Cats, Bats, Rats

The one-eyed ogre was none too pleased when his witch wife brought home another cat. He thought the house was already overrun with cats. The ogre had to watch when he stepped. The other day he had trod on a cat and his legs still hurt from the scratches. The cats were especially fond of his chair and he was tired of shooing them away and the cat hair made him sneeze.

“Just what we need, another cat.” He thundered.

“But look my darling,” she attempted to coo. Her voice sounded more like old hinges on a heavy door, screeching. “This cat reminds me of you.”

She held the cat in front of the ogre’s face for him to see. He could see why she thought it resembled him. It had only one eye, patches of scaly skin where there was no hair, and had ears that looked like horns. This upset him even more. No one likes to have their flaws pointed out in such an indelicate manner; not even an ogre.

He sighed, “Keep the cat, you old witch, if it makes you happy.” The ogre really loved the witch.

The witch stroked the cat where there was still fur and put the cat on the floor. She went over to the fireplace and stirred the caldron that hung over the fire. Tasting the broth, she murmured, “It’s missing something. I think it needs rat tails.”

Ogre said, “With all of your cats, I don’t think there is a rat left in the house.”

“Would you be a darling and check for me?” she cooed again.

Ogre was not too thrilled and making a trek through the house with cat landmines at every footstep. It was not what he had planned when he sat down.

Pushing himself from his chair, he began a shuffling gait to avoid the landmines. Down the stairs to the dark, dank cellar he trudged; carefully, because there were cats on the steps. He searched every corner and could only find thick cobwebs, spiders, and old bones. None of those were rats.

When he came back upstairs, he said, “Nothing in the cellar.”

“Could you check in the attic?” she pleaded.

Ogre sighed. The attic was three stories above him. He was tired. He had been out plundering all day and only wanted his chair. He turned and began the climb to the attic.

It was a long trip, lengthened because of the cats playing, running, and lying everywhere. Finally he came to the attic door, only to find it locked and the key was hanging in the kitchen. He could have broken the door with a swift punch from his powerful arms, but that would have meant he would have to repair it in the morning. Reluctantly, he went back to the kitchen for the key. He could have lied and said there were not rats, but he loved the old witch.

He shuffled down and back, avoiding all of the landmines. The key grated in the lock and the door squeaked open. Dust hovered in the air as he maneuvered through the accumulated clutter, searching in the corners and behind old boxes and trunks.

“Nothing. No rats. Only spiders and cobwebs.”

Then he saw something. Dark and rodent-like on the floor. He picked it up and headed back to show it to his witch wife. Carefully he locked the attic door and made his way through the maze of cats.

The witch heard him coming and asked, “Did you find a rat?”

“”No, but I found something that reminds me of you.” He held up the rodent-like creature for her to see. It was an old bat.

An Oasis in a Storm of Family

 

The family gatherings occurred when Granddad killed the chickens, butchered hogs or a bull. Christmas and Thanksgiving celebrations drew the family to crowd around tables, eating on counters, or sitting on the floor with plates balanced on laps.

The only room that was considered off limits for family functions was the sitting room or parlor. It was only used when special guests visited. The scratchy navy blue material on the sofa and chairs made sitting on them uncomfortable. The cushions were hard. At one gathering, some of us grandkids trespassed and had entered the sacred walls. We were giggling, laughing, and wrestling on the room sized carpet. One aunt heard the fracas and charged to the doorway, unsure whether to step into the sanctity of the room. Calling from the safety of the T. V. room, she said, “You kids know better. You’re not allowed in here. Now quit fighting.”

Slowly, we extricated ourselves from the pile, sorting our own arms and legs from the tangle. I’ll never forget my aunt’s expression when she saw my Granddad’s embarrassed and reddened face emerge from the bottom of the stack. My aunt was speechless. That was a miracle in itself, but the fact that we had been allowed in the parlor with the blessing of our granddad was nothing short of supernatural.

When the family gathered, it was hot, busy, and noisy. When I got tired of it all and wanted some peace and quiet, I stood at the door of the parlor and when I couldn’t see any prying eyes, I slipped inside. The couch angled back to create a cool, hiding place to escape the turmoil. My cave was found when I fell asleep and a search was made—my parents wanted to go home. I wasn’t reprimanded, but if I came up missing, I was found easily.

Another of my favorite spots at my grandma’s house was on the front porch. She had two green Adirondack chairs and a settee. That’s where Grandma would store the rolled up carpets she used to protect plants from the frost. When winter came the rugs were relegated to the settee. It was those rugs that drew me.

There were two tall hemlock trees in the yard. The siren song the wind sang as it  slid though the needles, it played a heady melody. Curled deep in a roll of carpet, I was snug and warm. It was a spot where I could escape the noise inside of the house. It became an oasis of darkness and lullabies for me, out of the cold winter’s night air, tucked safe in the carpet cocoon.

Pregnancy and the Poncho

My wife, Cindy, was pregnant with our first child. As all women, she blossomed. I know she felt fat and ugly because she would sidle up to me and say, “I’m fat and ugly.” (A hint?) I would tell her that she looked beautiful to me, as a pregnant woman should look to her husband. Cindy was carrying our baby, and that alone would have made her beautiful.

Her blossoming eventually began to evolve to look as though she was smuggling watermelons. She was always looking clothing that we could afford and that fit her reasonably well. Her hands and fingers began to swell. She had to remove her wedding band and engagement ring.

One day I saw that she was crying. I asked her why? She said, “Every time I go out, I feel that everyone is looking at me, pregnant and no wedding band. Then, being pregnant and not being married carried a stigma. I held her for a few minutes, then said, “Let’s go shopping.”

“Why? I just told you I didn’t want to be out in public like this.” She was about to start crying again.

“Let’s see if we can find a wedding band we can afford.” She smiled and we drove down off the mountain. I believe that we ended up in Fisher’s Big Wheel. We knew we didn’t have enough money to hit the real jewelry stores. She looked at several rings, before finding one that she liked. It was a gold band with a lacy engraving on it. She slipped it on her finger. She was satisfied with the fit, the look, and being pregnant. I believe that it is still in her jewelry box. The jewelry box is much like she left it, waiting for my kids to delve into it and divide the treasures inside.

She continued to blossom. It was long into the winter season. None of her coats still fit her to keep her warm. Her mother, Retha, made her a lined poncho. It was orange tweed-looking material held closed with loop-and-button type fasteners. Retha lined it with a lighter orange material. It kept her warm through the coldest weather. (I bought a eiderdown car coat. She wouldn’t wear it. She was too warm  when she had it on.

There were several photographs of Cindy wearing the orange cape. When she saw the photos afterward, she said that she reminded herself of a pumpkin. She never wore it again; after the birth from our daughter Amanda.

Futility? Creativity? Senility?

I can’t decide whether it is old age or because creative thoughts intrude on my normal life and day to day functioning, but it’s frustrating. I can’t tell whether it’s forgetfulness or whether my thoughts get lost in flights of fantasy.

It’s not so bad that I’ve forgotten my keys or where I’ve parked my car, but I do go into another room and stand there looking around, wondering why I came in and what I came looking for. I have pulled something out of a cupboard or the fridge and placed it on the counter, then not be able to find it. It was because I sat something else in front of it, over it, or moved it to another part of the kitchen. So far I haven’t put something in a cupboard when it belongs in the fridge or vice versa…yet. It makes me crazy when I wonder why I can’t find it. Usually it happens when I’m cooking and have to make a substitute. I get doubly upset when I put the supplies away and find it.

The same thing happens when I’m trying to build or repair something. I’m working and lay a tool to the side, then can’t find it.

My most recent aberrancy of my thought patterns happened with my medications. My doc started a statin drug for my elevated triglycerides. I picked it up the same day as I finished the blister pack of my blood pressure pills. I reached into the drawer where I kept my extra packs of pills. I started to take them.

Now comes the senile moment. I was going to start my statin drug, but I couldn’t find it. I looked upstairs, downstairs, and everywhere in between. I searched the garbage and every WalMart bag that we’d stashed. I came up empty.

Every couple of days, I made another search. I kept coming up empty.

One morning as I started to take out the pills out of their containers and I saw on the back of my “blood pressure pill” blister pack, I happened to glance down at the name of the medication on the pack. It was my statin drug. My statin drug was packaged in the same type sleeve, looked almost like the blood pressure pill: the same color, shape, and was just a bit smaller than the blood pressure drug.

I had been worried because I wasn’t taking my statin drug, but I found out I han’t been taking my blood pressure medication. I counted the empty blisters in the statin pack. There were fifteen holes. I hadn’t taken my blood pressure for fifteen days. I should have been worried that I didn’t have a stroke. I was thankful that my stupidity and misguided thought process hadn’t ended in tragedy.

I’m back schedule on my meds… for now.

Grandma's Kitchen and Family Gatherings

 

Grandma also had a coal cook stove in her kitchen. The kitchen was always warm and cozy in the winter and almost sweltering in the summer. The coal bucket with it small shovel, sat to one side. Four round lids fit into holes to form the flat cook top. Beneath that was the oven, its heavy door sealed the heat in for Grandma to bake bread, rolls, pies, and cookies. Beef, chickens, and turkeys roasted inside, coming out flavorful and juicy. Homemade noodles thick and delicious cooked on top of the stove.

Her kitchen always had a pan for scraps that would be fed to the chickens or hogs. Coffee grounds and egg shells were placed in another to enrich the garden soil. Washed plastic bags hung from a string as they dried before they were folded and stored for use later. Empty plastic, whipped topping bowls were saved to send leftovers home with family members.

In the winter, especially at family gatherings, Grandma’s front porch became an expansion of her refrigerator. Foodstuffs were cached there until they were needed for the meal and for storage of the leftovers. The edibles were placed in rows beside the milk delivery box.

Grandma had a small pink enamel ware kettle with a lid. It was the container that she usually made Jell-O in to gel. At one gathering, the pink kettle held orange Jell-o with sliced bananas dancing in the gelatinous ballroom.

One of my cousins mistakenly identified the kettle as a similar potty that she used at home in her toilet training. The little kettle was retrieved for the meal. When the lid was lifted, two tiny logs were floating on the surface. My grandmother said, “I am grateful that she went number two or we would never have known.”

The Behemoth in the Basement

 

Grandma’s house was warmed by a behemoth in the basement. It was a coal-fed, smoke-belching, fire-breathing furnace. It was a large cast iron beast that claimed a major portion of the cellar. It had two mouths of iron, one to feed it and one to remove its ashes. A tin skin surrounded it, trapping the warmth and directing the heat up through octopus-like arms that rose to the different rooms above.

I descended the stairs to the basement. The bottom landing was a huge flat stone that was three feet wide by four feet long. I knew my uncle Ted would be somewhere down here. My uncle Ted was mentally challenged because of an accident in his youth. He mowed lawns in the summer, tinkered with tube radios, and in the winter I would often find him perched on an old stool in front of the furnace beast.

He straddled an upturned log section that had a large anvil attached to its top. On one side he kept a metal dish pan and on the other side was a five gallon bucket filled with either hickory nuts or black walnuts. Using a ballpoint hammer he cracked the nuts from the bucket and tossed them into the pan. When the pan was full, he carried it upstairs to the T. V. room to join Grandma. She had a quilting frame set up so she could watch the television and sew.

She made quilts. She cut, pieced, and stitched the squares before she connected the squares into the top of the quilt. She would attach the multiple layers to the frame, pencil the design for the stitching on the top, and pushing the needle and thread through the batting and coming out through the bottom layer before repeating many thousands of time. She hand sewed one for each of her twenty-nine grandchildren. It was given to them as a wedding gift.

Ted sat in a chair at one side of the room where he would pick the nut meats from the shells, sorting the “goodies” from their hard cases. It was very tedious work. He had regular customers who bought his shelled nut meats for their Thanksgiving and Christmas baking.

When he reached the bottom of the bucket, he bagged the meats to store them until he could sell them and carried the empty shells downstairs to feed the fiery beast in the basement.

Once Upon…

My first recollections of the television and the programs were ones in black and white pictures. I had three channels to choose from. WJAC broadcasted their schedule from Johnstown and KDKA and WTAE broadcasted from Pittsburgh. The televisions in my youth had a small screen and hand controls. The controls were actual that had to be twisted to change channels, to turn it on or off, and to raise or lower the volume. The only way an adult had a remote control was to whack one of their kids on the back of the head and tell them what needed done; change the channel or turn the volume up or down.

The old televisions needed an antenna to pick up the signal; anything from rabbit ears that sat on top of the set to an aluminum aerial attached to a tall pole. There was no such thing as cable or satellite. My ingenious father thought of a good substitute. He used two of my mom’s metal pant-leg stretchers and carried them to the attic. Attaching the wires to the hangers from the television, he kept repositioning them until the television picked up the best picture. He nailed the hangers in place to the rafters and we had the choice of the airways.

The first television programs that I remember were; Howdy Doody with Buffalo Bob Smith as the host, Miss Frances of Ding Dong School, Felix the Cat and the Professor, Tom Terrific with his mighty wonder dog, Manfred, and a takeoff on the newspaper comics, Blondie.

I watched family centered television programs of Leave It to Beaver, The Life of Riley, Father Knows Best, and I Remember Mama.

The broadcasters also delivered variety shows like The Milton Berle Show and The Ed Sullivan Show. They were broadcast live and mistakes were part of the humor for the viewers, whether the errors were in a comedy skit or in the commercials. There were no do-overs.

Western television shows became an integral part of my Saturday morning fare. My heart beat faster when the outlaws showed themselves or one of the heroes was placed in danger. Annie Oakley or Sky King and Penny sported women as the heroines. The Lone Ranger carried silver bullets rode his horse, Silver and his side kick Tonto, on his painted pony, Scout. Gene Autry carried his guns and wore a neck scarf. The Cisco Kid and Pancho had humor interspaced with the tension. Wild Bill Hickock rode across the screen with his squeaky voiced companion, Jingles, kept me glued to the television set. Hopalong Cassidy wore his black outfit and rode a white horse, Topper. Death Valley Days, hosted by the old miner, had the Twenty Mule Team Borax as its sponsor. Roy Rogers on his horse, Trigger, rode the range with his wife, Dale Evans, and her horse, Buttermilk. They had a sidekick Pat Brady who drove his old jeep, Nellie Belle. I also enjoyed the longest running program Western was Gunsmoke with Mat Dillon, Miss. Kitty, Doc and gimpy gaited Chester.

I watched serial programs where animals were the stars or costars like Circus Boy, Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, Mr. Ed, and Francis the Talking Mule.

Comedy was another venue for entertainment starved kids. Kukla and Ollie were puppets on a show hosted by Fran Allison. Adventure Time was hosted by Paul Shannon, showing episodes of The Little Rascals and The Three Stooges. Paul Shannon also had the puppets of Rodney and Knish as co-hosts. Another puppet program was Sherri Lewis and Lamb Chop.

The Red Skelton Show was a one man show of comedy where he played Freddie the Freeloader, Junior the Rotten Widdle Boy, and Clem Kadiddlehopper, to name a few. The Honeymooners, a program that reflected the hard times of living in an apartment of Brooklyn, where Jackie Gleason as Ralph Kramden, was “married” to Audrey Meadows, as Alice. Their best friends were Art Carney, as Ed Norton and his “wife,” Joyce Randolph, as Trixie lived in an apartment above. The I Love Lucy Show was a show based on slap-stick comedy where Lucy and her best friend, Ethel Mertz, became involved in incredulously idiotic scenario after another.

Game shows were another genre. I’ve Got a Secret, Queen for a Day, You Bet Your Life, What’s My Line, and Truth or Consequences were just a few programs I watched.

Raymond Burr was Perry Mason, Broderick Crawford played a cop in The Highway Patrol, and Jack Webb and Harry Morgan were the stars of Dragnet, “Only the facts ma’am.”

The myriad of selections seemed endless and yet they were so much less than today’s choices. The television screens were small. It was necessary for me to crowd close to see the picture with any clarity. I claimed a spot directly in front of the set, often before the actual programming started and would be hypnotized by the test pattern, listening to the hum of the  audio, in anticipation of the beginning of broadcast day.

Southwest Pennsylvania

I’ve heard the Monongahela rush through wooded glade

And smelled the richness of your soil as it’s turned by spade.

I’ve walked your verdant valleys and climbed your gentle hills.

Been told tales of “revenuers” hunting for “shine” stills.

A few of your farmers still walk behind horse and plow.

I’ve seen tired miners trudge home with coal dust darkened brow.

Pennsylvania, your rivers were gateways to the west,

Your wilderness was haven for those who were oppressed.

Your mountains rise as monuments to all who were slain

In lands purchased with sacrifice of blood, sweat, and pain.

 

I’ve walked the Youghiogheny, fishing her small streams too

Awed as bright morning light sparkles on blankets of dew.

I’ve eaten buckwheat cakes in golden-brown steaming stacks

And walked in fields that were cleared of trees by sweat and axe.

I’ve been to Ohiopyle and rafted waters white,

Visiting Fallingwater and Kentuck; homes built by Wright.

Your lands are rich with history’s strong cultural mix.

Your life blood still flows in your rivers and “cricks.”

You’re a diverse land born of your people and places,

A heritage that’s etched in your son’s hearts and faces.

 

I’ve walked the land at “the Point” where three rivers meet,

A land where the French and English trod with marching feet.

Great beehive ovens were built to bake huge piles of coke.

Steel was forged in your factories amid flames and smoke.

Mountain laurel grows with pale blooms and dark leaves.

I’ve watched women working their looms, making rag rug weaves.

Your daughters and sons dared to live in wild frontier lands

Carving homes and farms from the wilderness with bare hands.

The harshness of their world was deeply etched on each face;

Hunting, clearing, planting, fighting: all to claim their space.

 

I’ve watched the Chestnut Ridge turn from green to red and gold

And toured festivals where steam belches from tractors old.

I’ve read the words your patriotic sons dared to speak.

They fought for their liberty and to protect the weak.

I’ve fished for trout in brooks fed by icy mountain springs

And been scared by Ruffed Grouse, exploding with thunderous wings.

 

Pennsylvania, your streams chuckle and your rivers roar

Still keeping your covered bridges and small country store.

Your trails have turned to highways, your ferries are bridges

Building roads over and through thick glacial ridges.

 

I’ve been to Highland Games celebrating the Scots’ past

and worked factories where huge valves were poured and cast.

Your part in underground railway, helped to free black slaves.

Walking on your lakeshores, I’ve heard the soft lapping waves.

Osprey fly over your lakes with fish clutched in its claw.

I’ve eaten sandwiches piled high with French fries and slaw.

Germans, Irish, Polish, and Scots came to live and die.

They came to build their homes and shops, to work, sell, and buy.

They raised their children, passed on old ways while making the new.

Western Pennsylvania, all your children salute you.

 

I’ve climbed the steep hill crowned by Jumonville cross.

Finding love in those hills to raise children and taste loss.

I’ve watched storm clouds gather, then erupt with lightning streak.

The touch of your pale winter’s sunshine warms my chilled cheek.

I’ve driven the Wilderness Trail from Cumberland Gap

Through steep rugged lands where brave men came to hunt and trap.

Rivers that formed the Ohio were the settlers’ roads,

Local built flatboats carried them and their household goods.

Your small homesteads grew, fed by river’s trading flow

to become towns, earning wealth from above and below.

 

I’ve toured the forts of Ligonier and Necessity

Walking the woods where Indian’s voice rang loud and free.

In history, we rebelled at paying whiskey’s tax.

I’ve been to festivals where linen thread’s spun from flax.

The Quakers and Amish chose to make this land their own

Hunters and trappers carried knives with handles of bone.

Your religious liberties drew folk from far and wide.

Boys became men in your wilds as their mettle was tried.

Conestoga wagons and carriages plied your trails.

Peddlers and freighters hauled supplies in bundles and bales.

 

I’ve ridden rides at Idlewild and Kennywood Park

And explored your caves and caverns gloomy and dark.

Some folk have used crossing rods, dousing to find water.

Jugs, crocks, and bowls were formed by the hands of a potter.

I’ve been awed by beautiful barns, bathed in moon’s soft glow.

And been inside of grist mills once powered by streams swift flow.

Pennsylvania, rich with history and things to do

From your museums to aquarium and zoo.

Hayrides and sleigh rides and riding the Duquesne incline;

Bakeries, breweries, markets, and places to dine.

 

Views from Mt. Washington, stunning when Pittsburgh’s lights shine

At Amish farms, bright hued quilts hang to dry on a line.

Your mines delved deep seeking your veins of coal and iron ore

And walked through groves of chestnut, oak, elm, and sycamore.

Your inns gave provided respite along your roads and pikes.

I’ve watched smithies shaping rods into nails and spikes.

Your lands shaped your people and they reshaped your land

With pick, axe, gun, shovel, or whatever was at hand.

Western Pennsylvania’s shared your bounties in the past.

Your mark in history’s journal’s wide ranging and vast.

Grandma Miner’s House

My grandmother Miner’s home was a huge old farmhouse with four bedrooms upstairs, an attic, a full basement, a large kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and a T. V, room. The attic held cast off clothing and the school work of her eight children. A concrete porch ran the whole front of the house and a wooden porch the entire length of the back. Kids like to play on the front porch, but the back porch often impaled bare feet on dark slivers of wood. I avoided it like the plague.

If I chose to walk on the back porch, I could shorten the walk to the outhouse, but I had to face the torture of dagger-like splinters. Only in the direst of digestive emergencies or to avoid being drowned in a deluge of rain would I voluntarily traverse the dangers of that shrapnel laden minefield.

Although the unpainted wood of the outhouse had weathered on the exterior of the privy, it was special, having two holes. When Granddad built it he made the seat wide, cutting one larger hole for adults and a smaller one for kids. He didn’t want to lose a child into the putrid pit below.

Grandma didn’t buy nor believe in the luxury of toilet paper for the outhouse. Oh, no, old outdated catalogues filled the purpose. The whole way to the toilet, I would pray that there were still some dull pages left. No one wanted the shiny ones. Those pages made sharp, hard edges when crinkled for use and if they weren’t crinkled, the smooth slick, surface was little more than useless. The dull surfaced pages would soften when they were balled up and smoothed out and became tolerable, if not comfortable.

In the winter, I would put off the trip to the john until my eyes and my bladder bulged or I was about to lose control on the puckering string. I could cross the back porch. My winter boots kept my feet safe from the splinters, but no I had to face the danger of descending a full dozen of snow and ice-covered, concrete stairs. Quite a few cousins chipped a tooth, cut a lip, or earned a goose egg on their scalp in a headlong rush down those stairs. There was only a raised block lip to the steps, but no railing to hang onto or steady anyone in their trip through no man’s land.

Bravery got me to the toilet. I had to remove the lid for the hole. Frigid winter winds blasted through the wind tunnel that I had just created. It took real courage for me to unfasten my pants, push them down into a crumpled heap around my ankles, then tentatively place my unwilling bare flesh as a partial stopper for the wailing gusts of the storm.

The board seat was frigid. I was glad that it was wood and not metal or I would have been frozen to the seat, stuck until the spring thaw. The wind always found a way to squeeze through the hole between the cold seat and my warm flesh. It discovered a way to slip its icy fingers beneath my coat and caress my chest and back. Goosebumps appeared on top of goose bumps and I would start to shiver. I knew I needed to finish before my teeth began to chatter and send out distress signals in Morse code.

I leafed through the diminished catalogue pages, searching for the cherished dull paper. I was at a point of panic, thinking of the torture of the shiny page. Frantically, desperately, I flipped the leaves of advertisement, passing over the tantalizing panty and brassiere. Pictures, that on a normal day would cause boys to linger, were cast aside in the search for just one dull sheet of paper.

Aha, I was saved; one lone, dull page. It was in the catalogue’s index directing the inquisitive mind to where men’s shoes, suits, and ties could be found. A hasty tearing, the quick crush, and the smoothing of the paper was the prelude to the actual swipe of the derriere.

The return of the pants to the point they could be cinched around my waist was welcome warmth. I was hoping that the return trip to the warmth of Grandma’s house would be uneventful as I jogged up the Everest of the back porch steps.

Going Along

Jim was a man who had been working as a hospital housekeeper. He had a thin scruffy beard and fly away hair. He bid into the central supply area of the hospital. Central supply had been wearing operating room scrub greens, but someone came up with the idea to color code by uniforms where you worked in the hospital. (Nurses ceil blue, ward clerks, yellow, nursing assistants burgundy etc.) The color for central supply was to be pink. (Central supply was all women at that time. That was their color choice.)

Jim started to orient to the central supply area. He had been there for several weeks when the new uniforms came for the other techs. No one had told him he would have to wear pink. He was a good sport and did like the work in central, so he ordered his scrubs and wore them as he worked.

Late one evening, just as visiting hours were ending, Jim boarded an elevator after an elderly woman went inside.

She pushed the button for the first floor. Her hand hovered over the buttons as she asked, “Where are you going?”

Jim saw that she had already pushed the button to the floor he wanted, so he said, “I’m going where you are, lady.”

Jim’s unkempt appearance, his pink attire, and his comment must have unnerved the old woman. She huddled in the front corner of the elevator. She apparently thought he was going to follow her home, because as soon as the door slid open, she almost ran from the elevator.

Jim said, “It was remarkable how fast that old woman moved.”

Worried that he was following her, she kept glancing back over her shoulder. In her haste to escape, she misjudged a hallway corner and bumped into it with her shoulder. She started to stumble and Jim took a few steps toward her to catch her if she should fall.

Her eyes widened in panic. She quickly regained her balance and speeding across the lobby,  disappeared into the night.

I Should Have Known

I drove into work one afternoon. The weather was beautiful and sunny. As I neared the hospital, my eyes were drawn toward the sky by movement in the air, There were three buzzards circling high overhead. I should have guessed that they were harbingers of bad news, but I didn't attach much importance until I actually reported for duty.
JACOH was inspecting the hospital. They are the agency responsible for evaluating how well hospitals are with maintaining standards and conforming to the health laws. In an unusual coincidence, there were three surveyors. I was fortunate enough to have missed the inspection part and didn't have to answer questions this time, but another inspection, the one inspector specifically asked to round with a nursing supervisor on rounds.
The "powers that be" gave me some information as to what to say and do. One of which was about issuing medications. After hours, the pharmacy was closed. Any medications that were needed came from a stocked area in the emergency room. I was told, if they asked, "We only issue emergency medications as supervisors.
Of course when they rounded with me, they asked to see the medication room. I was in a quandary. I knew that the log we had to keep on medications that we gave out reflected some non-emergent drugs.
When they asked, I said, "For the most part, all we issue are emergency drugs, but we do give out some medications that are preps for testing the next day and we do give out some pain medications. I don't think a patient should be in pain all night because someone wouldn't consider it an emergency drug."
The woman looked at me, smiled, and didn't ask another question. I was sure I'd have been caught in a lie if I would have stuck to the story that management had wanted me to tell. That log book would have proved me a liar and caused a more thorough review of the hospital's policy. (It was the hospital's policy for us to issue the medications that I shared with the inspector.)
The major reason that I didn't like the inspections was the JACOH people came to each facility with new inspection standards. Unless one hospital shared what they were looking for, it was a fairly even chance that the hospital would fail in many areas.

I have been rewriting a historic poem about the places and peoples from Southwest Pennsylvania.

 

Southwest Pennsylvania

I’ve heard the Monongahela rush through wooded glade

And smelled the richness of your soil as it’s turned by spade.

I’ve walked your verdant valleys and climbed your gentle hills.

Been told tales of “revenuers” hunting for “shine” stills.

A few of your farmers still walk behind horse and plow.

I’ve seen tired miners trudge home with coal dust darkened brow.

Pennsylvania, your rivers were gateways to the west,

Your wilderness was haven for those who were oppressed.

Your mountains rise as monuments to all who were slain

In lands purchased with sacrifice of blood, sweat, and pain. 

I’ve walked the Youghiogheny, fishing her small streams too

Awed as bright morning light sparkles on blankets of dew.

I’ve eaten buckwheat cakes in golden-brown steaming stacks

And walked in fields that were cleared of trees by sweat and axe.

I’ve been to Ohiopyle and rafted waters white,

Visiting Fallingwater and Kentuck; homes built by Wright.

Your lands are rich with history’s strong cultural mix.

Your life blood still flows in your rivers and “cricks.”

You’re a diverse land born of your people and places,

A heritage that’s etched in your son’s hearts and faces. 

I’ve walked the land at “the Point” where three rivers meet,

A land where the French and English trod with marching feet.

Great beehive ovens were built to bake huge piles of coke.

Steel was forged in your factories amid flames and smoke.

Mountain laurel grows with pale blooms and dark leaves.

I’ve watched women working their looms, making rag rug weaves.

Your daughters and sons dared to live in wild frontier lands

Carving homes and farms from the wilderness with bare hands.

The harshness of their world was deeply etched on each face;

Hunting, clearing, planting, fighting: all to claim their space. 

I’ve watched the Chestnut Ridge turn from green to red and gold

And toured festivals where steam belches from tractors old.

I’ve read the words your patriotic sons dared to speak.

They fought for their liberty and to protect the weak.

I’ve fished for trout in brooks fed by icy mountain springs

And been scared by Ruffed Grouse, exploding with thunderous wings.

Pennsylvania, your streams chuckle and your rivers roar

Still keeping your covered bridges and small country store.

Your trails have turned to highways, your ferries are bridges

Building roads over and through thick glacial ridges. 

I’ve been to Highland Games celebrating the Scots’ past

and worked factories where huge valves were poured and cast.

Your part in underground railway, helped to free black slaves.

Walking on your lakeshores, I’ve heard the soft lapping waves.

Osprey fly over your lakes with fish clutched in its claw.

I’ve eaten sandwiches piled high with French fries and slaw.

Germans, Irish, Polish, and Scots came to live and die.

They came to build their homes and shops, to work, sell, and buy.

They raised their children, passed on old ways while making the new.

Western Pennsylvania, all your children salute you.

 

I’ve climbed the steep hill crowned by Jumonville cross.

Finding love in those hills to raise children and taste loss.

I’ve watched storm clouds gather, then erupt with lightning streak.

The touch of your pale winter’s sunshine warms my chilled cheek.

I’ve driven the Wilderness Trail from Cumberland Gap

Through steep rugged lands where brave men came to hunt and trap.

Rivers that formed the Ohio were the settlers’ roads,

Local built flatboats carried them and their household goods.

Your small homesteads grew, fed by river’s trading flow

to become towns, earning wealth from above and below. 

I’ve toured the forts of Ligonier and Necessity

Walking the woods where Indian’s voice rang loud and free.

In history, we rebelled at paying whiskey’s tax.

I’ve been to festivals where linen thread’s spun from flax.

The Quakers and Amish chose to make this land their own

Hunters and trappers carried knives with handles of bone.

Your religious liberties drew folk from far and wide.

Boys became men in your wilds as their mettle was tried.

Conestoga wagons and carriages plied your trails.

Peddlers and freighters hauled supplies in bundles and bales.

 

I’ve ridden rides at Idlewild and Kennywood Park

And explored your caves and caverns gloomy and dark.

Some folk have used crossing rods, dousing to find water.

Jugs, crocks, and bowls were formed by the hands of a potter.

I’ve been awed by beautiful barns, bathed in moon’s soft glow.

And been inside of grist mills once powered by streams swift flow.

Pennsylvania, rich with history and things to do

From your museums to aquarium and zoo.

Hayrides and sleigh rides and riding the Duquesne incline;

Bakeries, breweries, markets, and places to dine.

 

Views from Mt. Washington, stunning when Pittsburgh’s lights shine

At Amish farms, bright hued quilts hang to dry on a line.

Your mines delved deep seeking your veins of coal and iron ore

And walked through groves of chestnut, oak, elm, and sycamore.

Your inns gave provided respite along your roads and pikes.

I’ve watched smithies shaping rods into nails and spikes.

Your lands shaped your people and they reshaped your land

With pick, axe, gun, shovel, or whatever was at hand.

Western Pennsylvania’s shared your bounties in the past.

Your mark in history’s journal’s wide ranging and vast.

Let me apologize to any readers who went to my blog and I hadn't added anything yesterday. My birthday is coming up this month and I needed to get things setup for Medicare and all of the supplements needed to survive the health care nightmare without losing all that I've worked for.
I spent the evening rewriting a short story, trying to lengthen it for submission.
My blood sugar dropped and I became weak which added to the confusion of the evening. It took some time to remedy that. I thought of the post several times, but never had the energy to do the deed and make the post. I am sorry for any disappointment to any of my readers.
The following poem I wrote was a prompt to if I would choose, what other date would you take as a birthday.

   

 

   What date would I choose if I had to choose another date for my birthday?

    It certainly wouldn’t be any date that would be near a holiday.

    It wouldn’t be January or February, those months are too cold.

    What month would I select that would feel correct to grow another year old?

    July and August would not, because they’re too hot, picnics and swimming is fine.

    April’s too rainy, May, kind of ungainly, those birthday months are not mine.

    October’s too scary. November’s, winter barely. They’re not for me.

    June is for weddings. December’s for sleddings and Christmas making merry.

    September’s in the running, but March is stunning. One I already own.

   That month has caused strife, losing my mother and wife, where have those years flown.

   March is good enough, though the weather’s still rough and can change in a second.

   What can I say, March is my birthday and of that month I have grown quite fond.

Halloween of My Childhood

 

I could tell of what Halloween was like when I was a child growing up. It was a more innocent time of life. Our costumes were usually very simple. Mom would tack colorful patches on the elbows and knees of our jeans and our long sleeve shirts. We became hobos or scarecrows. A straw hat and binder twine and we were dressed like a scarecrow. A battered hat and a stick with a pouched handkerchief tied at one end we became a hobo.

The girls would wear a fancy dress, a half mask, a foil crown, and a stick with a foil covered star on the end became a princess or a fairy.

Sometimes Mom would convert an old, white bed sheet by cutting out holes for eyes and a mouth, cinch it with a belt, and a kid would become a ghost.

A kid with imagination could use a few boxes, cover them in tin foil, and create a robot costume for himself.

A boy could wear a checked shirt, a pair of jeans, a folded neckerchief, a shiny cap gun, with a cowboy hat and he was ready to ride the range. A girl could wear a skirt, attach a fringe to a blouse, and wear a holster with a cap gun, and she was Dale Evans.

There were times a boy would be lucky enough to have his mom sew fringes on a tan long sleeve shirt, have his dad help him make a wooden, long barreled rifle, and then he would wear a coon skin cap to become Daniel Boone. Yes, the world was safer place then, where officials and teachers had common sense. Kids could take toy guns or use a finger as a weapon to school without being reprimanded.

A piece of red cloth could be worn with jeans and a light blue T shirt. A boy would make a large S and tape it to his chest. He would become Superman with the cloth draped over his backs as a cape.

If the red cloth that a mother had was felt, she would cut out horns and a forked tail. The child would put on a red shirt. He would make and carry a cardboard trident covered in aluminum foil, becoming a devil.

A kid could be wrapped in strips of white cloth, from head to toes and be transformed into a mummy.

I could explain the etiquette of my youth when it came time for us to go trick-or-treating. Our parents would take us to our relatives and close friends’ homes. We would carry a small lunch sack-type bag to collect our treats. Most of the time we would get a piece of fruit, a baked cookie, some pieces of taffy, Black Jack, small Tootsie Rolls, or maybe a few pieces of hard tack. It might be Bazooka bubble gum or fire balls. If we were really lucky and our prayers were answered, sometimes we would get a whole candy bar. It didn’t matter what brand it was, it was a candy bar. I was in Heaven if it happened to be a Snickers bar.

Unlike the kids who trick-or-treat today, we weren’t allowed to go from house to house throughout the neighborhood. We were only allowed to visit the places where we were known. We were required to stand still, silently. The homeowner was expected to guess who we were before unmasking.

After we made our parent limited rounds we would head home with our loot to sort through the treats. Sometimes I would trade goodies with my brother or sister. Sometimes I would eat the least of my favorites and save the ones I liked best or sometimes I would gobble up the good stuff first.