Reconnecting

Yesterday, I received a wave and a shout on Facebook messenger. I didn’t recognize the name and am leery of accepting people without knowing a little bit about them. There are too many robots and scammers who try to lure a Facebook user into accepting them. I’m not sure if it allows them to hack your account or not, but I try not to take chances.

When she messaged me, she gave me enough information to understand that we were related. She said she was the granddaughter of Cora. There are two of my relatives named Cora. I assumed wrongly that she was a grandchild or great grandchild of my great uncle Theodore Rugg, because I have had more contact with that side of the family at the Rugg reunion.

In reality, she was the granddaughter of my aunt Cora. Cora Hyatt was my mother Sybil’s sister. This young lady was the daughter of my cousin Peggy. I didn’t know that until I checked her profile a little more closely and saw she was from Sheridan, Illinois, where my aunt Cora lived. So I shared that fact and I was finally able to get my head screwed on straight.

As we messaged back and forth, she shared that she’d purchased my books and planned to read them. She was also starting to do research on the family tree. I sent her a few of the stories listing family members and about my grandparent’s farm. She mentioned her sister. I was able to connect with her as well. So, I’ve now extended the family tree to include these two young ladies.

The last time I’d seen them was when they were teenagers. I am hoping to hear more from them and if they read my BlogSpot, they may glean a bit more for their research. My BlogSpot is http://thomasbeck.blogspot.com. They should be able to read back through my posts and ferret out more information.

I finished the afternoon by calling my orthopedic physician for an appointment. My right knee and shoulder had been causing pain, but the knee is pulling ahead and has started to pop when I straighten it. It’s time to have it checked out. That appointment has filled my next week’s dance card. I hate weeks like that, busy and in constant motion.

 

Favors

A few weeks ago, I saw that the neighbor had some items at the side of her barn. One was a fairly intact riding lawn mower and the frame and motor of a second one. There was also a bicycle frame, an old hot water tank, and a few other metal pieces. My son Andrew with his family recently moved back to Pennsylvania from Amarillo, Texas. It was nice having them so close.

I helped unload their belongings into their new house. The place has 6.7 acres with about 1/2 of it in grass that will need mowed. Andrew has a knack with engines, so I approached the neighbor and asked what she planned to do with the mowers. She said that she was going to take them in for scrap. I offered $10.00 for the lot. Andrew has been known to save metal for scrap too.

When I told him what I purchased, he brought out a towing trailer and we had a struggle to get some items loaded. The fairly intact mower was easy to roll and we loaded it quickly. The frame was another story. Because of its location, it was heavy to move. Among the items was a 15 feet long chain. With the use of a come-along and chain, we were able to winch it onto the trailer. Soon, everything was strapped down and he hauled the load home.

About a week ago, the neighbor knocked on my front door and asked that we return the chain. She didn’t know it wasn’t part of the scrap, but when her father returned from a trip and asked for it, she pleaded that we return it. I promised that I would and did. Later, I found that he’d paid $250.00 for it. No wonder he wanted it back.

When I returned it, no one was home, so I draped it across the gate into their home, knowing that they would easily see it. Today, I was cleaning my pantry and found several boxes of cereal that had become outdated. They were flavors I didn’t eat and were leftovers from a time my kids were here.

The neighbor has chickens. They ramble through her yard, cackling and scratching for food. I’ve seen her scatter feed for them on occasion and thought, “Why toss the cereal into the garbage? Chickens aren’t picky eaters.” I walked them over to see if she wanted the cereal for the hens. She was glad to accept and gave me a carton of eggs as a thank you, saying the hens were laying more than she could use. It was just a favor given to an old man who chose not to be grumpy.

This is the post I had planned to share.

The Passing of Time

Fifteen years have passed so quickly in an agonizingly slow procession of minutes. Looking back, I ask myself, “How did that amount of time slip by to form so many pages in my book of life? How can it be that my children have grown and have lives of their own?” Fifteen years ago, they were all living at home, still children looking to me and my wife Cindy for guidance. Fifteen years ago March 24th, 2003, we all felt the sting of death and the apparent victory of the grave.

Fifteen years seems like such a long time as I write it, but is has passed ever so quickly. The seconds have accumulated, inexorably turning page after page of the calendar amassing themselves into a decade and a half. How can nearly one quarter of my life have slipped through my fingers leaving a dim trail of memories in such an excruciatingly rapid pace? Somehow, I’ve grown old. Somehow my youth has flown away. Somehow the form of the Grim Reaper has become more solid and dark.

It’s not that I fear the “shadow of death,” oh, no. I’m marvel at how fleeting time has become and how swiftly life passes. It seems like yesterday I dandled our first child on my knee and now she has a child older than she was then.

This anniversary is one I have never liked to “celebrate” but it is one that will always be remembered by me and our family. Death must have wanted to forever imprint this date on our hearts, our souls, and our minds, because on the third anniversary of my wife’s passing, my mother, Sybil lost the battle with Alzheimer’s disease.

I don’t write this to garner sympathy. I only want to share my thoughts and advise those who still have living parents and spouses to hold them close and to tell them that you love them. Time has a way of speeding by and before you know it, the loved ones in your life have passed. Tell parents, siblings, children, grandchildren, and friends how much they mean to you and let them know that you love them.

I just noticed, Up to the ending of the last sentence, there were 365 words. One for each day of the year, fill your calendar year with words of love.

I had written a post and cannot remember its title to retrieve it, so I will share some Haiku I am writing for April, poetry month.

snow shadows turn blue

dusk falls and twilight deepens

soot settles to black

full faced queen moon

stars vigilantly stand guard

spotlight dazzles moths

morning light glitters

filtered through wind shuffled leaves

templed gold pillars

horizon stained pink

pale gray parchment sunrise sky

lipstick edged teacup

sun’s golden pen strokes

appear on pale parchment sky

contrail Haiku

two haggard stars hang

stubbornly in the darkness

child’s bedroom nightlights

light bright smiling face

parts the early morning mist

clean tot pops from bath

children’s faces press

smiling against the windows

school bus at day’s end

Ice and Snow: Snow and Ice

Another round of freezing rain, ice pelleted sleet, and snow have once again delayed the arrival of spring. Geese have returned. Robins have flown back to lay claims for nesting and feeding areas. I even saw a few killdeer which have decided it is time to select a perfect spot to raise their brood. Jonquils, daffodils, and the blooms of crocus have been struggling to rise above the layers of ice, snow, and cold to announce that spring is here.

So far the warm, sunny weather has just been a tease. It has whetted our appetite for more, then we are slapped with the hard, cold reality that winter has not released Pennsylvania and the entire eastern coast from its bitter grip.

This latest storm quickly put down a layer of sleet on Tuesday. The roads were cold enough not to melt it and within 45 minutes, the road was covered. I made a run to Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania for a few groceries and when I returned home, I almost slid past my driveway. Only by twisting my steering wheel and the tires biting into the gravel could I maneuver into my drive. I was glad to be home. The meeting for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society was cancelled. I was a little disappointed, wondering what the members would think of the rearranged meeting room.

A two inch coating of thick wet snow followed hiding the slippery ice below, then came a short lull. Although the weathermen predicted more was to come, the brief interlude sparked a tiny flicker of hope that it was over. Not so, before the road crews could get out and remove the ice, snow began to fall in earnest. It moved in from the north east, pushing the snow into the higher ridges where I make my home. Probably, there was 6 inches of the white stuff. The only good thing was the temperature dropped and the snow was much fluffier.

In communities nearby, I heard reports of 10 inches or more. This later dump of snow must have thrilled the ski resorts of Seven Springs and Hidden Valley, because those warm teasing days surely caused them concern.

Yesterday, I ventured out again, prying layers of ice and snow from my car. It was a daunting task, made worse by the wind whipping the snow back in my face and trying to frostbite my ears.

Funerals

Death and funerals are things that most people try to avoid thinking or talking about. Monday was my aunt Dorothy Beck’s funeral. The funeral service was more like a tribute to the wonderful woman that she was. Through the course of the entire service, any person attending was reminded by the shared poetry and stories of what a strong and faithful servant of God she was. Even though she had multiple setbacks in her life that would have destroyed other people, Dorothy continued to make a home for her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

At this gathering of friends and family, those people who no longer live close by could reconnect and strengthen our family ties. Of courses, there were tears. Often grief has a way of escaping and trickling down our cheeks, but we were not inconsolable like some. Dorothy’s faith in God has been passed down to her children and their families in great scoops and we know they shall be reunited with her one day.

The gathering together of people touched by her allowed us to share stories and past history of Dorothy. Some were forgotten or true revelations to some family members that only enriched our memories of her. The new tales added pages to our family’s journal of her life. As we shared memories of her love of cooking and sewing, those remembrances made many smile. It was a celebration of her life.

Dorothy’s completed her journey and passed the baton to her family and to all who knew her. She was a fine example of a Christian woman, a mother, and a wife. The knowledge that she was saved and was a child of God gave encouragement and direction for others to follow in her footsteps and to accept Jesus Christ as their Savior. Christ was her pillar of strength and she reflected that strength to the world around her.

It was unusual for me and probably others, to see her so still during the viewing and funeral service, Dorothy always seemed to be in motion. Active in the church and often working in the nursery, her age didn’t seem to slow her down. She’s graduated now and has entered the bright shining halls in the haven of rest.

Looking Back

Over the years as a nurse and as a supervisor, I tried to pass along things that I learned; truths and shortcuts to make the jobs easier. After 28 years of supervising, I shared many things with anyone who oriented to the supervisory position. One of the first and foremost realities was to never let someone see that they’ve upset you. Excuse yourself from the situation, then go somewhere private, like private supervisor’s office, because it was separate from most areas of the hospital.

“Go inside and close the door. Then you can scream, cry, or kick the furniture, but always do it in private. If someone sees which button to push to upset you, they will repeatedly do it just to frustrate and anger you.” I explained.

The other truth was not to get comfortable either at lunch, on break, or with the job of supervising in general.

It never seemed to fail that I would no sooner get my lunch heated and sit down ready to eat, than I would get a page or a telephone call. Many of the times it would mean leaving my food and going somewhere to handle a problem or situation.

I would return later to cold, dried out food or because the situation took so much time, putting the meal away to take it back home, uneaten. For those who don’t understand what I’m talking about, have you ever tried to eat Tater Tots after they had been reheated three times?

The other part about getting comfortable with the job was thinking you knew all there was to being a supervisor, when nothing could be further from the truth. Almost every day the supervisor was called upon to face something new. They could have involved complaints from families, patients, or staff. Then there were problems with staffing, bed assignments, or the many things that fell outside of the normal policies and procedures.

The experiences expanded my scope of creativity, but believe me, after twenty-eight years supervising and dealing with all of the complaints, call offs, and unusual happenings, I was happy to hang up my spurs before I poked a hole in the water bed. 

Tired and Sore

Yesterday, I decided to go into the lion’s den and beard the lion. I had to do a follow up on my consolidation of papers and items at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Saturday, I took my postcards to loan, to review and for possible display in one of their showcases. After Liz the volunteer and I looked at the cards, she went back to filing papers and as I looked around the display area room, I began to see there was a way to enlarge the ability to hide shelves of reference binders and to provide more cases to share their historic artifacts. So, Saturday I began the task of sorting and stacking.

I wasn’t too sure how my consolidating of the room’s contents would be received, so I went in Wednesday morning to face the music and to see if my ideas for further repositioning of shelves, filing cabinets, and display cases would be acceptable. After sharing my ideas and explaining the placement and reasons, the officers agreed with me.

Fortunately, and unfortunately they saw the wisdom of my suggestions and I started to work, and work it was. Moving three display cases was the first task. That made room to place shelves of notebooks and binders out of sight and yet allow easy access for volunteers. Next, was to move those shelves with binders into the open space now open behind the cases. Each cleared space had to be swept clean from the ancient dust and debris that had accumulated beneath them.

Into the area vacated by the shelves of binders, we moved the filing cabinet. It was a single unit, three drawers wide and three drawers wide. Each heavy drawer had to be removed before we could move the weighty frame. Once it was pushed and pulled into place, I could replace the drawers; not as easy task.

Into the space that once held the filing cabinet, we could move another display case that was almost hidden due to lack of space. Now, there was room to stack and store boxes of supplies, books, ledgers, and artifacts out of sight of the public and yet close at hand when needed.

An item we were able to pull out and put on display was the old Kregar post office teller window and mail cubicles. It had been hidden for years. All in all, it was a great feeling to see so much accomplished and I am less sore than I thought I’d be. It will take awhile for everyone to acclimate themselves to the new positioning of things, but the extra room was definitely needed.

Sunday Celebration

It was a remarkable, two day birthday celebration. Friday my son Andrew and his family came to visit and with his help, I was able to complete some nagging, unfinished chores left unfinished. It helps that he’s a master plumber and two of the tasks involved plumbing. His wife Renee and daughters Celine and Moriah brought two delicious meals and a cake. They even managed to find some birthday candles somewhere in my house.

After church and Sunday school, they returned with my daughter Amanda Yoder, her husband Eric and my granddaughter Hannah. My daughter Anna Prinkey and her husband James joined and my entire family gathered under my roof. Hamburgers and hot dogs smoked over the mesquite and charcoal fire while the ladies made salads, condiments, and other foodstuffs to fill the table and stomachs. To top it all off, we ate leftover cake and ice cream.

With the recent return from Amarillo, Texas there was a lot of catching up to do. Laughter and stories filled the dining room and the living room. I felt truly blessed to have them gathered together. The time passed quickly and soon the house was quiet. It was only the cat Willow and me.

In the quiet, I wrote Monday’s blog and thought about the ups and downs of my life. I have decided that my children and grandchildren are definitely the ups. This was a memorable birthday.

Most Sunday mornings, several men line up along the one wall of the church, between preaching and Sunday school. It has become a ritual and we say they are holding up that wall. One of the other church members jokingly said, “We ought to paint silhouettes on that wall, so when they pass away, they’ll still be here holding up the wall.” I took a photo of them against the wall.

Well, with my warped sense of humor opened fully the large cardboard box that protected the vanity for my new bathroom. Leaning it against my workbench in the basement, I sketched the outline of the five gentlemen. I bought some black craft paint and filled in the outline to create their silhouettes. It is now in my basement awaiting its transport to the church Wednesday evening if I am still alive after my visit to the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and the confrontation with the leaders.

Saturday Well Spent

I celebrated my birthday on Friday with my son Andrew, his wife Renee, and my two granddaughters Celine and Moriah. They lived in Amarillo, Texas, having them close, and spending an entire day with them was a true blessing.

Saturday I drove to the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Earlier in the week, I promised to share some of my postcards in a display. Members try to create new ideas for a showcase where contents change frequently to draw the public. It displays photographs and items from local towns and villages. They were trying to decide which town to present next. They’d nearly exhausted fresh displays for the area.

When I made the suggestion of sharing my postcards for the display, they asked to see them. When I got home, I sorted through my large collection of cards that were passed down from my in-laws and my parents. I selected cards from World War II, Easter, Christmas, New Year’s, greeting cards, and of course, cards with the older local pictures of buildings, bridges, and images from the early 1900’s to cards that were more recent. I even took a few letters dated from 1885.

On Saturday, I joined an older volunteer at the building and we spent the afternoon with no interruptions. Her O.C.D. kicked in as she viewed the cards, sorting them into more precise piles. With that task finished, she went to work filing documents and my imagination began to wander. A large desk and all of the displays are in a single room. Limited space causes some exhibits to suffer. One side and corner of the room is filled with a library of family information in black or multicolored binders. The distracting rainbow detracts the eye. I thought the library should be in a less obtrusive place. Making room for more display cases and historic articles swept over me.

I began to consolidate things. I emptied battered and torn cardboard boxes, placing their contents in reinforced boxes with lids and easier to store. I stacked chairs and moved some non-essential items. The volunteer listened as I shared my vision to put the library out of sight behind the display cases. The binders could still be accessed. Moving them would give room for more display cases.

I may be in deep trouble and possibly lined up for a musket firing squad when the leaders of the group return and begin to search for a specific box only to find it has a new home. It was a bold step for me as a new member, but I listened as they shared they needed more space for their artifacts, books, and old letters and ledgers. I just carried out their wishes, even though some members are resistant to change.

So, pray for me my dear friends. I plan to go back Wednesday to face the music. The building is open for visitors Wednesdays from 11 to 3 pm and Saturdays 10 to 2 pm. Please come to visit, you may just prevent them from scalping me.

Mystery Solved

For those who have read my Tommy Two Shoes mystery series and have been asking when are you going to have another book published? I can answer, I truly don’t know, but I have just climbed back onto the horse and began the next mystery in earnest with some thoughts on another one.

My first book, From Mountains to More is an introduction to the retired Pittsburgh homicide detective, Thomas Miner that picked up the name Tommy Two Shoes as a kid in school. This book as all of my others in the series is a compilation of short stories; each chapter is a different mystery. That way the reader can have their desire to solve it more quickly and those who don’t like to read, they can pick up the book and put it down without losing sight of the ending.

The second in the series, Entangled introduces more characters of Tommy’s friends and relatives. Again Tommy is solving mysteries, unless he falls into the middle of a crime. He’s smart enough not to interfere with a police investigation. A few of Tommy’s stories gets him involved in organized crime, the death of his uncle and muse, being assaulted and shot, the kidnapping of his bride-to-be, and finally the honeymoon.

The third book is The Twelve Murders of Christmas. When Tommy and his new bride find a baby abandoned on the front porch of their home, the first chapter is called “What Child is This.” The mention of a Christmas Hymn directed the rest of the stories to be recollections of the past homicide investigations from incidents in their home. The chapters are of Tommy and his partner solving murders over the holidays from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day.

The fourth book Partners for Life Tommy invites his wife Cora to become a partner in his newly started private investigative service. Her insight and knowledge begin to draw them closer together and make a solid team. In this book, Tommy tries to trace the abandoned and now adopted son’s roots, taking him to West Virginia. Cora is held hostage. In another story Cora steps up to solve a mystery or two without Tommy’s assistance, Tommy is arrested and assaulted and Cora finds out that nightmares can come true. They meet Johnny’s maternal grandmother and Tommy is called on to find evidence to free the Deputy that locked him up.

My other novels The Walls Come Tumbling Down and Addie are full length and not as action filled as the mystery series. Although I’ve had good reviews on the novels, some of my readers prefer the faster action of the short stories. Hang on. There’s another in the pipeline.

Digging It

I can remember having to use outhouses when I was a child. My father Carl Beck bought a small house nearly halfway between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania. The house had a kitchen, two bedrooms, a partial basement/coal cellar, a living room and a path… that led back to the brown Insulbrick single seat privy. There was water to the kitchen and partial basement from a spring located on a hillside three hundred yards away.

The lack of plumbing was a normal scenario in the mountains of southwest Pennsylvania at the time. After enlarging the house, I can remember my dad digging the pit to receive the concrete septic tank. It was about six feet wide eight feet long and eight feet deep, all hand dug by mattock and spade. When the tank was delivered and set into place dad dug the sewer line to a nearby stream to handle the runoff. He attached the pipe from the newly installed commode to the tank after breaking through the cinderblock wall of the coal bin and passing the pipe to the tank outside.

We were in business. There were no more dodging raindrops, no more treks through the snow or frozen hineys, no more flies and bees, and a lot less smell with which to deal.

I can also remember my grandparents, Ray and Rebecca Miner’s outhouse. It was a two seater, one larger and one smaller. It wouldn’t do to have a kid fall through the opening. Grandma became older and decided she no longer wanted to make the jaunt to the privy or to use the “slop jar” stored beneath the bed. She talked granddad into indoor plumbing.

They had water to the kitchen via a pump in the basement from the springhouse, but no bathtub or commode. The best place for the septic tank was near the house where foot traffic and an occasional farm wagon compressed the earth. Digging was much harder there, but it was the most reasonable place for it. Uncles came and by taking turns, they used picks, mattocks, and spades to create the hole for the concrete holding tank. Sweat dripped from the men as they labored. I wasn’t there when the tank was delivered, but Grandma was very happy when it arrived.

March

Even though March is the month of my birth, it is a month that my family views with some trepidation and caution. No, it’s not because of me and my “being born” in that month, but because of several serious occurrences that have happened and have left sad and bitter feelings for us, forever marring that calendar month.

The first tragedy that fell during the month of March was the death of my wife Cindy. This month of March will mark the fifteenth anniversary of her passing. Fifteen years ago, what started out as a severe upper respiratory tract infection turned into an all consuming disease. The symptoms she presented pointed to, what Cindy called her “annual” gift to me of laryngitis, but this time with more intense wheezing and coughing. It was so pronounced, I thought she might have pneumonia and forced her to go to the emergency room. Her blood work pointed to something more. It showed a more severe reason for her shortness of breath. She was transferred to a larger hospital where she was diagnosed as having ovarian cancer, the silent killer. The cancer had spread to every organ of her body and ten days later she was gone.

My emotional hurt had all but scarred over, when her mother Retha Morrison died the next year. It felt as those scars were ripped open and raw, coming a little more than a year after Cindy’s death. The month of March didn’t claim Retha, but her passing fell so close to her daughter’s death the redoubled hurt and pain came back.

My mother Sybil Beck had suffered with Alzheimer’s disease for several years, slowly descending into that Nether-World of neither life nor death that separated her mind from her body. On the third anniversary of Cindy’s passing, my mom’s body and mind became one again, united in Heaven. The very same day, three years later, cursed the month of March for my family, many refusing to make any major decision during this month. They’ve even rushed or postponed surgeries to avoid March. Superstitious, probably, cautious definitely, but none-the-less this feeling of dread for the month of March is a reality.