Being Schoole on Lunches

 Being Schooled on Lunches

I decided to make toast and hot chocolate milk like I ate during my elementary school days. I can remember that for thirty-five cents I could get two slices of toast and a mug of cocoa when I arrived at school on those frigid winter mornings. The hot cholate was served with curls of steam rising from the frothy rich chocolate milk. Two slices of hot golden brown toast was slathered in real butter and served on a plate. My tasty recreation was only a pale recreation of the memory, but it has sent me down memory lane to other school lunch favorites.
What made the next meal special wasn’t the macaroni covered in meat sauce, but was the small side salad and the large bun. The bun was tall, warm, and filled with a fresh-baked yeasty flavor. It was served with cold pats of golden butter.
None of these foods stir a connoisseur’s palate, but as a kid certain menus caused me to look ahead with anticipation. A sloppy Joe was one of them. It was just a store-bought burger but filled with a savory ground beef, onions, and a sauce rich with spices. The bun was filled by the “lunch lady” with a scoop just before it was placed on my tray. Napkins and a bib was almost a necessity before sitting down to enjoy this staple.
The next two items that were served on a revolving menu weren’t very fancy but were always favorites with my classmates. The first was grilled cheese and tomato soup. To many it’s no big deal, but with many kids, me included, it was an oasis of hot food that filled our bellies in the middle of the day that were empty or could face a cold sandwich. The hot, greasy sandwich filled with gooey American cheese and the flavorful tomato soup seemed to make the day go much better.
The final food item wasn’t necessarily my favorite, but seemed to impress many of the other students was pizza. It was tasty and filling with its layers of baked dough, tangy tomato sauce, topped with a melted topping of Mozzarella cheese. It definitely a crowd pleaser, but it wasn’t my favorite.
It’s strange as I look back at my food covered selections; I have no impressions of the desserts the cooks shared. I do have a vague memory of cookies or cake but not of their flavors. Isn’t that strange?

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

 By the Light of the Silvery Moon

This was the first line of a song that was sung by Doris Day. My mom Sybil Miner Beck would sometimes sing a line or two as was her habit with any song. I don’t know if I am becoming overly sentimental or whether I am just noticing things more acutely, but the moonlight on the snow seems exceptionally beautiful. The shadows cast by a full moon makes silhouettes of bare tree branches. They somehow appear more hauntingly romantic in the moonlight. The dark specter of limbs on the silver-blue snow is more impressive than the same shadows drawn by the sun.
I like to see the bright moonlight tracing tree branches coated with snow or ice. Snow is given a glow with a bluish sheen and the icy crystals shine with a silver gleam that comes from somewhere deep inside of a clear cold shell.
This is one of the many winter’s scenes that will entice me to stop, take a second look, and possibly a third look happens when the brilliant sheen of the moonlight slides across a pond or lake to create a luminescent pathway. The moon’s rays form a straight road that points its shining fingers back at its creator, the moon.
One specific incident that captured my imagination occurred on a night as I drove along Route 130, near the little town of Unity, Pennsylvania. The moon was exceptionally bright. I was paying only slight attention to the beauty that lay all around me. I was concentrating on the road and the driving conditions when I was assaulted by an inspiring vision. It was so enchanting.
A small barn set back from the edge of the road at one end of a field. It was bathed in pearlescent light of the full moon. It glowed as though it had been formed from silver. Its rough board sides shone even more brightly than the smooth blue snow reflecting the moon’s soft glow that surrounded it. The snow covered roof and cupola were framed by the black velvety sky and the night’s white starred gems. The scene is still firmly lodged in my head, after all of these years. I am trying to share that vision with you, but I feel my words are woefully inadequate to express the awe and beauty that I experienced so many winter nights ago.

Severe Cabin Fever

 Severe Cabin Fever

The ssavage wind, the deep cold, and the massive snow dump has held me captive inside of my home for too many days. I’ve spent longer times alone, but I could go outside. The wind chill has driven me inside and I’ve had to look at the walls inside of my home for twenty-four hours of the day. The fact that darkness descends so early intensifies the isolation until it becomes almost unbearable. My cell phone has kept me connected to the outside world, but it wasn’t the person to person interaction that I needed. When I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, that is one reason I hated answering the phone and would much rather walk a few steps to talk with someone in person.

I was pleased to leave my house for Wednesday night prayer services even for a few hours and interact with real people. The church attendance was a little thin, but the time together worshipping was pleasant nonetheless. On my trip to and from, the wind nipped at my ears, but the earflaps on my hat cancelled the sting.

Thursday the cabin fever was still unabated. It still clung tightly to my brain and I drove to Mount Pleasant, Pennsylvania. My destination was questionable. It was to go Walmart. My desire to shop at Walmart shows how severely cabin fever had affected me.

Acttually it was great. On my way through the parking lot, I began to talk with other wayward winter adventurers. The ability to actually talk with another human being was thrilling. I shared one of my business cards with a man and woman. I also gave them a testimonial biblical tract of a friend who had survived a severe auto accident.

Inside as I negotiated the aisles and selected the items on my grocery list, I talked with several others. As usual I bumped into a few people I had worked with at the hospital and shared my business card and testimonial tracts with others. I had a wonderful time. I even offered to reach items for vertically challenged people.

Earlier I thought as I drove from my home to do my shopping, the snow lined roadways were reminiscent of the winters of my youth. The winters were marked by piles of snow pushed aside along the berms of the road and snow stacked high at the sides of driveways and parking lots. As a kid, I don’t remember the cold bothering me as much today’s frigid temperatures, but the sight of the snow lined roadways drew me back.

Busted

 Busted

My dad, Edson Carl Beck used to tease that if he had a million dollars, (That was when a million dollars really meant something) that he would buy a new butt. His had a hoe and a crack in it. It was a saying he would often spoof us kids with. I am late posting toddy. I am scatterbrained today. With the cold and snow I have been spending time outside keeping up with the snow and the wind. The cold is a little more intense than I like, but there isn’t much I can do except complain to the Global Warmer liars.

I will keep this post short, but not too sweet. Monday morning early I was carrying a load of dirty towels and washcloths to the basement to toss them in the washer. As I descended the stairs from the second floor, I fell about 3.5 feet to thee wooden floor when the wall I was leaning on ran out. There is no railing on that side. I thought I knew better, but just wasn’t thinking.

Well, I bounced my butt and lower back on the floor before the back of my head ricocheted off the floor too. That scared me because of the previous brain bleeds in 2015. Scary. I collected my self and did a self exam. All my parts were still attached, but I sat in my recliner to recuperate. I was able later to finish my wash, but more slowly.

I am still feeling the after effects from a stiff neck and soreness when I walk in an area between my sacrum and my coccyx. A spot I can do nothing about except enjoy my heating pad and ibuprophen. I’m a little late with my post. So sorry. Stay warm and safe.

Eggs-actly

 

Eggs-Actly

I’d like to share some stories that were brought to my recollection; all clustered around one word, eggs. The first is about a portrait of my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. It was a time when travelling photographers sold their talent door to door. I am glad that he stopped at my grandparent’s big farmhouse and cajoled my grandmother into sitting for a portrait. His pitch was that he would take the photograph and return with it in several weeks. Grandma could view it and if she wasn’t satisfied with it, she could refuse to buy it. As the story goes, grandma had no intention to buy it, but with a clean blouse and jacket with a small brooch. He departed after Gram’s photo was taken.

Several weeks later, the salesman returned with a tinted black and white portrait in an oval frame. It was a quality product with her youthful visage peering from the picture. Raven hair, dark eyes, and a subtle hint of a smile had been enhanced by the rosy tint on her cheeks and lips. When Gram said she didn’t have the money to buy it, the salesman continued his spiel by saying it was okay if she didn’t want to buy it, because he could sell it to a bar owner to hang for the bar’s patrons to view. Gram was appalled by the thought and managed to gather enough money from her egg and butter sales to pay for it. Because of this young man’s persistence and amusing lie, that portrait now hangs in my entryway, the one thing that I managed to get when Gram “Broke up housekeeping.”

The next egg story occurred and the Miner farm. The front porch on the large farmhouse was concrete and cinderblock half walls and pillars. There was the expected dark green painted swing, several Adirondack chairs, and porch boxes of flowers.  It was a great place to hide colored eggs at Easter time, a game that happened when several cousins gathered. Gram put a stop to the hide-and-seek game when she and Great-Aunt Rose sitting on the swing began to smell something rotten. One misplaced egg had fallen down inside the cinderblock pillar and forgotten.

The last story is about my brother Ken and a cousin (she will remain anonymous to avoid embarrassment) went into my Aunt Rachel’s chicken coop. They reappeared later looking like pieces of French toast. For some unexplained reason, they decided to raid several nests and toss their eggs at the ceiling. They were both covered in the scrambled drippings. My Aunt and my Mom were not happy.

Snow-filled Memories

 Snow-filled Memories

As I drove from my home just outside of the village of White, Pennsylvania to Indian Head, I began to recall the many times I’d driven the same twisting wooded lane that is called Poplar Run in the snow. No matter the time of year the drive is always beautiful. The snow hanging heavy on the bare branches of beech, oak, and maple, made lacey patterns that glistened in the sunlight or at night they sparkled in the headlights of my car. Mountain laurel still line the banks of Poplar Run. Their dark glossy leaves in vivid contrast with the white snow.
The most beautiful sight of all was the young pines rising on a steep slope with their feathery branches heavily laden with newly fallen snow. They seemed to spread their arms wide to collect as many of the flakes as they could hold and then wrap themselves in a thick white quilt. They’re much older now with fewer needles, but at one time in their prime they wore heavy dark green coats. That wondrous sight would suddenly pop into view when I made the sharp turn. It was as though a visual feast was spread out just for me. I knew it was there, but its beauty always appeared suddenly. It was the darkness of the branches gracefully sagging beneath the weight of the new-fallen snow. It was the surprise I enjoyed even as a child riding in the back seat of my parent’s Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s car. My views were often hampered by sharing the backseat with my brother Ken and sister Kathy, but it was always enjoyable.
Other roads that my dad drove gave me a different memory. I recall times when I had to press my face against the car window to look upward to see the bright blue sky over the top of the drifted and plowed high banks of snow.
Another snowy memory was of my dad. He hated to be late. His mantra was, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” One Sunday morning we tried three different routes to get to church during a snow storm. The roads were covered in snow and very slippery. As Dad pulled into the parking lot of the old white clapboard Clinton Church of God, the music was already playing for the first hymn. Dad said, “Get back into the car kids” and he drove us home. I’m sure that God wouldn’t have minded, but Dad was a stickler for being punctual.
This year snow has been coming in surges interspaced with softened warm interludes, but being jerked back into reality, we face an onslaught of heavy winds and snow this weekend. Stay safe.

Insulbrick

 Insulbrick

Insulbrick covered many of the homes in western Pennsylvania homes. Many of the raw-lumber constructed homes were built without insulation. Homeowners chose to use this tar impregnated fiber paper to seal cracks and to add a layer of insulation to their houses. The tarpaper was frequently coated with brown, gray, or the most favorite color red minerals. The minerals were applied in patterns of brick or cut stone. Insulbrick came in rolls like tar paper roofing and was nailed to the house.
I can remember the house that my mom Sybil Miner Beck and my dad Edson Carl Beck bought. It had thick brown Insulbrick paper covering it. The house was little more than a cottage with half of a basement. My father and his father Edson Thomas Beck slowly expanded it over the years to accommodate our families’ needs. Our neighbors’ house was covered in Insulbrick but in the gray cut-stone pattern.
Other buildings I can remember were the ones my grandfather Edson Thomas Beck helped to build. My grandfather’s home in Indian Head, Pennsylvania was covered in the brown Insulbrick, while my aunt and uncle, Estella and Melvin Strawderman’s house next door. It was covered in the red brick mineral paper.
The last two Insulbrick covered buildings I remember are churches. One was located just at the edge of the coal mining town of Melcroft, Pennsylvania. It was situated along Route 711 on the right driving from Indian Head. I can’t remember its name, but it was a two story Pentecostal church that had theater seats. It had fold down theater seats, because once it had been a theater. My grandfather preached there often.
The other Insulbrick clad building that I fondly remember. Mt. Hope was another Pentecostal church. It was one that my Grandfather Beck helped to build. It was covered in red Insulbrick tar paper. As a lay speaker, he preached many sermons there. The church was located along Route 31 driving from Jones Mills to Somerset. The building still stands near the summit, but is now covered in boards and was a pizza joint the last I knew.