The Cream of the Crop

The Cream of the Crop

My Grandfather Raymond Miner Owned a small farm just outside of the village of Indian Head, Pennsylvania with my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. There they raised their eight children, two boys and six girls. On the farm he usually had two work horses and two milk cows. He raised two hogs, a bull or steer to butcher at the end of the year, and two flocks of chickens, one for eggs and one for meat. Granddad worked the farm during the day and would work in the coal mines at night to feed and clothe his family.

Like most small farms he owned a cream separator. After hand-milking the cows, he would pour the raw milk into the large stainless steel chamber on the top of the machine. Initially the machine was turned by a hand crank before he installed a small electric motor to its side. The motor would spin an internal bowl at thousands of revolutions per minute. The warm, filtered raw milk was poured into the center of the metal spinning bowl and the process would begin. Located inside the bowl was a stack of cone shaped discs where the discs would spin the liquid into thin layers that helped to separate the components of lighter cream and denser skim milk by centrifugal force. The heavier skim milk was forced outward against the outer wall while the lighter cream clustered near the middle. Separate internal channels directed the two liquids out of the machine through two distinct spouts which were collected in separate buckets for cooking, selling, or churning.

Besides the daily chore of cooking and cleaning Grandma would sort and sell the eggs, bake bread, pies, and cookies, and churn butter. She would look in catalogs, see clothing fashions then cut out patterns using her mind and newspapers to stitch in-style clothing for the girls. She would sew clothes for the family (except bib overalls for Granddad), weed the garden, cut and shape squares for her quilts. Very little went to waste. Scraps of food went into a vat to feed the hogs, old scraps of worn clothing became designs in her quilts, and empty tin cans, fruit crates, scraps of lumber often were changed into toys or Christmas decorations.

Fee Fie Fo Fum I Smell

 Fee Fie Fo Fum I Smell

Since my fall with my head injury in 2020, I have had a lingering after effect of phantom smells. The odors I would smell was hot plastic or car exhaust fumes. The hot plastic smells sent me through my house on a futile safari searching for the source. The exhaust fumes I Ignored because I recognized that were no engines running nearby.
Since then the smells have evolved. They have ranged from food cooking to cleaning supplies to odd smells that I don’t recognize. The odors will change from day to day and sometimes several times per day. Somedays it becomes an entire orchestra of aromas that assaults my senses. The shifting smells don’t allow my mind to adjust and ignore the varying smells.
The changing smells are just a slight inconvenience compared to the effects that could have happened with the two bleeds in my brain. So many bad things could have resulted from my fall. The two worst things that could have occurred would have been stroke-like symptoms or having actual seizures. Either one would have limited my ability to drive or my ability to walk. I am thankful that those things haven’t happened.
One other symptom from my fall is a lack of concentration at times. On occasion I can’t recall a word that I want to use and I have to pause and think of an alternative word. Names are the most difficult to resurrect when I meet someone. I am so embarrassed when I can’t recall their name. Sometimes I wander off topic and will almost interrupt the person speaking because I fear that I might forget what I want to say while listening to them. I don’t mean to be rude and I don’t think my ideas are better than the speaker, so I do get embarrassed at times.
Yesterday I was attacked by chlorine bleach smells and an aroma of cooking food. What opposites. Whatever was cooking smelled absolutely delicious, filling my house with spicy aromas and I have to cook for myself. What a disappointment. I’m never sure whether visitors are greeted with a stinky house or not.

Wearying Weekend

Wearying Weekend
It was another weekend when I had a blank Slate. I had nothing planned, then it expanded as quickly as a Mylar balloon being filled with helium at a dollar store…PSSST. Last weekend I volunteered to be docent at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. This has become a point of debate among our members. Right now there are only three members who regularly cover the need to be open on Saturdays and to put in time keeping the doors open for our workday of Wednesday. It becomes a bit stressful at times.
One duty of being docent is to answer phone inquiries. A local Christian school wanted to tour our facility with about 20 students after visiting the nearby Flax Scutching and their presentation of the old time art of harvesting and making linen thread from the flax plant. The flax was grown by our ancestors to gain those fibers. The fibers were used to weave linen material for clothing. After the flax is grown, it is beaten to separate the fibers, combed into strands then those fibers are wound through a spinning wheel to make the thread. These yearly presentations draw crowds. These kids were to get an early tour. They contacted CRHS and made ready for them Friday, I even bought apples as souvenirs.
Three members came so we could make small groups to show them around our facility. They were a “no show” and the Societies effort was in vain. They didn’t call to cancel and after waiting for over an hour, we closed shop and went home. While I was out, I got a haircut.
Back home, I’d barely settled down when another member called. She was working the Society’s booth at the flax pavilion on Saturday. It was another annual event for the Society. Due to a last minute invitation from the Scutching’s personnel it was a hurriedly put together coverage creating a display. She asked if I was going to relieve her and friend after her four hour shift. I couldn’t say no, she is 91 and her friend will be 102 this December.
I actually went in early because of their ages. I was unsure of how well they would tolerate their four hour shift. They tolerated the event quite well but seemed glad to see me. When my shift was over I carried the money box with money from selling our cookbooks and lock it up at our showroom.
Sunday was church and Sunday school. My son Andrew and his wife Renee Largent Beck stopped by for supper and to share items I’d gathered from a nearby thrift store. (A croquet set, horse shoes, and pegs, a blaze orange hunting suit, etc.)
Sunday evening was choir practice, learning the music for the Christmas program then Sunday evening services. I was quite busy this weekend when this week’s dance card seemed bare just a few days ago.

Going for Groceries

 Going for Groceries
When people mention grocery shopping to me in the Connellsville area, most of us older folk remember the old Pechin’s Market. It was located in Dunbar, Pennsylvania and the collection of rambling add-on buildings spanned generations and a small creek. It was a place where shoppers never knew where a certain product would be on display and the meat was fresh and reasonably priced. It was so reasonably priced that people often followed the meat cart on hands and knees as it emerged.
Usually two people shopped together as one grabbed the packages of meat, the other person caught the package as it flew through the air and placed it in the shopping cart where the person guarded it. Yes, I said guarded it as with many other products. If a person stepped away from their cart and someone saw something they needed, they would take it out and put it in their own cart instead of looking for it. The hubbub over the meat cart was similar to vultures picking clean the bones of some sort of animal, occurring many times before the meat supply reached the display cases. It was a place where it was necessary to shop in pairs. One had to be on the alert at all times riding shotgun on the cart to prevent others from removing things in your cart.
Pechin’s parking lot was just shy of a war zone. The potholes looked as if it was a battlefield with mortar holes holding hands. Cars parked wherever they thought they could squeeze in, often without rhyme or reason. Most often two rows allowed easier access and egress, but sometimes a third row started trapping some cars. It happened to me. It was summer. I didn’t want what I bought to thaw or spoil I paced at my car, while waiting and fuming. When the guy who had started the correct row came out and got in his car, I knew I could escape. I reached into one of my bags and shared a bottle of ketchup with the person who created the third row…on his windshield. I smiled and drove away.
I also wanted to talk about another market, the one that sat across the street from Guiermo Reyes’ barber shop and the Showboat Lounge in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. The store was called the Market Basket. My Mom Sybil Miner Beck and my Dad Carl Beck used to shop there when I was very young, I can hardly remember anything about in other than the outside of the building and the parking lot. I can’t remember going inside even once. It may have been that Mom shopped inside while Dad and I remained in the car.

Keys

 Keys
There was a time in history that a man’s home could be made secure with a peg above a door latch or by withdrawing a leather thong back inside of the cabin, but no longer. Slowly men created ever more ingenious ways with various contraptions. Securing the home for valuables was the main reason. As mankind became less of hunter-gatherers and settled down as farmers, they accumulated more things. They were less likely to travel and less likely to have their belongings light enough to transport. As houses, furniture, cooking areas, and bedding became stationary, they needed to be protected from marauding animals, weather, and other human beings.
People gathered more and more things in homes, barns, or storage areas that were of value or necessity and doors became important. Doors needed to be made secure more that a latch could afford. The latch slowly evolved into increasingly more integral inventions. Some created locks had a wooden key to turn the hidden tumblers. They were replaced by metal contrivances and used a metal key to open the lock.
I can remember growing up, the door to our house was locked and could be opened by a skeleton key. Even though we rarely locked our doors, it gave a false feeling of security. Why, because those keys were basically universal. Everyone in the neighborhood had the same key for their home’s door also. If you lost your key, I imagine that you could go next door and borrow theirs. But then again, we rarely locked our doors.
Locks evolved with each door needing separate keys. Can you remember having one key for the front door or the back of the house or the garage and one for the ignition and one for the glove-box of your car and trunk? Locking your keys inside happened only rarely.
Now keys have been replaced by key-fobs. The computer in the car tells the auto whether the key-fob is inside of the vehicle. The push button starter will not respond without the fob being present.
The doors of homes today can be accessed by your cell phone. The phone can be used to turn on or off lights. The phone can open the garage door. I imagine you could even program your phone to have a cup of coffee ready for you when you arrive at home.
I now have my own copy of the key to the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society building. As recording secretary, I needed access to the building and because I volunteer to be docent a key was necessary. I am to open the Society for a group of school students Friday for a private tour.

Choices Chances and Changes

 Choices Chances and Changes

Just thinking back over the seventy odd years of my life and recalling incidents when I’ve made choices, good or bad that have affected me greatly. Many of those choices have been small ones, but have made a great impact for me and my family. Some choices make a large impact on others around me and some choices that I’ve made I will never know how they might have changed a stranger’s life.

When I am out and away from home, I always try to present a happy image. I’ve said in the past, “If I’m in a bad mood, I don’t leave home. Nobody wants to deal with a grumpy old man.” There are times when I am not in a good mood and have a doctor’s appointment, car repairs, or meetings, so I psyche myself up to smile and be courteous. Why? Because I can recall times in my past where I have not been polite or allowed my sarcastic humor to sour a friendship or a relationship. It’s not pleasant to reflect on those things, but perhaps those reviews of myself have caused changes and improved me; at least I hope they have.

I’ll be driving to Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania for needed follow-op CT to be done. Since Frick Hospital was my old stomping grounds, that’s where I usually go for x-rays and blood draws at the outpatient department. If my testing requires fasting, I will stop for breakfast after the phlebotomists are done with me. I used to eat at the Frick coffee shop, but since the “mother ship” has taken over, remodeled, and removed the cooks, I choose to stop at the Valley Dairy. Breakfasts there are reasonable and good. The other day I had breakfast there I didn’t feel like cooking. I noticed two gentlemen having breakfast as well. I couldn’t help but overhear their conservative views and mentally agreed with what they said, although I didn’t speak to them.

They were there again yesterday after my blood draw. I ordered sausage gravy, biscuits, home fries, and a cup of tea. A serendipitous moment occurred when they left before me and paid my bill. The server had been confused that morning making extra steps for herself. I even loaned her my pen when I heard her mutter, “I don’t have a pen.” When I tried to pay my bill, she said the two strangers had already paid it. She told me that gentlemen often did it. The coincidence of it happening on the same day I was writing about small choices changing another’s outlook was almost miraculous. Thank you gentlemen, whoever you are 

Nothing But the Truth

 Nothing But the Truth

I’ve been reading a book of short autobiographies. One story that captured my attention was of the British entrepreneur Joseph Caplan. He struggled to make a fortune and through a series of unforeseen events, he lost it all. The beginnings of his trouble occurred when he hired a prominent political figure named Jeremy to sit on the board of directorship for one of his enterprises. Political enemies of Jeremy targeted him with the intent to bring him down. These men began a concerted attack by scandalizing Jeremy’s past. They turned his private life into a public disgrace. The press joined them, having a field day exposing Jeremy’s past indiscretions. The press soon included Joseph’s businesses and finally Joseph himself became “guilty” as well.

The attacks on Jeremy continued and the names of Joseph’s companies soon filled the tabloids. Joseph’s name was never mentioned of course, but his businesses were constantly front page news. The continual reports of “guilt by association” painted Joseph with the same brush as Jeremy. The scandal of Jeremy’s past whetted an all-consuming public appetite that caused Joseph’s enterprises to collapse.

Joseph’s myriad businesses were dissolved by liquidators and his assets were slowly sold for a fraction of their value to pay creditors and keep food on his table. The innuendos of the press blamed him for all of the losses. With only the view of the press, the public believed the stories. The legal inquiries that followed were prolonged and humiliating for Joseph and his family.

Reporters pressured Joseph for interviews. At first, he eagerly accepted their requests, naively believing he could clear his name by sharing facts of his innocence with them. He gave hundreds of interviews, but none were ever published. Instead of reporting with truthful stories, the press only wanted photographs of Joseph, his family, his home, and his car. It was the kind of things that the public enjoyed reading. Then when Joseph refused to give any more interviews, unscrupulous reporters created their own stories filled with innuendos, misrepresentations, and outright lies.

Much of what happened to Joseph Caplan in the 1970s, still continues today. Many of the present day reporters from newspapers, radio, and television are lacking in integrity. They’ve become mere commentators, regurgitating someone else’s thoughts. They mouth scripts of the parent company and try to foist those views on the public. Reporters no longer do their own research for facts, nor dig for the truth behind events. There is no honest presentation of their findings. The entirety of the media is no longer content to present the facts and allow the public to make their own decisions.