A Close Shave

 A Close Shave

Shaving! What a chore; day after day, week after week, year after year. It has been the bane of my life until I retired. After I retired, I could choose when I wanted to shave or if I decided not to shave. I’ve grown a beard and I’ve shaved it off.

I can’t remember shaving much in high school or the year after graduation when I worked at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania, but it became a daily chore in boot camp at the Naval Training Center at Great Lakes. As I progressed in rank, I was able to grow a full red beard while stationed in Keflavik, Iceland.

Back home, my Mother Sybil Miner Beck didn’t say much until about one month passed and she told me that my beard made her feel old. Sometime later I shaved it off. It took her nearly two weeks to notice that it was gone then we had to convince her that I had indeed shaved and that my beard had been missing for two weeks ago. When I was bare faced with slightly longer hair, my kids saw a photo and though I looked like Stephen Hyde from “The 70’s Show.”

After I married to Cindy Morrison Beck and as we raised our family, my face underwent a wide variety of phases; a mustache only, a Van Dyke style beard with mustache, and even a full beard with mustache. It was never as full as the trappers and sawyers from the television series.

One day as I transitioned from one style to another and was allowing my facial hair to reemerge, Cindy asked me why I didn’t keep my face shaved and smooth. I explained that when she shaved her legs and underarms etc. she shaved them all at once then had several weeks to a month before she had to shave again. I told her to divide the areas that she shaves into daily parcels to clear away her hair; a lower leg one day, the other lower leg the next, a thigh one day and the other the next, shaving the underarms for another day, but because it was such a small area, she could do both on the same day. She must have understood, because she never asked again.

Slowly my full red beard evolved into a Col. Sanders white beard, but not without a fight. The hairs at the corner of my mouth turned white while the rest stayed red. I looked like a cartoon fox. For several months I dyed the white red to match, but finally gave up.

I’ve shared the wearing of Col. Sanders’ attire when I visited PNC Park. I was featured on the Jumbo-tron and Root Sports, as well as posing for photos with other baseball fans.

Light in the Darkness

 Light in the Darkness

The world around us is becoming more confused and dangerous. In many cities a person takes his life into his own hands if he ventures out on the street, drives on a roadway, rides a subway, or goes shopping. Even when a person stays at home he isn’t safe from invasion and assault. The world is becoming increasingly corrupt. It’s becoming a place where good is branded as evil and evil is accepted as something good. The morals upon which our country was founded are being shifted and fading. Laws that once protected citizens and their rights are consistently being made weak or totally disregarded. Lawyers and judges are twisting our laws until the rules that once guarded the innocent citizen now offer more protection for the criminal than to the victim. The truths of the Bible upon which our justice system was based and our very Constitution was established are openly being disregarded as wickedness and is brazenly being accepted as truth.

Some men hide in the darkness hoping their sins won’t be found out, that their evil deeds won’t be exposed, and they will escape punishment for their criminal acts. They will be judged; if not here on earth, then at the Great White Judgment Throne. Although man tries to legislate morality, the sinful human nature will do everything it can to avoid the wages of their criminal deeds. They will use every trick and every subtle means to escape the responsibility of their acts. Civilization seems to be crumbling all around us. Anarchy and self aggrandizement seems to be flourishing, but one thing remains constant; it’s a light that shines brighter as darkness grows stronger.

The Bible says that the evil will only get worse, but do not be discouraged or lose hope. For those who believe in Christ, hope shines brightly. Our joy and peace cannot be dimmed by a world in which Satan seems to gain more power. Our hope is in God the Father through His Son Jesus Christ and He is the constant that guides us as we walk in the darkness. Our victory over Satan has been prophesied and sure. So no matter how dark and cruel this world becomes believers have the surety of the God’s redemptive promise. We understand that darkness is the absence of light. Jesus is the light of the world and as long as we allow that lamp to shine through us, we can be the reason for others to have hope. Keep your wick trimmed, your reservoir of oil filled, do not hide that light under a basket. Continue to share God’s love and His gift of salvation in a dark world.

Experience

Experience

After graduation from Connellsville Area High School, Connellsville, Pennsylvania, I was hired to work at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg. Walworth produced valves of different types and sizes. The parts were cast in its foundry, machined, assembled, and tested before the product was sent off to the customer. The valves were made of brass, steel, or stainless steel and came in sizes from two and a half inch to thirty-six inch, having ball or wedge closures.

My initial job was as a “hand trucker” hauling supplies or parts from one area of the plant to another. The hand truck was like a super, heavy duty toy wagon, its bed was of thick wood construction and the tongue was solid steel tee shape. When a position in the tool room opened up, I bid in and got that job. In the tool room, I was required to read blueprints, gather the tools needed for the machine operators, grind carbon tipped blanks to the exact angle, and to sharpen drills.

I was there for nearly nine months before I went off to boot camp in the United States Navy. I had the normal fears of starting something new that was unknown and bothersome. The first fear was just going in when I would be at a strange place at the Naval Station Great Lakes, Illinois in winter and even more distressing I would be there over the Christmas holiday. The second fear was that I had enlisted to be a corpsman in the middle of the Vietnam War. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but then again, I didn’t want to be killed myself.

I was shocked by the rapidity the military removed as much individuality as quickly as possible to form a unit that worked as one. All civilian possessions other than eyewear was packaged up and sent back home. Hair was clipped off, new clothing was issued for us to wear from the skin out.

To be honest I was feeling out of place. It was hard to get a grip on my new reality when it had changed so drastically. Then something good happened. The Navy removed all connections with home until a serendipitous, completely coincidental meeting. I was in line at the chow hall when I was greeted by a familiar face. It took me a few seconds to register who it was. His red hair had been reduced the stubble the length of plush on a stuffed animal like mine. It was Dave Baxter. He graduated high school with me. That chance meeting was the only time I saw him, but that incident did lift my spirits and began to feel more comfortable with boot camp

School Days

 School Days

            Several years ago I shared on Face Book an old black and white photograph of the fire that burned the old Poplar Run School. A huge column of black smoke rose as the tar paper roof melted in flames. The building was located between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania where the Poplar Run Road intersects with Route 711. The school was located just below my parent’s place, Carl and Sybil Miner Beck.

            This one room, white-washed clapboard building had a hand hewn sandstone block foundation. Eight steps of the same stone were inserted into the earthen bank to create easy access down to the hollow of land where the school was nestled. There was just enough room for the teacher to park her car on the berm and still allow the flow of traffic on Route 711. Every weekday Miss Ora Woomer would descend those stairs to open the school.

On cold days she would start the fire in the pot bellied stove and on warn days, she would raise the windows to allow the air to circulate and cool the uninsulated building. Ora was a roly-poly, short woman with close cropped gray hair. She wore glasses but only when she was in the classroom. The heels of her black lace up shoes would tap loudly as she crossed the wooden floor.

            To one side of the school was the coal and kindling shed. It was the responsibility of the older boys to keep the coal scuttle filled and to see that there was kindling inside to start the fire for the next morning. At the rear of the building were the two adjoining privies, that were little more than latrines; one side for the girls and one for the boys. Peeping was discouraged, but it didn’t always deter the more curious children.

            Recess was always a much anticipated event where boys would often disappear into the woods that surrounded the school. It was mostly a game of cowboys and Indians. Occasionally, someone would get tied to a tree. They were unable to respond to the bell announcing that recess was over. When Ora discovered that a child was missing, she would send out a search party extending recess for nearly another hour until the “lost” child could be found.

            All of these stories were shared with me by the neighbor boys. If the Poplar Run School would have stayed open for one more year, I would have joined those who could claim that they attended a one room school house. I was taught by Miss Ora Woomer later as a teacher in third grade at the newly built Springfield Elementary School.

Keeping Promises

 Keeping Promises

I mentioned several things on my Facebook posts that needed follow up to tell the full story. I looked back through my previous Blogs and wasn’t able to find them. I have so many stored from the past. They’re listed under titles and sometimes I can’t find what I want. My titles are often obscure and don’t share the facts that are buried in the text.

There are two stories I wanted to share. The first was in response to a cartoon about a person that was too hot under a blanket, too cold without being covered, but with the body covered and one leg protruding it was “just right.” My wife Cindy Morrison Beck had the same attitude. She called her leg “her thermostat.” Most of the time, I had no problem, but in the middle of the winter, it would get icy cold. When it became too cold for her, she would draw it back under the covers and place it against my bare back. The shock can be a real eye-opener in the middle of the night. The worst part was that she would immediately stick her other “thermostat” out from under the blankets to cool. Oh how I miss that shock therapy.

The other story was a post saying, “Don’t tell me about your childhood problems, I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk as a kid.” Lawrence Welk was a staple of our house Saturday evenings. Just as sure as I knew the sun was going to come up in the morning, I was positive that my dad Carl Beck would sit in his swivel reclining rocker directly in front of our black and white television to enjoy the music then almost immediately fall asleep. I tried on many occasions to stealthily change the channel of that old television to anything that was more interesting than music of an accordion or “The Shrimp Boats are Coming.”

As soon as I would stealthily click the knob, my dad would sit upright and snort, “I’m watching that.” My hopes dashed, I’d return the channel back and we’d continue to watch Lawrence Welk. One time, I thought I’m going to prove Dad wrong and I slowly eased his swivel rocker to face away from the T. V. Great planning, then click…the chair bolted upright with Dad sputtering, “I was watch…” His voice faded to nothing when he saw that he wasn’t facing the set. He returned the chair to face the television and we watched Lawrence Welk. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t pleased and tried to kick my butt as I walked past. He missed and nearly fell out of his chair. Although I still don’t like to hear the bubbly music, Lawrence Welk continues to have a special memory for me.

Peculiarities

 Peculiarities

All of us have peculiarities in our personalities. It’s what creates our character, traits, and individualities. It’s the reason we are who we are. Just like our DNA determines our physical appearance, our oddities are what make us distinct and separates us one from another.

The peculiar person I am writing about today is my wife Cindy Morrison Beck’s grandmother Pearl Elizabeth Morrison. By the time I was introduced to Pearl’s husband, Benjamin Vincent Morrison was deceased and she was renting an old converted, clapboard-sided school on the Bear Run Conservancy in Mill Run, Pennsylvania. Her closest neighbor was Falling Water, the famous Kaufman home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

Pearl was a solidly built woman who had a tenacious mind and just as tenacious hold on life. She held her own views on life, even telling Cindy that I should “keep my shoes under my own table.” Pearl kept her home just so, hating to see anything out of place and if it didn’t fit what her imagination saw, she would cut, reshape, or repaint it to fit her liking. The value of things in her small home was sometimes reduced or destroyed by her alterations. She sawed the middle portion of an antique hutch and fastened it to its base before shellacking the entire thing in oak varnish. She cut flannel sheets in half to fit the cot where she slept at the side of her dining room while her bedrooms remained pristine.

 Another example of her tenacity was holding onto an idea that she hadn’t fully worked out of her system with her kid’s birth. She named one of her girls Elma Jean, but she wasn’t quite through with that combination because she named my father-in-law Elmer Eugene Morrison. He hated that name and chose to go by his nickname Bud. I can see why. Who’d want to carry a name so similar to his older sister? That’s almost as bad as a boy named Sue.

Pearl had a stroke which limited her mobility. When Cindy and I visited her in the hospital, she was proud to show us how the stroke had limited the ability to raise her right arm. I said to her, “I’m going to go to get the nurses.” When she asked why, I said, “I want to see if they can find a paint brush. I’ll bet you could lift it higher with a paint brush in it.” She knew that I had branded her with her tendency to paint things and she quickly caught the meaning. We had a good laugh.

Peculiarities? We all have them. Take a look at your own and have a good laugh.

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.