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.

Back to School

Back to School
This is the time of year that kid’s and parent’s thoughts turn to getting ready for the new school year. Most of the children have some reluctance and most of the parents have mixed feelings of relief and anxiety. The first day of school may be the child’s first ride on a school bus, meeting a new teacher, or wearing the new school clothing.
Near the end of summer I would hear the cicadas rasping their songs in the heat. There was nothing to dread from these small creatures, but as a child, I developed an unsettled feeling of angst when they would began their concert. I knew my summer freedom was nearly over and the routine of schooldays would soon begin. Days of reading, math, and spelling, months of history, science, and geography, and nearly a full year of penmanship, hard seated desks, and other not-too-polite kids lay ahead. It also meant recess, lunches, and making new friends.
Going back to school always meant going to the Gabriel’s store with my mom Sybil Miner Beck to shop for clothing. My first recollection of that store was its location in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. It waas coposed of two housesthat were conjoined by built-in walkways. Bins and tables were full of jumbled pants, shirts, and other items that had to be sorted through to find “seconds” that were still in wearable shape. Several years later, the store moved to a larger much roomier building, but the need to examine the clothing was real: checking for missing buttons, working zippers, tears, and to be sure that there were no major flaws.
Then came the role reversal, I got married to my wife Cindy Morrison Beck and we had three children of our own. School days meant something completely different, but then again, my wife was a school teacher. She taught at the private Christian school where our children were enrolled. School days meant visiting stores for school supplies and new clothing. The entire family would make the traditional pilgrimage to Gabriel Brothers to shop for school clothes or to the J. C. Penny outlet in Columbus, Ohio.
Gabriel’s has now expanded to have multiple stores. Growing up people called the original two stores Gabe’s. Apparently, the owners of the stores heard the public’s nickname for them and have changed the signage renaming the stores Gabe’s. The tradition of going to Gabe.s has been lost, but now as an adult when I hear the cicadas and the school days draw near, the sound always stirs thoughts of the old conjoined houses and shopping at Gabe’s for school clothes.=

Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent (Namely Me)

Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent (Namely Me)
With Halloween coming closer, I thought I would share this brush with this spooky season. It really isn’t a ghost story, but it will have to do.
I may have shared this incident before but I still laugh when I think of it. Because it is in the same vein I will tell it anyway. While I was employed at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania,  I had just taken the body of a deceased person to the morgue. I, placed the cart in the cooler and was finishing the paper work in the log, when I heard voices in the storeroom through a connecting vent high on the wall. It was our maintenance man, Franz and Niecie, one of our female central supply techs. They were retrieving a bariatric bed. Bariatric beds are oversized beds for the larger patients. The bed had always been stored directly beneath the vent in the storage room next door.
I moved across the morgue until I was underneath the vent. I cupped my hands around my mouth and making a funnel I moaned, “W-O-O-O-O-O-O! W-O-O-O-O-O!”
They immediately stopped talking. Then I heard Niecie ask, “Franz, did you hear that?!”
When Franz didn’t answer right away, she persisted, “Did you hear that?”
Franz said “Yes! Yes I did.”
“What was that?” She asked.
I heard Franz shush her.
They were quiet and I could tell they were listening. So I waited. When I heard them start to move the bed in the next room, again I moaned, “W-O-O-O-O-O! W-O-O-O-O-O!”
Niecie said, “Let’s get out of here!” I heard the supply room door pop open and the wheels of the bed rolled out of the room at a high rate of speed.
Later I met Franz in the hallway and told him what I had done. He laughed and said, “I didn’t know what that noise was. I knew the morgue was next door, so I thought at first it could have been a ghost. The second time you moaned, Neicie’s eyes bugged out. She grabbed my arm and almost climbed up onto my shoulders. I think she would have if I would have let her.”
            We never told Neicie and if you read this, I apologize.

Like Father Like Son

Like Father Like Son
My father-in-law, Elmer “Bud” Morrison was a man who used his hands and his brain equally well, creating solutions to problems that arose. He was caretaker and handyman for Kentuck Knob, the Frank Lloyd home of I. N. Hagan our local ice cream producer. The house is located near Chalk Hill, Pennsylvania overlooking the Youghiogheny River gorge. The house is designated as a National Historical Landmark. Bud later became the caretaker of Camp Christian which is located near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. The camp used to be called Killarny Park and was a retreat for people who came from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to vacation. Before that it was also a summer camp called Red Feather.
Several churches from Pittsburgh purchased the camp for a summer camp and as a retreat for the people of their congregations. It was also a summer camp many of the youth of Pittsburgh. Bud also worked for the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation repairing roads and keeping them maintained.
During the summer, he drove the heavy-weight road roller and in the winter he drove snow plows that kept our roads passable. Both positions were very demanding physically the vibrations of the roller wore out his hips and the “on call” work of the winter’s plowing and lack of sleep would tire him especially when he was compelled to work the long twelve hours shifts if the weather was bad and the snow fell heavily.
His son Kevin has always been one who enjoys working with his hands and given time, he can stare a hole in a wall and get things done. Mechanical things are second nature to him. He has worked at Lennox Glass Company and as a sanitation driver. Now, he has decided to step into his father’s shoes. He is one of those people that drag themselves out at all hours of the day and night to keep our roads clear, to allow us to travel in relative safety during the winter months. He drove a snowplow like his father. He has now retired and lives in Mull Run with his lovely wife Beverly Crider Morrison.

Recognizing Miracles

 Recognizing Miracles
Have you ever taken the time to stand back and really look at the time as the day passes by or by reviewing the occurrences at the end of the day and evaluating what has happened? Small incidents will appear that can only be described as miracles. They will often emerge from the jumbled thoughts of the day if you look for them. Pick out each oasis of blessing, take note of them, and thank God for those precious moments. It may be as small as finding the spot where you placed your phone or getting a call or a text from someone unexpected. How about bumping into someone that you haven’t seen in ages while you’re out shopping? What about when a stranger holds the door open for you and gives a cheerful greeting? How about when you’re in a hurry and the traffic is molasses slow, you’re grousing about how you’re going to be late, yet a mile down the road there’s an accident from which the delay has saved you.
There are times that you miscount the stair treads and stumble almost falling but are able to catch yourself. Older people break more easily and the recovery from a near-fall is both a blessing and a miracle. Sometimes daily chores sap your strength and you’re absolutely sure that there’s no way to continue, but a sudden burst of energy carries you through. That certainly could be considered a miracle.
You may not consider having a flat tire while you’re driving is a blessing, but if it would have occurred a mile ahead or a mile back, it could have been disastrous and put you in jeopardy. You may find a parking spot near the front door of a business while it’s raining. What about leaving the house and forgetting your checkbook or the shopping list and returning home only to find you left the stove on or you receive an important phone call as soon as you step inside, coincidence? I prefer to think of them as miracles. Maybe they aren’t the size of the parting of the Red Sea, but they are blessings none-the-less that God has sent your way. Have you ever been the recipient of a “pay it forward” or finding money in your dryer, in a jacket pocket, or on the ground…manna from heaven.
Take the time to review your day. Look for the blessings and be truly grateful for each and every one of those God-given miracles.

Hoo Wee

Hoo Wee
I slept well then woke up much earlier than my normal get-out-of-bed time. When I didn’t have to make a bathroom run, I rolled over to make myself more comfortable and went back to sleep. Bad idea. Because I’m retired and I had nothing pressing in the early hour of the day, it was no maajor problem. Not only did I sleep longer than I wanted to do, but I had a weird dream. It is that dream I want to describe.
My close neighbor Fred Brown who has been dead for several years was opening a medical clinic. He was never a doctor, but was a grocer who did butchering of animals on the side. He would occasionally make a “drawing salve” from the renderings of animal scraps, but that was as close to a physician that he came. His clinic although close to my house within easy walking distance was at the end of a narrow rock-filled debris laden roaadway. (This may have been caused because of the scenes of flooding and severe damages tto roads from southern Utah. The racing, raging water making short work of the roads leaving only destroyed and rock strewn highways.)
My dad was driving me there. (My dad Carl Beck has also been dead for several years.) There was no parking lot and if he had not been driving a pickup truck, I never would havee made it. Dad drove slowly over the fit-for-ATV traffic, I’m sure I would never have made it. The “Parking lot” was a grassy field with water running through it and no path to the building. I made it inside. I was wet to midcalf.
Inside was a tiny waiting area. Three older women were there. I was greeted by a beautiful young lady. Smooth face and dark, short cut hair, pale skin, and lovely smile. I offered her my photocopy of my medications. She refused saying, “We have nothing to do with BlueCross.”
Later this young gal asked, “Had I ever tried hemp?” I was surprised and said, “No.”
She came out of the “office area” and fetched a small plastic box filled with hard thin spaghetti sticks that rattled when she shook it. Opening it she took a piece out and fastened into my slowly thinning hair. This ended my visit to Fred Brown’s neighborhood clinic, but I sure wish I had the phone number of the young receptionist. LOL 

Autumn Chill

 Autumn Chill
The bright sunny days of summer have somehow slipped away. It’s yielded to slightly cooler days and even chillier nights. An extra blanket feels more comfortable when I allow my bedroom window to be cracked open in an otherwise stuffy room. I’ve decided to bring out the flannel sheets; washing and air drying them to remove the stale stored smell. I also need to wash my king sized, hand-sewn patchwork quilt. It’s in the tumbling block pattern. The material is recycled double knit fabric, yarn-knotted to a flannel sheet. Almost every diamond shaped piece has a family story attached to it. The blocks were at one time, someone’s skirt, pants, shirt or blouse. They are easily recognizable by the color or the print pattern. Each block reconnects to a page in my brain’s book of family memories.
This year the usual apples that hang on the trees in the back yard were missing. The birds have no apples to eat and the horses in the pasture behind my house got no treats. I’m thankful that I don’t have to make applesauce, apple butter, or apple schnitz this year. I still have some in my freezer and canned in my cold cellar from last year. There were none to gather a few of better ones to pare, slice, and freeze someor I may keep a few of the grimes golden to eat. There were none to fall or damaged to share with the bees or chop them when I mow my lawn.
It seems each time I attempt to downsize, I end up storing something else. To those people who say a person can’t take belongings with them to the grave, I’m sure my kids will make room in my coffin. Just teasing, my kids are sorting through some things and getting rid of some of the clutter. Too bad it only ends up with minimal results.
I have one room in my house I describe as decorated in early depression. There are old tools and enamel pots that hang on the walls. They’re too good to throw away, but no longer used for cooking or for work. I have several old photographs hanging to keep the room from looking like a hoarder’s hideaway. Because I’m thinking about getting a smaller house, I keep the Christmas decorations in that room rather than lugging them to the attic. The tub that has the artificial tree is huge and heavy.
The leaves are beginning to turn and it will soon be time to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department’s Sausage and Buckwheat Festival. This year it will be held October, 11, 12, and 13. I’m waiting for my call to join the ranks. I have volunteered for nearly fifty years, working my way up from dishwasher, to cake fryer, and finally to frying sausage.