The Infinite Joy of Cat Ownership

The infinite joy of cat ownership… let me rephrase that. A person doesn’t own a cat, but the person becomes an indentured servant of these creatures. Long ago, the Egyptians became enamored with these animals to the point that they assumed the often aloof and arrogant attitude of these creatures made deities to be worshipped. They wandered the courts of the pharaoh and the Egyptian elite and upon the cat’s demise; they were embalmed and encased in a sarcophagus and placed in a burial chamber.

Today, mankind doesn’t worship the cat, but the servitude continues. Watering, feeding and hauling away their daily toilet has become our tasks. We keep them inside to protect our homes from rodents, but my cat Willow only toys with them, choosing to catch and eat the common houseflies. She graces herself at my side as I try to write and create a semblance of thought to softly “mew” until I recognize her presence and give her a treat.

As I travel in my kitchen, she will have pushed her food or water bowl into the center of the floor, chiding me that I dared to forget to refill her offerings. Her resting places are nearly always in the middle of the stairs where I am most likely going to step on her or trip over her relaxed form if I miss seeing her in the night. Last night as I attempted to fall asleep, she came to my bedside to clean herself. The tiny bell of her collar jingled until she finished her toilette. Often she will jump onto the bed or onto my lap to have an itch scratched or her fur smoothed.

Other joys include finding clumps of her log black and white fur decorating my new carpet or furniture. Sometimes I hear a retching and gagging sound. That means that she’s shared more of herself with me. I hurry to clean up the regurgitated saturated hairball before it dries and stains the carpet. Why is it always the carpet? Why can’t she use the litter box? If I miss hearing the sounds of her puking, I sometimes tread on the soggy offering as I stagger from the bed making the nightly trek to the bathroom. Oh what joy to be a cat owner.

Evolution Prostitution

I’ve seen several posts about Public Broadcasting and the possibility that the Federal Government may cut back on their funding. I do find many of the PBS programs interesting however my major concern is they preach evolution as a fact on nearly every one of their television presentations. The carbon dating method scientists use to state ages of billions and millions of years is not reliable. One test performed by an independent group was given the age of a living mollusk as being millions of years old. The carbon content varies from year to year and would give different readings.

The world has continued to profess the theory of Evolution and discredit Creationism. Evolution is only a theory and a way to draw mankind away from seeing the hand of an omniscient, omnipotent Creator. There is a concerted effort to replace God in everything with the ideas of man.

When I hear someone mention the “Big Bang” theory, I ask, “Where did the matter for the explosion come from?” Any detonation I’ve ever seen caused destruction and chaos, not a finely tuned and balanced solar system filled with heavenly bodies that are too numerous for scientists to count.

The theorists propose that chemicals somehow mixed in primordial sludge and formed a one cell life form. Have scientists been able to replicate that? Now, I want to address the evolution of mankind from the kingdom of the apes. To me, if it happened once, why hasn’t it continued to flourish or at least occasionally happen? Why don’t we see Cro-Magnon Men still appearing on earth? Why aren’t apes still producing more prehistoric men? The Nazis tried to impregnate women with gorilla sperm and that was a total failure. Why, man and ape are two different species.

Every civilization describes a flood in their historical records that cleared the earth of man and beast, save those who were sheltered safely in an ark. The cataclysm of a worldwide flood answers the question of how layers of silt were created and how so many animals were buried and preserved as fossils.

A friend of mine who lived on the west coast told me that after the eruption of Mt St. Helens, the things scientists said took millions of years, started to appear only ten years after the explosion.

To wrap it up, until PBS explains that Evolution is only a theory and not a fact, I can’t support them. When I watch PBS, I have to listen with only one ear, especially when they give a dating process in any program. The only exception is when they are counting tree rings for an age.

Evil Times

I really didn’t want to write about the debate about the restrictions that people want to place on the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, but I feel compelled to do so. I am terrified that this is just the beginning for the erosion of America’s freedoms. If this continues, we will not be able to resist any intrusion that the government wants to impose on us. We have examples of Nazi Germany, communist Russia and China.

I mourn the death of these innocent people. I also know that restricting guns is not the ONLY solution to the problem. Chicago has the most restrictive gun laws and still has one of the highest murder rates in the country. Obviously that isn’t the answer. If we are really serious about protecting our children, we need to put everything on the table and examine ALL options: mental health, drugs, violent games, armed guards and everything in between. I don’t consider the Second Amendment as a sacred cow, But I cannot let it be the only thing considered in this headlong rush to correct a problem.

Evil abounds and things made for good and peaceful purposes have been perverted by men with evil intent to cause death and carnage. Fertilizer, fuel, screws and nails have devastating effects when converted into explosive devices. Automobiles and airplanes have been perverted to become vehicles of death. Alcohol and drugs just add to the flames of wickedness.

Our forefathers as they settled the country placed armed guards at their churches and meeting places to protect their loved ones from the savages who wanted to kill them. Shouldn’t we do the same? If schools are considered “safe zones” isn’t that an open invitation for depraved people to come in and cause carnage with the least resistance.

Do violent games cause insensitivity to the taking of human lives? The military introduced the use of human shaped targets instead of the bull’s-eye targets to minimize the trauma of shooting another person. Isn’t that what is happening with these video games? It's said that most of these shooters were on prescribed antipsychotic and mood stabilizing drugs. Should they be evaluated?

Finally, I heard a radio announcer say that he thought these shooters wanted to commit suicide but were too cowardly to do it themselves. They've lived in relative obscurity and decided to write their names in blood before dying themselves. Going out in a blaze of glory is better than living the lives where they are now.

I don’t know the answer other than changing the souls of evil men, but shouldn’t we consider all of the alternatives?

Time Stilled Again

A little more than one year ago, I wrote a blog about a clock that hung on my family’s bathroom wall for nearly 25 years, faithfully keeping track of time as we showered for work or for school. When it died, I purchased a replacement clock of the same size, same color, and the same brand. The new addition’s hands managed to orbit its face for one year and twenty-four days before they made their last circle counting the numerals, the motor still pretended it was functioning with click, click, click. But the hands hung down at a permanent 6:35 occasionally giving a feeble twitch.

Today, after church, Sunday school, an afternoon meal, I hurried of to a newly opened dollar store. I decided if a clock was only going to last a year, I’d buy an inexpensive one. The dollar store had several to choose from. One had the look of a miniature grandfather clock with plastic wood grain frame. Another had a black plastic wrought iron design surrounding its face. One clock was designed with ivory plastic and gold gild design. None of them appealed to me. That left only two other clocks from which to choose. Both had the same simple round design. The only difference was their color. Both had a plain white face with black numbers and black hands. The plastic frame of the one face was white and the other was black. Both clocks were slightly larger than the one that died and would be easier for me to read.

My newly remodeled bathroom is mostly white. The walls are called Snowbound. The rugs, shower curtain, and window curtains are either tan, gray, or taupe accent colors. The vanity countertop has double sinks of white marble with veins of gray and threads of brown and rust.

The white trimmed clock would have been nearly invisible on the Snowbound walls. I bought the clock with the black frame. It was only $4.00. As soon as I got home, I stuffed a battery into its backside to start the motor and hung it up. It’s hanging there now merrily clicking away the seconds of my life.

The old clock without its battery is lying eerily silent on the desk beside me awaiting its fate. A year ago when I bought it, I thought my heart would stop beating before it did. Tomorrow, I will carry it to the basement for its autopsy.

Lights, Headache, and High Water

My story started Wednesday morning when I forgot to take my morning medications, finding them late in the afternoon, too late to take them without interfering with my evening medications. I really didn’t feel the effects until I started with a headache just before evening. It was a dull headache that was exacerbated by the change in weather. The headache remained at a low roar all night after taking analgesics and sitting up to sleep.

Thursday morning, I did a few chores around the house, knowing the rest of the day was shot with things to do outside the house. It was necessary to return two light fixtures to Lowe’s. One had a broken shade and the other wouldn’t fit my antiquated ceiling fan. I did find out I could replace the socket and not the whole fixture. I was so glad to have met the helpful lady in charge of lighting.

My next stop was at Gabe’s. I saw the rugs I wanted for my newly remodeled bathroom. While I was there, I managed to pass out several of my business cards to the friendly woman employees. By the way, the rugs look great, but Willow my cat tries to speed run on them and spins them around.

By now, it’s time to stop for a few items I needed at Walmart. Other than the new self-checkout lines, I love shopping there. I always meet old friends and have a great time talking to the clerks and other employees there. Love you Beverly.

Next, I picked up my granddaughter after school. She wanted to get a snack, so it was back to Walmart for pretzels. They car was filled with her singing and restlessness from her day with school as I drove to pick up my daughter after work. Her car is still out of commission. I delivered them home amid a downpour.

I scooted off to my writers meeting at the Mt. Pleasant Public Library my headache was still very active. I managed to get through the meeting with the rain pouring down. The drive home was challenging. Headlights and the light reflecting back from the highway signs seemed to pierce my brain on the especially dark, cloud-covered drive home. Between the Pennsylvania potholes and the standing water pools, it made the drive home slower, longer, and more treacherous, but I made it, thankful for an end to a very trying day.

Fun, Facts, Fiction, Fairytales

Most of us can remember times when we were growing up that we were told things we thought were true until we became older, things that were shared at home or repeated on the playground. What started me thinking about these stories were the small white discolorations on my fingernails. It reminded of what I was told as a child that caused them. I believed the little white marks that grew out naturally in my fingernails were the number of little white lies I’d told. Sometimes I would look at my fingernails and wonder what lies I’d told and when and as a kid, I couldn’t recall if I told a lie or not.

Or how about the tale that people tell about the petals on a daisy? When a girl picks the flower she is to pluck its white petals one by one from its bright yellow center, chanting “He loves me…He loves me not” until the petals are all gone. When the last petal falls, it will reveal whether or not the person you are thinking about really loves her. I supposed that it would work if a guy pulled the petals.

Another repeated tale about a flower is the one about dandelions or buttercups. Someone would pick one of the blooms and place it just below the chin near the neck to see “if you liked butter.” That was a silly little game I was told.

An untruth that my mom, Sybil Beck foisted on us as kids was when she would prepare eggs, putting them in water to make hard cooked eggs for sandwiches. If she hadn’t let them cook long enough and the centers were even slightly runny, she would say that she boiled them too long. The reason she said this was because she fussed as a child when her mom, Rebecca Miner served an underdone egg to her and her mom made up the story.

That reminds me of another misconception my mother had as a child. She thought cows were the mothers and horses were the fathers. She also thought cats were the mothers and dogs were the fathers. In her mind, because men and women looked different, so should the animals. Later, she used to laugh about it saying, “I grew up on a farm and should have known better.”

So many times as children we are told old wives tales. Each family has their own collection that have been passed down from generation to generation. Like coveted recipes, these tales have been shared, laughed at, and loved because they make us more naïve and innocent. They make us human and the human beings that we are.

Happenstance

It’s difficult for me to understand how people can be confused after seeing the world around them and say there is no Creator. It all came into being by coincidence or happenstance. Looking up at the multitude of stars and the untold number of planets should give a feeling of the great power that set them all into place, not an explosion. Even if there was a bang of a beginning, where did the enormous mass of matter develop and from what? Who created the delicate balance that causes the stars, moons and planets to dance the intricate ballet eon after eon? Evolutionists say the Earth and everything on it evolved over millions of years, but how can that be when every race and culture of mankind has the flood story which wiped everything living thing from existence, save those in the ark? And if evolutionists are correct and mankind evolved from apes, why isn’t it happening more frequently than the single leap of genes?

When we look around and see the majesty of the mountains or the splendor of the canyons: their depths and heights, their varied shapes and hues, how can we deny the skill of an artist’s hand? We see waterfalls thundering from great heights or spreading to unbelievable widths and yet we are still amazed by hearing the trickle of the tiniest flow.

Our beaches, can be narrow, rocky, or are wide expanses of sand in varied colors of black pumice, red coral, or soft yellows or whites. We have springs that pump out sweet  clear water, springs that belch boiling, sulfur smelling water, and some that shoot a tower of water high into the air. The world is crisscrossed with rivers, long ones, short ones, gentle ones and raging ones, who has set tyhem into motion. Who has set the routine of the seasons? Who allowed the ice and snow to give way to the budding of trees and the stirring of life in a dead looking seed?

Can we be more surprised to see the blinding flash of lightning, or feel the earth beneath our feet trembling from the roar of thunder or feel the power of the oncoming storm? Who created the whirlwind and separated it from the gentle breeze? How can we see the miracle of birth and not be convinced that there is a Creator to it all and not by happenstance?

Seeking Dad Among the Dead

Now that I am older, I wish I had listened more closely to the things that my parents said about themselves and their parents and had remembered them. So much history and wisdom was lost in my youth. I don’t believe that I ever learned how my grandparents met, fell in love, and became building blocks in my life. It is like the mortar that cements those thoughts is missing. How much more complete that wall would have been.

I didn’t ask those kind of questions as a child because it wasn’t proper> I didn’t ask how my parents met either, but I know my dad, Edson Carl Beck bought an Indian motorcycle on his return from serving in the Army during WW II. He was stationed in Australia, the Philippines, and visited Hiroshima. My mom Sybil June Miner worked at Resh’s Red & White store in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. One day as she walked home, a guy on a motorcycle sped by, grabbed the sleeve of her coat, tore it, and sped off. She blamed my dad and he vehemently denied it. They didn’t say much else about the dating.

Mom did share some of the places that they lived and some of the antics of newlyweds, but the meat of those stories have faded and become woefully thin. A water battle at the honeymoon cottage and the shrieking that worried the neighbors, a tug of war under a bed, and a night sleeping in the bathtub seem almost too nondescript to share without the details. Details that made my mom laugh and my dad smile.

Although my wife-to-be, Cynthia Louise Morrison lived less than 5 miles from my home, we met at a wedding. It was the first wedding I’d ever attended and was the best man for my cousin Alan Bottomly. She was an usherette and greeter. At the reception, I was my abnormal self and teased her, even hiding her shoes. Guests thought we were already dating, but no. It took one of her friends arranging a blind date to start the ball rolling. Although my wedding antics said otherwise, I was quite shy and that is hard to believe even now.

Much of what I record in my BlogSpot stories is to capture some of these moments before they disappear and are forgotten. I don’t want my children seeking information of their mom or dad among the dead.

Task at Hand

The men who remodeled my bathroom have gone. Their work was great however I am left with the finishing touches. I need to hang the bathroom curtains before the neighbors complain to the police and they tried to contain the dust but with the furnace running, it distributed dust in the other rooms.

Yesterday, I began early spring cleaning. The first room I tackled was my bedroom. It had been awhile since I gave it a thorough dusting, sorted through items I tossed onto the dressers, and vacuumed the bedroom carpet. The cleaning extended to the small hallway and stairs to the first floor.

I’m not a hoarder yet, but each bureau in my bedroom holds a collection of whatnots: a jar of buttons, a jar of seashells, and several wooden jewelry boxes holding more receipts than actual jewelry.  On top the television are my antique, glass measuring cups. Each and every item had to be wiped clean of dust before returning them to their place of honor.

I plan to clean my living room or the family room today. The living room should be the easiest. I removed the clutter before the new carpet was laid. I want to sort everything I removed before it goes back onto shelves. Those items are still in the family room. I’m forcing myself to go through them all to determine their usefulness or their sentimental value. I’ve always called it my early depression room, holding items from my parents or Cindy’s parents. There are hand tools, oil lamps, glassware, pottery, old photographs displayed. A rack of DVD’s, an old trunk, a carriage seat, and I must not forget the grandchildren’s toys stored there. The other room I hesitate to clean is my computer room. Handwritten manuscripts sit in piles until I can string put them into books. The Tommy Two Shoes series are my first 4 books about a retired Pittsburgh homicide detective who solves mysteries. Each chapter is a different mystery making it easier for the fanatic to get their fill and for those who don’t like to read an entire book to see “who-done-it.” The fifth book is about Rahab the harlot from Jericho and how she met and married a Jewish enemy to be in the line of King David and Jesus.

The latest book “Addie,” features local places like Confluence, Ohiopyle, and Mt. Pleasant. Addie is a woman who was raised without love. She takes in an orphan only to have him snatched away. Faced with her mixed emotions, she must find a way to deal with them. Set in the 1940’s, the plot has a series of surprises as well as a surprise ending.

She Walks Among the Stars

Aroma of small sachets or scent of perfume

Ignite fires that have lain smoldering over years

A bright gleam then flicker soft like candle flames

Past doors flash open in tantalizing display. 

She walks among the stars her feet clad in beauty

On heavenly paths meeting those gone on before

No longer earthbound she is free from any pain

Corridors of gold lined with gems beyond compare. 

Still she walks the deepest recesses of my mind

On memories’ pathways other loved ones have trod

Bound to me by the threads of love drawn close to me

Dim hallways of the past made bright by thoughts of you. 

Three children and grandchildren because walk she lived

Divining their own paths thoughts of her on their minds

One day they will be rejoined beyond starry skies

Love’s circle will be complete on far golden shore. 

Valentine’s Day celebrates the meaning of love

Valentine’s Day is more than sweets, flowers and such

Heartfelt memories linger still and rise when stirred

The past comes to life down the corridors of time.