Joking Isn’t Always Funny

Betty was a licensed practical nurse. Over the years she worked in many areas of the hospital. One evening she was working on the step down unit. Patients who were placed there either came out of the critical care area still needing monitoring overnight or new admissions that needed low level monitoring were often placed there.

Betty was a bubbly woman who enjoyed joking with her patients and making them smile. One evening she her assignment included two older ladies in the same room. The lady in the first bed had been admitted to our hospital several times before and knew Betty. She began to tease the LPN as soon as she entered the room.

The other woman was a nun, but because she was in a hospital gown, Betty didn’t know she was a nun. More importantly the nun didn’t know Betty or Betty’s sense of humor. The nun had broken her leg and was wearing a cast. She was being monitored because of the syncopal episode that caused her fall.

Betty coaxed the nun out of bed and got her to dance while helping her to a bedside chair for the evening meal. The nun smiled and the woman in the other bed laughed. She knew her roommate that Betty was helping was a nun and started to joke with Betty.

The woman asked, “Betty how’s your husband?”

 “Oh, I killed him,” Betty replied flippantly.

The nun stared at Betty opening her eyes wide.

“Just like all the others.” Betty continued.

The nun’s eyes opened a bit wider. All the while the other patient was laughing. She knew Betty was teasing. By continuing to goad Betty, she was getting back at her for teasing at her other admissions.

“How many is that now?” the other woman asked.

“Let me see,” Betty paused like she was counting. “It’s three, now.”

The nun stirred uneasily.

“Did this one die like the others?” the woman in the first bed asked.

“Yes!” Betty acknowledged. “I killed him by having sex.”

The nun blanched. Betty finished what she was doing and left the room.

Later someone informed Betty the second patient was a nun. Betty was so embarrassed. She never had three husbands, nor did she kill anyone, but the nun probably slept with one eye open all night.

Betty said, “I wondered why the nun grabbed her rosary and was running it through her fingers so fast there was smoke coming from the beads.”

Endless Supply of Characters

            After thirty-five years of working as a nurse, I’ve obtained an endless supply of characters and plots for stories. I’ve written fiction about a retired homicide detective from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but none of his dealings come close to some of the memories that have accumulated over those years on the job. The thing that caused my thoughts to wander back to those some memories was a necktie.

            It was given to me by a fellow worker named Nancy who manned the switchboard. She was a buxomly blonde, pleasant and well-spoken. The switchboard was centrally located in an area that was nearly devoid of phones. It was much easier for me to answer calls from the switchboard than for me to hurry to another area to find a phone. I became friends with all of the operators, but this memory and the tie was from Nancy.

            When I entered the “communications room” one evening, I mentioned that the blouse that she was wearing was nice. It was black with splotches of colors in a deep yellow, a dark green and vivid violet. The darkness of it enhanced the blondeness of her coif. When I complimented the blouse, she replied, “This old thing. I hate it.”
            I said, “It looks very nice on you.”

            Again she snarled, “I’m going home and throw it away.”

            “Why? It’s a pretty blouse.”

            “”If you think it is so pretty, I’ll go home, wash it and you can give it to your wife,” she replied.

            I knew that I wasn’t going to get anywhere arguing, so I made the call and said as I departed, “I still think it’s a nice blouse,” and hurried away before she could respond.

            Because I interacted so much with the operators I always bought a small gift for them at Christmas, especially when I knew their likes. I can’t remember what I got Nancy that year, but later when I came into the switchboard, she scooted her chair back and pulled out a long thin box covered in bright wrapping paper and a large bow from a niche beside her.

            “”Here, this is for you,” she said. Her face was transformed by a sly smile. She watched, the smirk growing larger as she watched me unwrap it. It was a tie made out of the material of that old blouse. As a nursing supervisor, I wore a corresponding tie for most occasions. The patients, families, and staff seemed to like it and I still have nearly one hundred ties in my arsenal.

            When I wore it for the first time and Nancy saw it, she swore and said, “#%*#, it makes a nicer tie than that old blouse.”
            Nancy is dead now and I only pull that tie out once a year on New Year’s Eve. I wear it in memory of her and the story. I plan to wear it to church to celebrate the upcoming New Year. This is for you, Nancy.

Wonderful Whirlwind of Christmas

Where did the day go? Christmas has sped past. Crumpled wrapping paper, empty gift boxes, and left over food in the refrigerator and back porch are the remnants of Christmas 2018. All of my wrapping on Christmas Eve is a memory. But that is what the holidays with family are for.

Christmas day started out at my sister Kathy and her husband’s house for a family brunch. Their beautifully remodeled home belonged to my grandparents Anna and Edson Beck. Gathering there just seemed to carry on family traditions. Bacon, eggs, sweet rolls, cinnamon rolls, meat and cheese tray, pumpkin pie, and a cheese and potato dish were on the menu. When the meal was over, full stomachs and reminders of family stories were all that were left as we sat around the table and talked. Brunch over, I hurried home to get things in order for my children and grandchildren to visit and to eat a late meal after opening gifts.

The kids decided to limit gifts this year, doing a white elephant gift exchange. Grandpa me excluded himself from the exchange, choosing to provide some gifts for all to open. And there was of course the stocking of small surprises for the grandchildren, including a new Christmas ornament. When my children were young, my wife Cindy bought a pickle ornament to hide on the Christmas tree and the child who found it got an extra surprise gift. It wasn’t expensive, but extended the excitement of Christmas for just a bit longer. Celine, Moriah, and Hannah now have their own pickle ornament for their own tree.

After opening gifts, my living room looked like a battle zone with wrapping paper wads, empty gift boxes, and empty stockings. The wrapping paper “snowball” battle was limited this year when a large canon ball of a paper wad knocked over several of my stemmed votive cups.

My daughter-in-law escaped much of the festivities by not feeling well, maybe the beginning of the flu. Please pray for her. We ate our Christmas meal, still talking and sharing stories. Memories shared and memories made.

The house is quiet again and I have time to reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. After the hubbub of the day has died and the stillness of the empty house has returned I am reminded why we celebrate Christmas. It is the birth of God’s only begotten Son and the great gift of eternal life, reconciled from sin, redeemed by his blood, and adopted into his family as joint heirs.

Decorating the Christmas Tree

I can’t remember whether or not my mother Sybil Beck ever told me that she helped her mom, Rebecca Miner decorate the Christmas tree in their huge farm house in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. But my mom always allowed my sister Kathy, my brother Ken, and me to decorate our tree at home. Each of us children had one special ornament that was the culminating experience of our holiday excitement. Later, I’m sure Mom “allowed” us to put on the layer after layer of limp, metallic icicles, because the tedious work it involved. Draping those silver tinsel icicles was a long and arduous process. Sometimes when Mom wasn’t looking and we were near the end of the batch, we’d just toss them onto the tree in one swift move. That was okay as long as they didn’t end up in a ball.

My wife Cindy and I continued a similar tradition into our own home allowing our kids to help decorate the tree. The icicles were a thing of the past, but each and every Christmas Amanda, Andrew, and Anna got a new ornament to add to their collection. As they grew older, it was their responsibility to hang, later remove and store them safely at each Christmas holiday.

When our kids married and left the nest, they took their large stash of handmade and store bought ornaments with them to use for their first Christmas in their new homes. Sentimental, perhaps, but I liked to think that a part of their Christmas happiness from their old home was being transferred and established in their new home, making the transition to married life just a little bit easier.

Now, at home it’s just the cat Willow and me. She doesn’t do much to decorate, but will be induced to attack some wooly or fuzzy looking ornament if it is hung low enough on the tree. I have had to rescue a poor white yarn lamb several times this year. Otherwise, she is content to make a bed on the thick fuzzy tree skirting and nap. Lately, there is no need to rescue ornaments. By hanging a set mousetrap as the lowest ornament, a loud snap has cured her from attacking the tree.

Merry Christmas to all.

Homeless Isn’t Always Houseless

I’ve just done something utterly crazy to some people. I drove to Walmart for a few items and to get gasoline before everything closed for Christmas. I thought about going after the evening church service, but I thought that the stores would be packed and I didn’t feel like facing the crowd. Because I didn’t want to mingle with the last minute shoppers, I said to myself, “When you wake up in the middle of the night for the usual bathroom run, make the Walmart run as well,” and I did.

It was semi-snowing with icy pellets mixed in. After cleaning my car, I carefully drove to Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. In the center of the town, I was greeted by the nativity, its old figurines and “starry” lights welcomed me. The streets in town were clear and absent of the snow that covered the roads near my house.

The shoppers at Walmart were almost non-existent, employees made up the bulk of the faces that I saw. The drive to and from the store were reminiscent of the late evening drives after my shift at the hospital. As a nurse, being off duty during the holidays was an extreme luxury. The drive home at 11:30 Christmas Eve was a long and lonely trip, seeing so few other vehicles on the road and so many of the businesses closed.

As I drove, I was reminded of how things had changed. Back then I was driving home to be with my family. Now, I was driving to my house. Oh, the furniture and Christmas tree are the same, but my wife Cindy is no longer there to greet me and my family has left the nest. I still have a warm place to live, but much of the life has left too.

Don’t get me wrong. I am truly grateful to have a house and my family, but the ties that make a house a home have frayed. I am looking forward to Christmas Day, when my children and grandchildren come and visit, making it a home again, even for a short while.

Christ’s birth was a gift from God and a blessing to all. Merry Christmas.

Timeline Truths for the Birth of Jesus

After the predictions from the Old Testament about the forthcoming Messiah, the order of occurrences at the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem has been skewed by paintings, traditions, and hymns of the Christmas season. The first fulfilled sign was the appearance of the star. This special star was noted by astronomers and scientists of that era. The unusual and distinct divergence from the normal night sky intrigued the Magi enough to gather a caravan and follow it from the east. The wise men learned of it from old texts, because the star was predicted in Numbers 24:17. “I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab. And destroy all the children of Sheth.” They connected the dots and sought this King represented by the Sceptre. Readying themselves and making the journey would have taken about a year or more.

The next event would have been the annunciation and the miraculous impregnation of Mary. Luke 1:26-38. Joseph’s visitation of an angel in a dream came next. Matthew 1:18-25. Caesar Augustus decreed that all should go to their own city to be taxed. Luke 2:1-5. Joseph and Mary left Nazareth to Joseph’s hometown of Bethlehem.

It was pointed out to me that the image of Mary riding on a donkey and being nine months was almost as impossibility. Joseph being a carpenter would probably have had a cart to carry tools, lumber, and the items he made. He would have not have left his tools behind and they would need supplies for the ten day journey. Arriving in Bethlehem, they took the only shelter that was available in a stable.

About this time, the Magi would have gotten to Jerusalem seeking the newborn King. Matthew 2:1-9. While they were in audience with King Herod, angels appeared to shepherds. They hurried to find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. It was another prophecy fulfilled. 1 Samuel 2:34. While the Magi traveled from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph acquired lodging in a house where they were found by the Magi. Matthew 2:11. Most pictures and Crèches have the wise men at the stable. Tradition and the hymns also say there were three because of the gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but there were probably more people than this. The Magi were warned of God not to return to Herod and departed for home by another route.

This was all done before Jesus was eight days old, because he was taken to the Temple in Jerusalem to be circumcised. Luke 2 21-38. Then Joseph, being warned in a dream, departed to Egypt to reside with his family until Herod’s death and the danger of the decree to slay all children two years and under was gone. The two years was a time to coincide with the appearance of the star.

Christmas Remembrances

            While I was wrapping gifts in colorful Christmas paper, I suddenly had a yearning for some Kentucky Fried Chicken. I am not sure if it was an actual hunger or whether the memory of Christmastime with my grandparents Edson and Anna Beck. They were in their mid-eighties by this time and what to get them for the holiday became a problem for my wife Cindy and me. Mom told me that when she helped Grandma clean their bedrooms, they still had clothing wrapped in their cellophane just as they came from the stores. They were stacked neatly in their dresser drawers.

            They’d reached the age when Grandma didn’t decorate the house for Christmas any longer. Gift buying for them became more and more difficult, until I learned they liked Col. Sanders’ secret recipe. After that, it was easy. I would go the Connellsville, Pennsylvania restaurant and buy a bucket of chicken with all of the fixings about a week before Christmas. Kentucky Fried chicken was a gift that they enjoyed and that they used. Because they ate so little, they were able to dine on it for entire week. At least, we never found any chicken tucked away in cellophane in their drawers.

            My wife and I also began to buy a Christmas tree for them. Not one of the large ones, but the ones that were about fourteen inches high. They were sold with a few decorative bulbs already on it. That would be their Christmas display. Granddad would water it and keep it in the basement after the holiday and when spring arrived, he would plant it in their back yard.

            My brother-in-law Doug Basinger and my sister Kathy bought my grandparents house and has remodeled it. The house looks wonderful. Doug occasionally complains about the pines in the back yard. There must be ten of them that have grown quite large and overshadow his garden.

            In another posting, I may share later is about the Nativity set I bought for them. Grandma kept it up all year and claimed the coveted spot on top of their T.V. I now have it and show it off each Christmas.

An Elastic Christmas Tradition

One incident in my married life turned into a Christmas tradition. It happened early in our marriage to Cindy Morrison Beck. As with most young couples who are first starting out finding a place to live and stretching the pay check to cover all of our bills caused us to be penny pinchers. We made do with many items that were nearing the end of their expected useful life. Leftovers were a normal meal fare. Generic black and white cans of food sometimes found their way into our pantry and clothing that had seen better days were worn at home.

One day as I sat in my recliner in the living room of our second hand mobile home, Cindy walked by me, wearing only her underwear and brassiere. She was headed towards the kitchen and I noticed that the cloth part of her cotton panties was partially separated from the elastic waist band in several places. It made her look as though she was wearing an empty gun holster on her hip.

I said, “I think you need to buy some new underwear.”

She replied, “They’re still okay. I can still wear them for a little while longer.”

Returning to the bedroom, I noticed the other side was loose, sagging and flapping in the breeze as well. If anything, the pouch on that side could have held a larger caliber pistol and I said, “Surely we can afford new gutchies for you.”

“They’re perfectly fine for me to wear around the house. Only you and I can see them.”

A few minutes later as she returned still clad in the same drawers. I reached out, poked my fingers into the breaches of her britches, and tugged hard. The connecting thread unraveled fastening the elastic to the rest of the underwear pulled loose and much of the cotton brief hung down.

Those undies were history. There was no way she could ever wear them again. Because Cindy hated to mend things, it would take something just short of a miracle for them to ever be wearable again. She disliked mending so much, that she “repaired” some of her clothing with safety pins. For some reason, she liked to sew new clothing, but not mending.

With the ruined bloomers barely more than the elastic encircling band her waist, she grabbed the remaining material up and called over her shoulder as she left to change, “Now you’ll have to buy me new underwear.”

And I did. Every year for Christmas…Cindy got new underwear. It was tradition.

Butter Me Up

As I was making my breakfast the other morning, I was reminded of several of my relatives and how they used to apply butter to their bread or toast. My first recollection is of my home and how the stick of oleo rested on a saucer that my mom, Sybil would extract from the refrigerator and place in the middle of the table. Rock hard, we would have to scrape the butter knife along its top, shaving off a thin curl of the nearly unyielding margarine to make it somewhat spreadable. Yet it always remained solid enough to tear holes in your bread. If we had toast, we could let the heat of toast soften the curl before spreading.

The second person I remembered was my mother-in-law, Retha Morrison. When she visited and I made breakfast, she wanted her have toast lightly buttered. She always asked me to apply the butter to it, only wanting a very light skim of the butter to the surface. If we ate at a restaurant, she didn’t trust the staff and asked for dry toast and butter to spread her own.

Just the opposite was my grandfather, Raymond Miner. A farmer by day and a coal miner at night, he and my grandmother Rebecca churned their own butter. Granddad would milk the cows and save the cream for Grandma to pour it into her old wooden churn. The churn had paddles on the inside and a crank handle on the outside. The splashing of the cream was eventually replaced with mounds of pale yellow butter. Packed into a rectangular wooden mold, Gram would wrap the butter in waxed paper to sell or for her family to use. Granddad loved butter and most often spread a layer of it nearly an eighth of inch thick across the entire slice of Gram’s homemade bread before he started to enjoy whatever food Gram made.

Another spreadable memory of mine is of my uncle Theodore “Ted” Miner. He was meticulous almost to the point of being a fanatic when applying anything spreadable to his bread. It didn’t matter whether it was butter or Miracle Whip or whether it was jelly or anything spreadable, it had to cover the entire top of the bread from crust edge to crust edge. I’ve made myself hungry. I think I’ll go and make breakfast.

Christmas Traditions

There was a time quite a few years ago when my house was filled with the scent of pine and many other savory aromas as the Christmas holiday drew nearer. Now I have an artificial tree that looks great, but alas the smell of the great outdoors is no longer present. The tradition of bringing a live tree into my house passed away at the same time my uncle Theodore Miner passed away. He and I would go roaming through a natural growing pine covered forest near my grandparent Miner’s farm to cut a tree for my grandmother and one for my family.

Finding a perfect tree for each of us was a real chore. These pines grew wild and were only shaped by the winds and whims of nature. Armed only with a small saw, Ted and I searched through the wooded area for likely candidates often finding one that was too small or one that had flat or large bare spots. Many were eventually rejected and we walked on. My grandmother lived in an old farmhouse with twelve foot tall ceilings, so Ted had more leeway than I did choosing a tree.

My wife Cindy was very choosey with ours. The Christmas tree had to be full at the bottom and the star would have to brush the ceiling of our mobile home as it perched on the top. This created a problem for me. When I wandered among the trees of the grove, sometimes my judgment was off and I would have to lop off some of the tree I chose when I got home. One time to get the height I needed, I chose a very bushy tree. The height was right on, but the bottom branches spread out and filled half the width of our mobile home. We had to be careful where we walked not to brush against it and knock off the ornaments.

Today an artificial tree has replaced it. The ornaments we bought for our children over the years are now in their homes on their trees, although my tree is far from bare. With white lights, garland, and ornaments collected over the years, I can barely see the green of the needles.

The tradition that’s now replaced eating the Christmas meal at my parent’s house is the gathering at my sister Kathy Basinger and her husband Doug’s home for Christmas brunch. Their beautiful home was the house of our Grandparent’s Beck. Gathering there seems like the tradition is still being carried on. I’m wishing a very Merry Christmas to all of my readers, friends, and family.

O Christmas Tree

As I undertook the Herculean task of decorating my artificial Christmas tree this year, my memory was stirred with many of the ornaments. Although most of the ornaments my wife Cindy and I bought for our children over the years were given to them when they started their own homes, there are still some that were made for us. Cotton ball sheep or snowmen, Popsicle stick scrolls, and felt lions all have claimed spots on the tree. The star is one my sister found for me that is the same as the one that lit my parents Carl and Sybil’s tree. It has 5 points, made of frosted plastic, and has red edging.

The one bulb that I claimed from my parent’s stash came up missing several years back and my sister was able to locate the same bulb. It was gold and sort of mushroom shaped, but because it was so unusual, it always caught my eye.

There are a few owl ornaments from my mother-in-law, Retha Morrison. My wife Cindy didn’t like mice, so of course there are several of those hanging on the tree. A peach pit carved to look like a basket is the remembrance of my father-in-law, Bud Morrison’s skill. I have been given almost 6 animals with stethoscopes or dressed as nurses. A tiny dove sits on a plastic ice cube. Several penguins, a couple of Snoopys, and a small bottle of hot sauce dangle from different branches. Two canoes, a tour boat, dozens of jingle bells, and crystal and Lucite icicles hang from the branch tips.  A colorful Cloisonné ball and 2 heavy Cloisonné bells claim thicker branches closer to the center of the tree. Bead, metal, and natural fiber wreaths with either pipe cleaner or ribbon bows find niches on the branches. Handmade wooden hearts trimmed in lace and ribbon. A half of a walnut shell cradles a swaddles bead baby and is nestled behind icy white garland. A menagerie of cartoon animals, carousel animals, and birds has found a perch in needled nests. Small stockings of felt and crocheted yarn, snowflakes of metal, beads, and tatted lace help to fill the bare spots. A small ceramic mug with Cindy’s name hangs beside an angel stenciled with my name. Stars, hearts, and crosses of crystal, a wooden chair stacked with books, and oh yes, even a commode all have become heirloom ornaments.

Some trees have a certain color or a type of ornament theme. I guess mine does too. It’s become a tree of precious family memories.

Memories of Butchering on the Farm

Sometime between Thanksgiving and New Years Day, aunts, uncles, and cousins would gather at my grandfather Raymond and Grandmother Rebecca’s farm to complete the annual task of butchering 2 hogs and a bull. The decision to butcher depended on the weather. It was the food my grandparents needed for the winter months. Everyone that was old enough had a job to do to complete the tasks at hand. As with most old time farmers, very little went to waste. Sausage and hamburger were made from the bits of meat and fat cut and scraped from the animal’s bones. Later, as I grew older, I helped with this process with one of my uncles.

At one time, before they had a freezer, the meat was canned and stored in a section of their dark, cobwebbed basement on homemade, rough sawn board shelves. It was a dingy area that had a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling from a wire. The jars of beef had metal canning lids while the pork sausage has a thick layer of fatty grease to seal the jars.

When I was very young, I tore off strips of adhesive tape for my mom Sybil to fasten the freezer paper after it was folded around steaks of beef or pork. Instead of using the serrated edge of the freezer paper box, she used a butcher knife to slice through the thick white paper with the aplomb of a Samurai Warrior with the blade flashing in the light. After she’d cut a stack of papers, she’d use a long handled fork to arrange the meat, then fold the paper to make an enveloping package with the skill of an skilled Origami master. My job was to tear adhesive tape into length and place them on the edge of my grandma’s white and red granite topped kitchen table ready for my mom when she reached for a piece.

As I readied some meat for the freezer yesterday, I tore the tape into useable strips as I sealed the venison into the folded freezer paper envelopes. The feel of the adhesive transported me back to that time sixty plus years ago. I could remember how sore my young fingers became as the tape tugged at my tender fingers, but the important thing is that I have those memories. My hands are now roughened and calloused, but those recollections still remain fresh and tender.

Bah, Humbug A fictional story I wrote because my daughter made a Grinch decoration for my door.

We just happened to live next door to the meanest man in town. He’d never put up a single colored light or Christmas decoration, ever. He’d call the cops if carolers came onto his property and he’d threaten me if one of my toys ended up in his yard.

His house was neat and clean, but it was stark and bare. He was older and rarely came outside other than to cut the grass or shovel snow off his walkway. He didn’t plant flowers or erect bird houses. Most people avoided him and his yard. Even the postman’s visits were infrequent. It was as though his home was a black hole for happiness.

He chased girl scouts off with a broom when they tried to ply their cookies. My mom tried to be a good neighbor by occasionally taking baked goods to him, but soon quit when he didn’t return the plates and she had to buy new dishes.

Everyone began to call him the Grinch. One night, someone sneaked onto his lawn and leaned a sign against the side of the porch that read “The Grinch lives here.” The porch was high enough that he couldn’t  see it from inside and because the Grinch rarely came outside, the sign stayed. He had no idea that the whole town was smiling at his expense.

At the beginning of December, when colored lights began to appear on other homes in the neighborhood, the Grinch’s house remained unadorned except for the sign.

One day a stray wandered onto his porch. The dog refused to leave even though the Grinch would douse it with water or swing a broom at it. Each morning the dog would be curled at his front door and each morning the dog would run partway down the walk and stop. The dog would turn, wag its tail, and cock its head to the side to stare at the man on the porch. Eventually the Grinch would grow tired and go back inside. The dog would disappear, only to return at night and curl up at the Grinch’s door.

After several days things began to change… slightly. Oh, the Grinch would come out and chase the dog. The dog would go to the bottom of the steps before it would loll its tongue and wag its tail. The Grinch would stand a bit longer to talk to the dog.

Soon the Grinch began to sit on the top step of the porch and talk to the dog. From his seat, there was no way he would have missed seeing the sign, but the sign stayed.

One day, I heard the Grinch in his shed sawing, sanding, and hammering. Then it was quiet.

I was outside playing when I saw the Grinch leave his house and saw him return with a can of paint and some supplies in a bag from the local hardware store. He again disappeared into his shed. I went back inside my house to get warm and didn’t see when he came out.

In the morning the old man stepped onto his porch and tossed the dog something. The dog caught it, lay down, and began to gnaw. It was a bone. The Grinch walked to his shed and I watched as he erected a spotlight in his front yard, running an electric cord into his basement. He had the whole town talking. The question on everyone’s mind, “What was going on?”

At dusk, he carried a large object out of his shed and placed it beside the Grinch sign. When he turned on the spotlight and I could see he’d made a wooden six foot high Grinch to stand by the sign. It was his turn to laugh surprising the town people surprised by turning their joke into his.

Striking a Pose

Some of our hospital employees belonged to a union. They made the unfortunate choice of signing their first contract near the end of September. The incident I’m about to describe happened when their contract came up for renegotiation. A new deal hadn’t been reached as the contract time ran out. Some of the more radical members were complaining because they’d not reached a settlement and were talking strike.

The hospital hadn’t conceded certain details of the union’s proposals in the contract. It was nearing the middle of November and the more militant members were almost frothing at the mouth. Negotiations were not moving. The rank and file members were not yet willing to strike.

It bothered me to see these more avid union workers berate others, trying to intimidate them, so I started to talk with the more realistic workers. I didn’t pressure them, but just asked questions, “You know it’s almost Thanksgiving? Who’s going to buy your turkey for Thanksgiving if you go on strike? Is the union going to provide food for you and your family?”

I’d also go from another angle asking, “It’s getting cold. Do you want to walk the picket line in the snow? Do you want to huddle around a fire in a barrel to try to keep warm?”

As the negotiations dragged on, there were still some pushing for the strike “to show management our strength.” It was now the beginning of December. I was still continuing to talk with members who were my friends.

When I would hear a few people talking about “the lack of a contract,” I’d say, “You still have a contract. You’re still working under the old one. You’re not losing a thing, but if you strike, you won’t get paid.” Again, I asked questions, “Who was going to buy your Christmas gifts? Who’ll buy food for your Christmas meals? Is the union going to bake your cookies or buy your gifts?

“I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to freeze my hands and feet on a picket line. Have you ever tried to keep warm over a barrel fire? Wouldn’t it be good to work where it’s warm and earn money until the new contract is resolved?”

The more rational voices and minds prevailed. Everyone stayed warm and they were able to buy the needed things for Christmas. The new contract was signed in the spring.

In the Red

During my kids and grandkids’ post Thanksgiving game night, I brought out a two liter bottle of Cherokee Red soda pop that I purchased earlier. It was a joke because it reminded me of a story about my children visiting their Uncle Kevin and Aunt Beverly Crider Morrison. My wife Cindy and I had an appointment somewhere and Beverly volunteered to take care of them while we were gone. It may have been just our daughter Amanda, but our son Andrew may have been born by then. Cindy and I were grateful for Beverly’s generous offer…that is until we got the kids home and they were so wound up.

We had a difficult time getting them to bed. When we thought we had them settled, eyes would pop open and sleep was the farthest thing from their minds. Finally, they wore themselves and us out. Cindy called Beverly and asked what she had fed them. She had Cherokee Red as a treat for them. Apparently the red food dye was a problem for them and caused hyperactivity.

We tried to avoid red food dye in their diet from then on.

On game night, we all had a good chuckle and some of the kids or grandkids drank some. The remainder was shelved in my refrigerator.

My blood sugars have been hovering around 150 to 170 and I was determined to get it down closer to 100. At 100 or below, I have symptoms and don’t tolerate it well. I was tired and thought I’d take a shower and as my dad used to say, “Get the stink blown off me.” Last evening after a day of light eating, stomach cramps, and diarrhea, I climbed into the shower. The hot water felt wonderful. Nice and toasty warm, I toweled off and suddenly felt weak. I was off balance and dizzy. The pit of my stomach felt like it collapsed on itself. I had those symptoms before and hurried to my office to take my blood sugar. It was 63. Usually I keep some kind of candy upstairs, but not tonight. I hustled down stairs, thinking all the way what could I use to get my sugar back up? I went to the sugar container and tossed some under my tongue as a quick fix. Knowing that I needed more to maintain my sugar level, I grabbed the chocolate milk and there beside it was my old friend, Cherokee Red.

A few swallows of each, a quick rest on the recliner and I was feeling much better. Recheck on my blood sugar was 181. Higher than I really wanted, but it was much better than the dizzy sick feeling.

Characters

As a naval corpsman I met quite a few characters. Some of them were patients and some of them were fellow staff members. Some things I share are just stories from patients past lives.

The following tale involves all three. A retired veteran was in and out of the hospital for problems from his diabetes. We had heard him say that as a young soldier he had ridden with Pancho Via at the request of the United States government to harass the Mexican officials. Later, when Texas broke free from Mexico, he rode against Pancho Via to protect the independent and sovereign state of Texas until it was annexed to the United States of America. He also protected the towns, farms, and ranches in Texas from other marauding desperados. He told us these stories while he was a patient.

His diabetes had crippled him. He had lost one leg to gangrene and finally the second one was due to be removed because of a lack of circulation. His first re-admission after losing his second leg was an embarrassing moment for my roommate and yet it was humorous at the same time.

As a health care worker, you develop a routine when admitting a new patient, asking the same questions in much the same order. This was what happened when my roommate Eric asked the old veteran what was his birth date, whether or not he had any allergies? Eric eventually asked, “How much do you weigh?”

The old man replied, “I weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds when I still had one leg.”

Eric automatically asked the next question. Can you guess what it was?

“How tall are you?” Eric said and as soon as the question escaped his lips, he recognized the question for what it was. Immediately, he understood his blunder. He was flustered and said, “Never mind” and went asking the rest of the admission questions.

Although the old man was very sick, he would smile and relish sharing with visitors and other staff members about Eric’s mistake and embarrassment.

Thanksgiving 2018 Tucked Away

As usual, I did the turkey for the annual gathering at my sister’s home of the Thanksgiving feast. I baked two pies as well, my usual pecan pie and I also made a peanut pie prepared like the pecan pie, but I added chocolate bits. It had a fairly good taste, but the peanuts lost some of their crispness. Since our dad Carl’s death, my brother Ken took over the job of making homemade, mashed potatoes. My sis Kathy made baked rolls and lasagna for the non-turkey imbibers. Everyone else brought salads, desserts, and side dishes. The vast array of food covered counter tops and a kitchen table. The eating actually was done buffet style and dining hall fashion with long tables that spanned her dining room and living room.

Still at home, while my turkey was finishing its sentence in the roaster, I had the privilege of cleaning the kitty litter. This chore made me thankful that my childhood wish of owning an elephant had never come true. And yes, I washed my hands before I handled any food.

After the meal at my sister’s home in Indian Head, Pennsylvania, I returned home with a plan to fully strip the carcass of the bird of its hidden bits of meat and make soup. I relaxed, watched T.V. and I cut up the vegetables, dumping them into the broth from the roaster. The pot is sitting on my back porch awaiting the cooking process tomorrow.

Being the masochist that I am, I decided to defrost my basement, upright freezer. I know that deer hunting season is just around the corner and needed room if… and when I bagged some venison. There would be soup to freeze if no one came to share the pot of soup with me at the holiday game night.

As I settled into bed last night, I began to count my blessings. What I have to be most thankful about is that my entire family is close by in the state of Pennsylvania. I have a warm home and friends that surround me. So many blessings that I cause me to be thankful for each day, I’m also thankful that my niece’s daughter Alyssa got engaged too. It’s all so wonderful.

I Want to Be Alone

When I was a nursing supervisor, I more often than not carried my lunch to work. With my hectic work schedule, the unexpected often happened and I was never sure when I would be able to eat or if I would be able to eat my food in one sitting. Because of multiple times trying to eat, I found that “Tater Tots” were nearly inedible after the third time they were “nuked” in the microwave.

Most often I would try to eat and do my paperwork at the same time. It was easier to complete eating my meal, doing my work, and having some quiet time in my disjointed schedule. One evening I was distracted as I carried my food to the microwave. I smelled onion cooking and I hurried to see what I was actually heating. My meal had no onions, but my salad was packed in the same type Tupperware container. I’d just made a “wilted salad.” I do have to say, that the limp warm lettuce wasn’t very appetizing.

The solitude of my office was a welcome retreat on a busy, sometimes frantic night. There were occasions that I was enticed to eat in the cafeteria when one of my favorites was being served. I liked to be able to chat with fellow workers and relax. But more often than not, I would have to get up and answer at least one page or a telephone call during that time.

The hospital provided a free meal on Thanksgiving and on Christmas for people who were on duty. The management came in to serve the food to the men and women who were on duty. I know it’s Thanksgiving, but the tale I’m going to share was for a Christmas meal. A newly-selected, higher echelon nursing manager was seriously gung-ho in her actions. She was there smiling, circulating, and not actually serving the food. I went through the serving line selecting my meal. Christmas music was playing in the background and I chose to sit in a quiet corner. When what to my wandering eyes occurred; yes, she came over and sat with me. If she had wanted to chat about things in general…but she began to “talk shop.” That was the least thing I wanted to do, but her attitude couldn’t let go of business, even for one evening. I was so glad when she got called to the phone. I snatched up my tray and made a bee-line for my office to finish eating in peace.

I pray that all of my friends, family, and readers have a wonderful day for which to be thankful.

Believe in Ghosts?

This story isn’t quite a ghost story, but it is a hospital story and has sort of a ghost theme. Some have asked that I share hospital stories, so I will tell it anyway. I had just taken the body of a deceased person to the morgue and placed the cart in the cooler to await the mortician. I was completing the necessary information in the log book when I heard voices in the storeroom next door. The sound was coming through a connecting vent high on the wall. It was one of our maintenance men, Franz and Niecie, one of the female central supply techs. They were retrieving a bariatric bed. Bariatric beds are oversized beds for the larger sized patients. The bed was stored in the room next door, directly beneath the vent.

I walked across the morgue until I was underneath the vent. I cupped my hands around my mouth, making a funnel I moaned, “W-O-O-O-O-O-O! W-O-O-O-O-O!”

They immediately stopped talking. Then I heard Niecie ask, “Franz, did you hear that?”

When Franz didn’t answer right away, she persisted, “I said, did you hear that?”

Franz said “Yes! Yes I did.”

“What was that?” She asked.

I heard Franz shush her.

They were quiet and I could tell they were listening. So I waited. When I heard them start to move the bed in the next room, I again moaned, “W-O-O-O-O-O! W-O-O-O-O-O!”

Niecie said, “Let’s get out of here!” I heard the supply room door pop open and the bed rolled out of the room at a high rate of speed.

Later, when I met Franz in the hallway, I told him what I’d done. He laughed and said, “I didn’t know what that noise was. I knew the morgue was next door, so I thought at first it could have been a ghost. The second time you moaned, Neicie’s eyes bugged out. She grabbed my arm and almost climbed up onto my shoulders. I think she would have if I would have let her.”

            We never told Neicie, so  if you read this, I apologize.

Something to Be Thankful About

Something unusual happened while I was a student at Penn State University. The incident occurred while I was in my obstetrics rotation of training. I have kept it a secret for all these years, until now. One of the doctors decided to do a saddle block on a young woman who was in labor. There was another student nurse with me in the labor room She was in her early forties while I was twenty-three.

The doctor eased a long, thin metal tube into place inside the woman’s vaginal canal to do a saddle block. The end was touching the tip of her cervix. He picked up a syringe with a long needle attached to it. The needle was at least ten inches in length. As he inserted needle into the tube, it made the rasping, grating sound of metal on metal.

I saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. The sound was too much for the nurse standing beside me. It caused her to faint. Fortunately, she was standing between me and a wall. As her knees began to buckle, I leaned my full weight against her and pressed her tight against the wall and keeping her upright. I had barely moved at all.

When nurses are in training, there was little that was more embarrassing than for a student nurse to faint. It was a bane for a student’s name to have “passed out.’ It’s not a black mark against your training, but you can be certain that you will be teased about it for a long, long time.

I turned my attention back to the procedure at hand and watched as the doctor completed the block. He’d just removed the needle and the metal tube, when I felt a stirring of the weight at my shoulder. The wilted nursing student began to rouse. She shook her head, once, twice and then reclaimed her weight. She straightened up and I leaned away from her as she regained her feet.

A few seconds later, she leaned close to me and whispered into my ear, “Thank you.”

I can’t remember her name, so your secret is still safe with me.

Older and Wiser

Widowed and aged, she feared tonight’s visit from the Druid priests. They would soon be at her door demanding food, drink, or tribute. It was the usual fees for their intervention with the Celtic gods. If their requests were not met, they would find a way to exact payment in some way. They were not easily deterred nor were their memories of imagined slights easily forgotten.

For hours they would gather in a nearby grove with thick masses of mistletoe clinging to the oak’s ancient branches. At a clearing of the grove, they’d build a large fire and chant as they danced, preparing for the darkness of night. Beating on drums of human skins and playing eerie tunes on ivory hued flutes of men’s leg bones, they directed their worship to Anextiomarus, the protector god, to Ankou, the god of death, and to the goddess of fertility and abundance, Rosmerta.

It was rumored the instruments they used in worship ceremonies came from the victims of the priests wrath and the candles they used were made from the tallow of those who failed to pay tribute for that protection. The priests always arrived on All Hallows Eve carrying those candles. Their hooded faces darkened and lost in the shadows of the candles’ reflectors.

This year the old woman’s pantry was especially sparse. She’d have barely enough food to survive the winter. How could she keep the little provisions that she had?

She sat and thought as her small barley cake baked in the hot coals of her fire. The cake almost burned as she sought an answer to her problem. The room darkened as the night drew nearer. Was there a way to save her food?

“Berries,” she exclaimed. “I have a few dried strawberries.” Quickly, she ground them and added water. She must hurry. Surely they would be at her door soon. She barely finished with her plan when there was a loud pounding on her door. She lifted the latch and offered them the small barley cake from her hearth.

The priest closest to her moved nearer to see the proffered item. The flickering light from the candle fell on the old woman’s face and hands. He backed away. “Pox!” he shrilled. “The old woman has the pox.”

When they’d gone, she closed the door, and laughed. Wiping the berries from her face and hands, she smeared them on her cake. “This will be a sweet treat for me tonight.”

One Thing After Another

My tasks, scheduled and unscheduled, started on Friday when I drove a friend to her appointment for physical therapy. While she had her right knee replaced, she developed a partially collapsed lung and still needs to use oxygen. Assisting her to my car, hanging on each side of her walker were small oxygen bottles that reminded me of pistols in holsters like the cowboys in a Western movie. The chore was made more difficult because of the rain. I also had to drive into her yard to park near her porch near the stairs and walkway.

She asked me to drive slowly, because she was feeling nauseated. Her doctor had recently told her that along with the collapsed lung, she had a urinary tract infection and possibly pancreatitis. After the therapy, we needed to stop to have her blood drawn for further testing and to pick up prescriptions for her urinary tract infection.

As we talked, I found that she hadn’t been eating well because of the nausea, so while she picked up her prescription, I hustled over to the cafeteria and bought a container of rice pudding for her to eat later as an addition to her diet.

Getting her home to her front door was another concern. I don’t have 4 wheel drive and because of the rain, the grass in the yard was slippery and quickly became muddy. I did churn up a few places in her yard, but got her close enough to her walkway it was easier for her to climb the stairs to her door.

Saturday, I was the docent for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. During my 4 hours there, I didn’t have any visitors, but I wrapped the air conditioner in plastic to keep out the gusting cold wind that penetrated even through the outside cover. I was able to do an evaluation of possible feature stories for upcoming newspaper articles.

Saturday evening, I drove to Ohiopyle for the thank you dinner for those who helped during their Buckwheat and Sausage Festival. Pasta, salad, and dessert were on the menu. The meat sauce was wonderful. I think it must have been homemade. There were tomato seeds in the sauce. One of the men there who finished reading my book, “Addie” said that he really enjoyed it.

Sunday morning, I attended church and Sunday school. I was glad to get home for a break in the action and relax before going to choir practice and Sunday evening service later in the day.

Caught Flatfooted

As I pulled off my socks to shower this morning, I heard the telltale whisper that the skin on my feet were becoming dry and cracking. Being a diabetic, it was time to bring out the moisturizer and be proactive with my foot care and slow the winter calluses from forming. Of course, this triggered my memories of my aunt Helen Stahl and several stories about her feet.

My connecting thought was that she was a homebody and seldom wore shoes in her house. Her feet would become rough, callused, cracked, and painful. Eventually, she would sweet-talk someone into driving her from Orlando to one of the Floridian beaches. Dressed in her housecoat, she would stroll in the ocean wet sand. I never saw her wear a bathing suit, only the dusters that she wore at the house. The grit of the wet sand, wore away the calluses, smoothed the dry skin, and made it easier for the cracks to heal.

The second storey of Aunt Helen happened when I was a child. The place where my dad Carl Beck worked offered reduced price admission tickets to Idlewild Park in Ligonier. My parent’s asked if Aunt Helen and her family would like to join us. She accepted. Aunt Helen arrived at the park dressed to the nines. I can remember her full-skirted pale blue dress, a string of pearls around her neck, her red purse and she was wearing red, high-heeled shoes. For anyone who has frequented the old park knows, the pathways were only pea-sized gravel. Walking on it was difficult enough, without high heels. By the end of the day, Helen said she had he blisters on her feet. The next morning, my mom Sybil Beck telephoned her and teasingly said, “Are you ready to go back to Idlewild?”

Helen said, “Just let me get my shoes on,” and snorted a laugh.

My final recollection was of Helen and lightning’s attraction for her. As I’ve said, Helen hated to wear shoes. This occurred while they were living near Indian Head, Pennsylvania. She was in the midst of cleaning her house and went outside to shake the throw rugs. Standing on the wet concrete porch, a bolt of lightning electrified the water soaked porch and made her dance.

I know that she was struck by lightning a second time, but I am not sure just where it happened.

Dead Man Walking

We had a housekeeper whose job was to collect trash throughout the hospital and dispose of it in an outside receptacle. He used a cart with sides and a door to enclose the garbage inside. The cart was about two feet wide, five feet long, and six feet high including the 4 large wheels. The side door folded down to allow easier access to place the bags inside and to remove them. The cart was wheeled along an area of asphalt at the back of the hospital to the outside trash compacter. The parking lot had a slight downhill slope toward the outside trash bin.

One evening when the housekeeper took a load of trash to the outside container and the cart started to move faster than he could walk. The bottom of the cart caught his foot and he slipped beneath it. The cart ran up over part of his body trapping him on the asphalt beneath the cart. Because of the downward slope and the weight of the cart, he couldn’t escape. He tried calling for help, but he was outside at the back of the hospital and there was no one to hear him.

About forty-five minutes or so later, one of the hospital’s security guards was making his rounds. He saw the garbage cart sitting on the edge of the parking lot with no one near it. He thought that it was unusual and wandered over to investigate. He found the housekeeper trapped beneath the cart.

All he could see of the housekeeper was his head, his shoulder and part of his chest sticking out from under the cart. He helped to move the cart to allow the housekeeper to free himself. Once the guard made sure the housekeeper was okay, he helped to guide the cart to the compacter to unload. The housekeeper took a break to relax and then went back to work.

That night or the next day, someone used a piece of chalk to draw the outline of a person on the tarmac near where the housekeeper had fallen. It was just like the old time movies where the police would draw an outline of the murder victim. The image of the splayed arms, legs, torso, and head was there for all to see. The housekeeper and most of the employees thought it was funny, but not management. They were so upset that they threatened to fire the person who had drawn it and probably would have if they had known who drew it.

Into No-Man’s Land

Friday, an old friend of mine needed a ride to a temp hire agency to complete necessary paperwork and to view safety films for his new job. He was to start Monday. How could I say no? I picked him up at his home and we drove to Youngwood to the temp office. I brought a book to read while he did his thing. While we were there, I did meet one of the secretaries with whom I worked at Frick Hospital. That was a pleasant surprise.

This is the friend with whom I made a missionary trip through the northeast states, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland/Labrador many years ago. Since then, we’ve talked on the phone, but this was the first time I could actually help him. After his appointment, we went to lunch and talked a bit more, catching up on the past. At home, catching up on my laundry completed the day.

Saturday, I was lured into cleaning my refrigerator. Cleaning the fridge is a land no man wants to enter. It’s a rare occasion that I actually take things out, read the expiration date, wipe the shelves, and throw things out that are no longer edible. There was a saying at the hospital, “Anything found in the fridge that is green and shouldn’t be and anything brown that should be green, toss them out.” Nothing in the fridge was that bad, but I now have several scarcely populated shelves.

I also finished an experiment. For those who argue whether the proper way to hang a roll of toilet paper, over or under, I must share. I accidentally hung a roll the opposite of what I normally do and was too lazy to remove it and change its orientation. The tissue came off the roll in much the same manner from either position. The only disadvantage I found was locating the loose end when I needed to start unfurling some of the tissue. Other than that, both ways work. When my kids were still at home, I was just thankful that there was a spare roll in the same room as I was. I did hang the new roll correctly.

I’ve been picking at a crock-pot roasted chicken. I’ve made chicken and baked potato, chicken and gravy over crescent rolls, and chicken and gravy over homemade biscuits out of its carcass, and I still have half of a chicken breast. It may go into the freezer until I feel like indulging in chicken again, but that leads me into another no-man’s land… defrosting the freezer.