic ones like seen in a circus. One of the easiest costumes of all was being a ghost by using an old sheet with holes cut out for the eyes.
The decorations for Halloween were mostly dried corn stalks arranged and tied into shocks with pumpkins at its feet or maybe some old clothing stuffed with newspapers sitting in a lawn chair on the front porch. But today, the decorations have expanded to the point that many people have spent more to decorate than at Christmas. So, what’s the problem? Halloween is just another holiday, right?
Not so. it’s a celebration of the dark things in the world: a celebration of the evil things that go bump in the night; demons, skeletons, monsters, ghosts, vampires, witches, and even Satan himself. Costumes have gone from spooky to overly bloody and gory. Homes have light displays; mechanical blow up decorations, and front yards filled with Styrofoam tombstone cemeteries. Skeletons climb over cobweb covered porches to rest on rooftops. Skeleton horses pull horse-drawn coach hearses. I’ve seen plastic cat skeletons and rats for sale at Wal-Mart. I can hardly wait for skeleton dogs to join them on the shelves.
Even trick-or-treat night has a sinister past. Druid priests would go door to door to collect tribute and if the homeowner refused, the priests would refuse to bless the house and not chase away unwelcome spirits. The Celts believed that the dead returned to earth at the festival of Samhain, which is celebrated on the night of October 31st. Bonfires and sacrifices to the dead were offered. The Celts would disguise themselves in costumes of animal skins to drive away the phantom visitors. The priests would perform “blessings” in exchange for food and drink. Later people began to dress as ghosts, demons, or other malevolent beings. This custom evolved and is considered the precursor of trick-or-treating.
Too often the celebration of this season overshadows and swallows up the next holiday, Thanksgiving. The blessings of God are lost in the evils of Halloween. Our gratefulness is deferred by the rush toward the Christmas holiday. Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus the Christ child; the Light of the world and our gratefulness at the birth of our Savior should outshine the darkness of Halloween.

Halloween Boo Boos

 Halloween Boo Boos
I was remembering several scenarios of a time when I worked in the emergency department of H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania and this one stood out. One Halloween, Dr. Vandy was on duty in the emergency room when a young man presented himself with both of his hands injured. It was one of the Flinn boys. For some reason Dr. Vandy had always called the brothers “The Flying Flinns.”
We quite frequently treated the Flinn boys for various injuries. It wasn’t that they were abused, but accidents just seemed to seek them out then find them. They looked a lot alike. They were two peas in a pod, except they weren’t green. Each man had sandy red hair and a wide scattering of freckles spread over their faces.
When we looked at the presenting Flinn boy’s hands, they were abraded, bruised, and scraped. The doctor ordered x-rays. While we were cleaning both of his hands and waiting for the x-ray tech, he began to share his tale.
“I was working at a haunted house tonight. I had huge rubber feet, rubber hands and a big, bushy wig that partially covered my face.”
We could see that the clothing he was wearing were old and tattered with red paint smeared on them to simulate blood.
“Two obviously gay guys came into the maze of the house. All of us tried our hardest to really scare them.  I could hear them coming closer down the darkened hallway. The one was saying, ‘Oh, Franzie! I’m so scared! Franzie, hold me, I’m so scared!’ and I thought, ‘Here’s where I get them.’ Just as they reached the doorway to come into my room, I slapped both of my hands on the door frame in frontt of their faces and howled as loud as I could. I heard ‘OH, FRANZIE!!’ and the guy slammed the door on my fingers. Now, I really did scream. I had a reason to yell. My hollering must have scared them, because they ran through my room and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Now I’m here to see whether or not they broke my hands.”
When the x-ray films came back, He only had a small non-displaced fracture. We dressed his wounds, splinted the finger, and sent him home. It took all we could do to keep from laughing while we were treating him. The Flinn kid was obviously in pain, but what a story he can tell his grandkids.

Barbecued Bears Balls

 Barbequed Bear Balls
I made barbecued meatballs for lunch at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and it reminded me of my first wild game banquet. My brother Kenneth Beck had a spare ticket and asked if I wanted to go. Just like most Saturday nights, I was free and readily accepted. I had no idea what to expect. It was all new to me. Before this, the only wild game I’d ever eaten were the animals my dad killed or venison that I killed during deer season.
The first things on the menu were trays of hors d’oeuvres of cheeses, deer sausage, homemade pickles, pickled peppers, and a variety of crackers. The next course offered were soups, regular chili, venison chili, white bean moose soup, turtle soup, squirrel & navy bean soup, or wild mushroom soup. I sampled the turtle soup and the squirrel bean soup.
The next round of foods that was shared was the main course, fresh cloverleaf buns, small buttered potatoes, and green beans. Then there were the display of meats: elk meatloaf, slices of venison roast, wild turkey, bear goulash, venison meatloaf, some type of sausage in sauerkraut, and the barbequed bear balls. The bear meat had been ground up, rolled into meat balls, and cooked in a barbeque sauce.
I didn’t try the sauerkraut and sausage and I wasn’t impressed with the bear goulash. I didn’t like the flavor of the spices that were used in it and I didn’t like the bear meat’s mushy consistency.
A large urn of coffee and several coolers of iced water and lemon Blend graced a small table at the end of the line to wet our whistles and clear palates between the different meats.
Another small table was festooned and piled high with a plethora of desserts:. Cakes of all flavors with their varied icings, small muffins of banana bread, and a few cookies. All were bundled in individual clear plastic containers. It made them easy to select and to carry back to your table.
Door prizes and other ticket prizes for T shirts, car care products, cash prizes, framed pictures, appliances, and several guns were given out to people with matching ticket numbers.
I remember sitting at my computer typing on my computer with a full round gut. At that time, I prayed that the food had settled. The foods must have called a truce, because I had a quiet night of sleep and the herds of wild game didn’t fight for territorial rights during the middle of the night.

Over the River and Through the Woods

Over the River and Through the Woods

Friday and Saturday were both fry days. I fried sausage for the annual Buckwheat, Pancake, and Sausage Festival as a volunteer to support the Ohiopyle & Stewart Volunteer Fire Department. It is their biggest fundraising event for their fire department. It’s an annual event I have worked for nearly fifty years. My father-in-law twisted my arm when I was dating his daughter Cindy Morrison. I must have passed muster, because I eventually married her. I am aging and this year, I fried sausage only on Friday with my son Andrew.

The drive from my home takes almost twenty minutes. Many of the spots along the road are filled with memories. I shared my memories with my son as we drove to Ohiopyle. Some of these places have disappeared or changed. The one that is most noticeable is the metal truss bridge that spanned the Mill Run Reservoir. It was narrow and because of the metalwork overhead, it was damaged by several taller trucks. The new span is wider and has no metalwork overhead. It is smooth and sleek, but lacks any architectural detail or history.

The drive to Ohiopyle consists of a series of hills and curves. It seems to wend its way down into Ohiopyle. The early morning drive was beautiful. Patches of fog often hid the colors of the autumn hued leaves. The fog also veiled the rising sun into a blurry spot of light giving the fog surroundings an ethereal feel. Most of the fog curled in the dips and hollows of the road like a cat curling to sleep. The wall of fog would suddenly disappear and the bright robes of the autumn leaves would appear glistening with dew in the soft sunlight. The oak and maple trees were wearing their finest coats. The poplar trees had shed most of their leaves standing tall and stately with their bared limbs raised toward the sky.

Situated close to the road is the church and school house at Bear Run Conservancy. It is near the entrance to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. My wife’s grandmother, Pearl Jackson Morrison lived in the school house until she died. The Conservancy has returned it to it’s original construction, removing a garage and closed in side porch.

Another notable site along the route is the church that was part of the movie, “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” The changes made by s\the state parks have robbed Ohiopyle of its sleepy little village and natural beauty, but it still stirs memories of that time. 

Shine On

 Shine On
I thought I’d share one day I had to myself when I visited a place I would visit around Christmastime to shop for gifts for my wife. I’d not visited for several years. It once was a Red & White store on Route 30 just west of Ligonier. After the store closed, it became an antique/flea market. It was a wonderful place to stroll through and take in all of the items from the past. Anything and everything gathered on the shelves. It was a marvelous building to wander through, trying to decide if it was something I wanted, needed, or could afford.
I climbed into my car and dreamed of exploring the store and browsing through the accumulated oddities. The trip through the gray drizzle did little to dampen my anticipation. When I got to the location the entire building was missing. It had been torn down. My heart fell. I turned around and drove back into Ligonier to satisfy another craving. I ate lunch at Ruthies, a small diner to the east of Ligonier on Route 30. I wasn’t disappointed. The food was great, but now Ruthies is gone too, claimed by fire.
I went home, deciding to rest and allow my food to digest. Feet up, I snapped on the television. The program Moonshiners popped up. It was a program I hadn’t seen before and watched it to the end. It did bring to my attention of an incident that happened years ago while Connellsville Senior High School. In chemistry class lab my lab partner and I were to do a distillation project. I knew that I had some elderberry juice that I concocted was still there in my parent’s basement smelling a bit yeasty. Perfect. I smuggled it into school and then into the classroom.
After setting up the Bunsen burner and the glass tubing necessry for the “distillery” I eased the lid off the jar and poured the elderberry juice into the glass still pot, fired up the Bunsen burner, and waited. Controlling the heat was difficult. The temperature would fluctuate, but soon we had some distillate dripping from the coil and collecting in a beaker. Because we were unsure of the “purity” of the distillate, we decided to run it through the still a second time.
We controlled the heat much better and soon the liquid flowed clear as water. My partner said, “Do you think we should try it?” But before I could answer out instructor said, “I’ll take that boys.” So we never knew if we ever achieved liquor, what proof it was, or if it was palatable.

Given the Boot

Given the Boot
Seeing a photo of myself that my daughter Anna Beck Prinkey posted for Veteran’s Day, dredged up some memories from that time. The photo was from boot camp at Great Lakes Naval Facility. I saw the face of a nerdy teenaged boy looking back at me with dark rimmed glasses. The memory was of the chaos after emerging from the bus on the base. My emotions were already in turmoil, I’d just flown for the first time from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to O’Hare airport Illinois. I’d just celebrated Thanksgiving at home and knew I’d be away from home for Christmas. Gathered with other confused kids in a large hall we were hustled from one spot to another; gathering shoes, underwear, clothing and a duffle bag. The group was then herded into a barber shop where we were shorn. The clippers flew over my head. As I ran my hand over the stubble, I was reminded of a plush stuffed animal. What a strange sensation. I’d only had a crew cut twice in my life. My dad deemed it necessary, and I hated it. I believe that is why I still wear a cap today.
I mentioned in past posts that the commander of our sister company was a real hard nose. The “Soon-to- be sailors” under his leadership were so angry with his constant derision, they made plans to kill him. If they did, we as their sister company would be kept in boot camp FOREVER or at least until things were sorted out. A goodly number of our company and theirs were black kids, many from the south. Our company thought we’d have to break the tension to salvage our training. Everyone in our company stripped the sheets and pillow case from their beds. Wrapped in the sheets with the pillow case tilted back on our heads so our faces would be recognized, we marched down the aisle of out sister company’s barracks.
The men of our sister company were at first shocked, but as they began to distinguish familiar faces they began to laugh. We were used to marching together and were easily recognized. The mounting tension was broken and we graduated on time.
Another thought that was almost like an oasis in the confusion and myriad of new experiences, routines, and faces was in the first week of basic training, I was in line at the chow hall. One of the men “slinging hash” was a guy with whom I graduated high school. That was the only time I ever saw him, but it was just a bit of normalcy that I needed in the madness of boot camp.