Palette-Able

I often see instructions on recycling projects using castaway wooden pallets. Projects from planter boxes to picnic tables and so many more items were imagined and built. I believe that this is the nature of human beings, the desire to not see something wasted and the ability to let loose innate creativity. This is the nature of the first settlers coming to America. Many of those traditions were passed down through the generations to my grandparents Miner.

My grandfather Raymond Miner worked night shifts in the coal mines, then managed to sleep and farm during the daylight hours. He had 8 children and a wife to support. Corn, hay, and a large garden helped to feed the family and his animals. Usually he kept 2 milk cows, several hogs, and chickens. Any leftover food scraps were fed the pigs and chickens. The milk was used for the family after the cream was removed and made into butter. Any excess eggs were sold or traded to a Jewish fruit and vegetable huckster. When it came time to butcher, every part of the hog was used except the squeal.

Grandma Rebecca was no slouch either. She made Christmas presents of table, chairs, and a cupboard for the girls out of fruit crates. She made her own patterns to create clothing out of newspaper. Left over material was miraculously transformed into quilts, enough quilts to give each one of her 30 grandchildren for wedding presents. Canning meats, fruit, and vegetables were other talents. Her baking skills made mouths water. All of this is remarkable since she only had a fourth grade education. We talk about thinking outside of the box, one Christmas when Granddad was working extra in the mine, caring for the cattle, and trying to catch a few winks Grandma went outside and trimmed several large pines in their yard. Dragging the limbs inside, she strung wires from their 12 foot ceiling and attached the pine to the wire to create her own Christmas tree. My mom Sybil said it was the most beautiful tree they ever had. The recycling movement is just taking steps backward to our grandparent’s era.

Adjusting

All of us need to adjust sometimes in our lives, whether it happens with folks as newlyweds, with new parents at the birth of a child, or the grief with the death of a parent, sibling, spouse, or God forbid the death of a child. These are major adjustments that we must make in order to continue living. But we must make hundreds of minor adjustments each day; from what to make for breakfast when there’s no milk for our cereal to what to wear when the clothing we wanted is in the laundry waiting to be washed.

During each day, we readjust our clothing to fit more comfortably, adjust our seatbelts when we intend to drive our cars, or adjust the channel on the television changing to the program we want to watch. Right now, I’m adjusting to a new medication that my primary care physician has started me on. I don’t think I am tolerating it well. I’ve found several of the side effects are present and discomforting, but no severe reactions, yet. I’ll continue with the medication until I can reach the office on Tuesday to see what she’d like me to do.

Because of the side effects, Saturday night I sat in my recliner to sleep. The chair is located close to two large windows. Suddenly, I was awakened when the room lit up almost like an arc welder had struck a spark. I had no idea what had happened, but my instinct said there was a lightning strike and very close. I cringed, waiting for the thunderous crash I was sure would follow, shaking the house and rattling the windows. I was sure the lightning strike had occurred right outside of the windows. But nothing happened for about 6 seconds, then from far off the thunder roared loudly and began to fill the room. The strike must have been massive for it to make enough light to fill my room and waken me. I got up to quickly adjust the windows to a closed position knowing the rain was sure to follow.

Instead of returning to my chair, I climbed into my bed, adjusted my pillow and blankets before returning to my interrupted night of rest and sleep.

Shredded Wheat

Shredded wheat has made the journey from one man’s dream and mechanical genius to a staple on many people’s breakfast table, me included. The first idea to shred wheat came from an inventor named Henry D. Perkey, a devout vegetarian. His plan for the shredded wheat biscuit wasn’t just for breakfast, but an addition to meal plates smothered in mushrooms and other vegetables. His vision was to have the wheat biscuit an integral part of the sailors diet.

Today, most shredded wheat biscuits are eaten as common breakfast fare. The biscuits come in three sizes, the regular pillow-shaped, the mini, and the bite sized. Over the years, different companies sold the name and process to other companies. Many changed the name, but the basic recipe and production method have remained the same. Today, cereal companies have added a sugar glaze to the top of the smaller sizes in various flavors and colors, but the biscuit is unchanged.

I’ve said all of this to tell a story about my father, Carl Beck. Shredded wheat was one of the items on his breakfast list. My dad wasn’t a person to change habits easily. While watching television, an advertisement shot across the screen saying Nabisco shredded wheat contained no salt. This was a time when salt was a no-no and a contributing factor to high blood pressure. Even though we tried to correct my dad’s misconception of what he heard, he was sure that the company removed the salt from his favorite dish and would sprinkle salt on the biscuits before baptizing them in milk.

The milk I grew up on was raw milk from a neighboring farm. Raw milk is unpasteurized and sometimes the butterfat content and flavors varied, depending on which cow yielded the milk. I was very picky about the flavor. Sometimes when a cow would graze on a strong tasting plant, that flavor would pass through the cow and into the milk and I would complain. “There’s nothing wrong,” my dad would thunder, “Drink your milk.” He was bigger, stronger, and he was my dad. Reluctantly, the milk from my glass or cereal bowl would disappear.

Insulbrick Memories

Insulbrick, many people will wonder what is Insulbrick, especially the younger readers. This product was a heavy tar paper created to insulate and protect homes from harsh weather and cold. It was heavier than the roofing shingles we now use to cover the roofs of our homes to keep us warm and dry. Insulbrick arrived in stiff, heavy rolls that were uncoiled and nailed to the rough-sawn board sides of homes to make them weather tight, watertight, and more appealing to the eye. The thick tarpaper had coarse mineral coating applied in patterns to resemble brick or cut stone. The simulated brick product was offered in a dark red color or in a lighter tan palette, while the cut stone presented in a pale gray hue. The lines that created the stone or brick patterns were areas where the mineral coating was absent and the tar underlayment showed through.

The house that my father, Carl Beck bought was covered in the brown brick pattern, while the neighbor’s house was wrapped in the gray stone appearing design. Jesse Hall had built both homes, moving into the larger one when its construction was complete.

As a youngster, I can remember many of the homes in our area were wrapped in this product. One building was the Assembly of God church in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. It was a large structure, dark and almost forbidding with double doors and small windows. The dark red expanse of Insulbrick seemed grim, imposing, and not very welcoming at all. The inside was less intimidating with light colored walls and fold-up theater seats.

The old seats were wonderful. Their fold down section wore a thick-spring and cloth-covered cushion that made sitting to listen to a long sermon much easier to endure. I seem to recall there was a patterned, burgundy carpet lining main aisle that separated the two sections of dusty gray colored seating. It sloped downward toward the raised dais stage portion of the church.

That Insulbrick covered church is now gone. It’s become merely a part of my past. I was quite young. Now, it’s just a faded recollection, only vaguely seen through the dusty lens of a child’s memory.

Maybe Now

Saturday I spent 4 hours at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. Many of the projects are over, but there are quite a few left to tackle. Right now, I’ve been assigned to filing the obituaries into a scrapbook type of storage. I’ve been doing that for 2 days, but Saturday, as I was filing some of the accumulated listings, I opened the book, looking for places to store them. As I did, I saw my dad’s picture and his obituary. It wasn’t what I needed to see with the death of my friend so near. My attention was drawn to the opposite page. There were the obituaries for my cousin, uncle, Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother, and my wife Cindy. It was enough and I called it quits for the day.

Another busy weekend is over and my good friend Dr. Norman Lee Johnston has been paid to rest. Hopefully the stress that has been building is behind me and things will slow for a bit. One of my good friends and travelling companions drove to McConnellsburg, Pennsylvania for the interment and committal services. We were both long time friends of Pastor Johnston.

As soon as the church service was over and before Sunday school started, we left from the church on the ninety-one mile drive. The early morning showers were over and the air was fresh and warm. Traffic was moderately light on the turnpike, and we were there with time to spare before the service. Since, neither of us had been to just a graveside ceremony, we were unsure of what to expect. So, we stopped at a grocery store for some snacks until afterwards when we planned to eat at a restaurant before heading home.

Nearly thirty-five people gathered at the cemetery. A brief prayer, an eulogy, and the message were separated by violin hymn renditions from one of Norman’s former students. The weather was breezy, warm and the sky sunny with brief clouds scudding overhead. The cemetery is located not far from his wife Joy’s home place. The graveyard is nestled in a valley, surrounded by tree clad mountains. It was a perfect last resting place for this man of God, family man, and friend.

Stress I Guess

Last week I was struggling over several important decisions. I wasn’t exactly worried over which decisions to make; I’d already made them and was concerned as to whether or not I had made the right choices. My concerns weren’t about those choices, but what would the outcome be because of my decisions. I felt sure they were correct, but there was sometimes the niggling, uneasy, queasy feeling that lingers in the pit of the stomach.

When the weekend rolled around, I began to experience intermittent bouts of chest tightness. I knew it wasn’t muscular. The feeling of pressure didn’t change with movement or with a deep breath. The pressure wasn’t steady and was just a nuisance and like any good nurse, I ignored it.

Monday evening, I was told that a great friend, Pastor, professor and missionary, Dr. Norman Johnston had died. Although he wasn’t living nearby, we kept in touch, sharing stories and a rich history of birthdays, books, and families. His wife Joy and my wife Cindy were best friends. Our families drew closer during the various camping trips out west, to North Carolina, and through New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and Labrador.

His passing hit me fairly hard. I settled into a funk. Not quite a depression because I could still function, but my emotions and throat were raw. I made it through Tuesday and Wednesday work day at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society with a continuation of the recurrent episodes of chest tightness.

Wednesday evening while sitting in prayer meeting, I felt a burning sensation in the right side of my chest with some numbness of the fingers of my left hand. This scared me. It brought my symptoms to a head and I decided I needed to be checked. It wasn’t sympathy pains from Pastor J’s heart attack, they were my own. Worried, I drove myself to the hospital.

The EKG and the MI enzymes came back normal, but with my risk factors, the ED doctor decided to keep me for a second EKG, a second set of MI enzymes, and a stress test in the morning. I didn’t get much rest. The ER “hold bed” was a room that easily could have been a meat locker. One or two degrees lower, I would have been able to see my breath. I did catch a few winks, hiding beneath a couple of thin cotton blankets. I am still among the living and out of the hospital. I passed my stress test. It feels good that it isn’t my heart, but I am still having occasional bouts of tightness.

Choked with Emotion

I found out Monday evening that a long time friend, mentor, and Pastor died. It’s still hard for me to believe but I just saw the obituary. I first met him as a missionary bund for Russia. He had been a missionary to South Korea, starting several churches there. His wife Joy and children Ahna, Seth, Rebecca, and Benjamin were making the deputation tour with him. He was short in stature, but larger than life in his passion to serve the Lord. His love of his family and fellow man was dwarfed only by his love of God and his passion to share the Gospel story.

I’ve seen many other posts from people that Pastor Norman Johnston has impacted. Teaching, preaching, and starting churches he shared his life and knowledge with the unsaved and those seeking to follow in the footsteps of Jesus.

I have many memories of this wonderful man I call my friend, but nearly everyone that he met called him a friend. His preaching and teaching often meandered down a rabbit trail with facts that only made the illustration he was making more interesting. Any and all age groups responded to this man’s compassion. Pastor J. had an infectious smile that welcomed from the first meeting.

It was under his stewardship that my wife Cindy, my children Amanda, Andrew, and Anna made out trips out west, visiting places that are blessed memories. Two of my children and I accompanied him as we drove to the northern tip of New Foundland and took a ship farther north to Nain in Labrador, just because one young man expressed a desire to be a missionary there.

My son, with several others shared the trip to South Korea as Pastor Johnson returned to celebrate an anniversary of a church he founded there. Lives of people he met in Russia have improved because of his sharing the Bread of Life and several potatoes he brought from America.

Every person that Pastor Norm met has story after story of how he impacted our lives. Volumes of tales could be written about him and my words do little justice. We will sorely miss him, but I know there is rejoicing in Heaven.

Wet Behind the Ears

Saturday evening I was invited to attend a baseball game with 2 of my friends. The San Francisco Giants were in town to play the Pittsburgh Pirates at PNC Park. My friends also go to the same church that I do and we enjoy baseball. We were to leave my house at 4 pm, for the beginning of the game at 7 pm, but one of the ladies got stuck in traffic and we departed my house about 15 minutes late. Myself and the other lady are “always early” people while the person who was “late” is a “just right on time” person.

The rain event started shortly after our departure. The clouds burst and the downpour began as re reached Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. Huge raindrops started to pound the car and were soon were accompanied by the pings of the hail. The deluge intensified until we could see little else. It slowed as we neared the entrance to the turnpike in New Stanton. Rain showers plagued us off and on until we fund our parking spot in a garage. We were blessed to find the rain halted as we made our way to the stadium, crossing the Clemente Bridge. The gates to the park were open and we were able to make a timely entrance.

The usher was there to wipe away the water from our seats in section 127 just behind third base and the Pirates dugout. Pittsburgh is the only team with their dugout on the third base side because of the wonderful view of the city.We were prepared for the showers to continue and pulled out our ponchos and quickly donned them as a curtain of rain swept across the tarp covered playing field, rain delay. Showers and periods of heavier bands of rain kept coming. Water leaked beneath our ponchos and we still felt the effects of the storm. Elbows and legs felt the trickles of water that managed to creep through our plastic coverings. We were wet almost everywhere but, behind our ears. The game began late and by the time I got to bed, it was 2 am. I woke at 6:55 am, a bit early, but began to get ready for the day.

Jeepers Peepers

As I sat at my desk last night trying to concentrate on a subject to write about for my posts, a gentle breeze slid though my partially open window. Sweet aromas from the two apple trees in the back yard stir my scent buds. I saw that their branches were heavily laden with blossoms when I went to retrieve the mail yesterday.

The curtain gently undulated, following the ebb and rush of the warm spring zephyr. Rain washed smells of recently mown grass interspaced with the blossomed scents. My attention wandered away from the ideas that I wanted to share in my BlogSpot.

It was the peepers that interfered with my thoughts. Their cacophony of cheeps as they competed for mates was distracting and disconcerting. It is an endless concert, some louder with others singing backup. These little amphibians have high pitched calls, unlike the GAR-RUMPH of the bull frogs that lived in the ditches left by strip miners behind my parent’s house. Like here, the water wasn’t exactly stagnant, but its low flow encouraged the growth of algae and an underwater, slimy moss.

At my home place, the frogs loved the still water and as kids we found mounds of their translucent, mucous-like eggs with dark embryos tucked inside, clinging to the marsh grasses. We would check on the eggs progress throughout the spring. As summer approached, pollywogs emerged. We called them tadpoles. Huge heads, propelled by a thin tail almost twice the length of their heads, wiggled to push them through the water as they tried to escape our grasp. After their capture, we’d imprison them in an old jelly jar, keep them for a short while, before returning them to the waters of their birth. It was fun for us, but I’m not sure about the tadpoles.

Later, small legs would appear. The heads seemed to shrink to become part of the body. Soon, miniature replicas of their parents would emerge. They were more elusive and harder to catch, but my brother and I still tried to catch them too. Each year, the cycle would repeat itself. We were witness to the miracle of birth.

Mow Mow Mow That Yard

Monday I woke with a headache, the queasies, and slightly off balance. I wasn’t actually dizzy, but had to be careful when I got up or walked. My headache was left over from Sunday evening. I occasionally get a bout of disequilibrium, but I think this was head and sinus congestion. I thought that it was over and decided to do a load of laundry and to mow my yard. By the time I was finished, I was feeling nauseated again by the time I finished my yard, but hung in until I did my neighbor’s yard. One of my co-workers asked why I didn’t have the neighbor boy mow my lawn. I told him, my neighbor was over eighty with 2 hearing aids and hip replacement surgery.

I made a bread pudding for tomorrow lunch and accidentally doubled the sugar for the recipe. Other than allowing it to bake for another 5 minutes to set fully, the taste was spot on even though it was certainly sweet.

Other mowing stories from the past came to mind. When my wife Cindy was alive, I only had a walk behind mower. It was hot outside, and I developed a major cramp in the calf of my leg. I dropped to the ground and tried to stretch it out. When I couldn’t, I crawled back inside and relaxed until it went away. I can’t remember whether I finished the lawn or not.

Another mower story is about my dad, Carl Beck. For some reason, he only bought lawn mowers that were painted red. When we asked him about it, he said, “Red makes them run like a son-of-a-gun.” Enough said.

The first new riding mower that I bought has an amusing story to it. My son Andrew had some friends who had 4 wheelers. He pestered me about getting an ATV for him. There were other things for which the money was needed. I thought I’d tease him when I bought the riding lawn mower. I just didn’t have time to mow with a walk behind. While he was at school, the mower was delivered. I hid it behind the house. When he came home, I said we bought a 2 wheeler and after going over the safety rules for driving it, I tossed him the keys and told him where it was. He rushed out. When he saw it, he uttered not a word, but turned the key and sped off. Love that kid.

Displays

I’ve been involved with the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. For almost 2 months, I’ve been sorting, storing, and straightening files, ledgers, and artifacts. I just finished redoing the photographs and information on local churches, cemeteries, and towns. They are now in alphabetical order and should be easier to find. Several drawers were packed so tightly, it was difficult to actually search through the stored documents to find anything specific. The contents of the drawers are now separated and divided into smaller categories of businesses, mines, railroads, iron furnaces and people for the different locales. There are still tasks ahead and can hardly wait to search through more items.

This past Saturday a young man was in the process of buying a house in a nearby community. He was seeking any information or photographs of the house or the surrounding area. Since I’d just recently gone through the archived documents, I was able to pull several folders with information and photos of that town for him to review. As we talked, he said that he collected some military memorabilia and lingered to look at the photographs hanging on the walls and examine the displays in our cases. He was impressed enough that he decided to join our organization.

We have just finished a display of Mill Run, Pennsylvania, including some old postcards of the metal bridge and reservoir, Camp Christian (formerly Killarney Park), articles of the area, and a collage of Frank Lloyd Wright’s creation, Fallingwater. Fallingwater was the home he created for the Edgar J. Kaufmann family. The house is cantilevered over the hillside and stream below.

Another lady and I are making plans to eventually change the other displays in the cases. We want to continue to honor our military by revamping the 2 display cases already in use and rearranging the photographs. We want to exhibit the schools of the area, including many that are no longer there. We are hoping to do a display of souvenir plates and Bibles over the years. It all takes time and a bit of effort, but we certainly plan to make the Historical Society a place to visit and keep interest of the past alive.

Doing the Hustle

The hustle still continues…no, not the dance. I’m not a dancer, but I still am having a hectic pace. I was so much into the things I needed to do, I forgot to go to the monthly luncheon with the Grand Dames of Frick Retirees. This past Wednesday, I was concentrating on the work that was ahead of me, finishing the sorting and filing of the stacks of papers in the massive filing cabinet, I forgot to drive to the luncheon with the retired nurses from Frick. I think I need a secretary or at least a better filing system for my brain.

The good news is that I managed to finish the filing cabinet drawers. There were only 3 drawers that were packed tightly with photos, papers, maps, and other paper memorabilia. Others had ledgers, log books, Bibles, framed photographs, and some things someone didn’t know what to do with and hid them in a file drawer. I feel good that it’s all behind me. There are smaller bins to sort yet.

Yesterday, a good friend and fellow writer needed a ride to have and endoscopy done. It is the least I could do for a dear friend and a person who is a help when it comes to getting my books ready for publication. I think because she has some physical limitations, it has caused her mental abilities on the computer to expand. She enjoys research and her fingers dance over the keyboard following trails.

I woke about 6:30 a.m. which is my usual time, made my usual tour of the bathroom, kitchen for breakfast, and my computer before picking her up at 9:30. She had to have blood work before her 10:30 appointment for the upper gastrointestinal endoscope. While waiting, I ate lunch at the hospital’s cafeteria. I am not sure who chose black uniforms for the personnel, but it was just shy of depressing to see food handlers in black.

After her scope and recovery time, I drove her to her home. She wanted to attend the writers meeting later that evening, so I stayed, chatted, and tortured her cat Harley. The meeting started at 5:30 p.m. and we decided to eat before we went. After the meeting, I needed groceries. Shortening a longer story, I finally made it home at 8:30 as twilight wrapped the day in a dark blanket.

 

When Cents Made Sense

There was a time when every town had at least one 5 and 10 cent store, most were items made in the United States: G. C. Murphy, J. G. McCrory, and Woolworth are to name a few. The ones that I remember more vividly from my childhood are the Murphy’s and McCrory’s located in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. The stores sat just across the street from each other. Their large display windows could almost mirror each other’s displays. Both had an upstairs and downstairs section to their stores.

Upon entering J. G. Murphy store there were steps that led downstairs to another wide expanse of merchandise that spanned the entire floor. In the back of the basement were stairs that led up and into the alley. Located at the bottom of the stairs was a coin operated riding horse and the restrooms. Outside of the ladies restroom was a niche with several green leather sofas.

The restrooms back then were pay toilets with a slot to insert a dime to open the stall door. I wonder how many women crawled under the privacy panels or sent a kid inside to open the door. Some women carried a dime in their shoe, just in case. Upstairs in Murphy’s was a candy counter and a hot nut display, cashews and Spanish peanuts, the sweets and nuts were weighed out and sealed in paper bags. Clothing, shoes, hats, and socks filled the counters. Downstairs were drapes, bedding, and toys.

J. G. McCrory store had one floor with the basement for storage and stock. At the front, you entered on the street level and their merchandise was on display. Because they only had one floor, their selection of items was smaller, but they did have a cafeteria with a long counter and swivel stools. I can’t remember eating there, but the food always smelled good.

McCrory’s was where I had my incident with the electronic bird, smothering its song with another bag of birdseed. It was after Christmas and the electronic bird bal wore itself long before the Christmas tree was tucked away. As my wife Cindy and I mounted the stairs, we were greeted by the bird’s chirping. I knew Cindy would be shopping for awhile and thought I can’t stand it much longer. Stealthily I made my way back to the display, quickly glanced around, and placed a bag of seed over the offending silver ball. Immediately the CHEEP, CHEEP went to cheep, cheep and I walked away.