Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

I recall several incidents where Marines and Navy Corpsmen met; not all of them were mutually supportive of each other. Although many Naval Corpsmen were cross trained to accompany Marines in the field, they didn’t always see eye to eye. One of my friends was a prime example. His name isn’t necessary at the moment, but at one time he had a definite Hippie type personality, caught in Uncle Sam’s military machine. He preferred the feel of sandals on his feet, puka shell bead necklace around his neck, and when he talked about a joint in his hand, he wasn’t talking about a knuckle bone.

Who says that the U.S. government doesn’t have a sense of humor? The fickle finger pointed at him, sending him to Field Medical School and then assigned him to a Marine company. This occurred during the Vietnam War when the feeling between Hippies and the Marines weren’t at their best. I wrote my friend a letter and accidentally included his middle name Felix. He wrote back saying it wasn’t hard enough being with these gung-ho meatheads and now they had his middle name to harass him. Sorry man.

Another tale of crosscurrents between Marines and Corpsmen happened while I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The Marines guarded the base while the corpsmen handled the hospital and ambulance needs. There were times when they would mix at the enlisted men’s clubs to eat, drink, and gamble. One challenge that often occurred was a drinking game. A tab would be opened at the bar with the loser responsible for the bill. Beers would appear and disappear until one or the other of the contestants would allow his beers to reappear. They would take turns fetching the drinks from the bar. When the corpsman had his fill, he would pour ipecac syrup into the Marine’s beer. Ipecac is an emetic agent that induces vomiting. By then, the Marine’s taste buds were dulled and he didn’t notice the flavor change. Corpsmen rarely had to pay the tab. As a teetotaler, I was only a casual observer.

One good story shared with me happened while I was in Orlando, Florida. I was caring for a corpsman who’d been injured in Vietnam. He stepped on a land mine and had chunks from his buttocks and one calf missing. He said the Marines asked a Seabee bulldozer operator to clear a path across a field. The Seabee refused and the corpsman was the one who’d found the buried mine. Only by throwing himself forward was he able to escape death. He said that the Seabee later had fallen to friendly fire. Nobody messes with the Marines’ corpsmen.

One Holiday Season I’d Rather Forget

One year while I was working at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania during the holidays, we had two incidents that appeared to be suicides. One incident was on Christmas Eve and the other on New Year’s Eve. I was “fortunate” enough to have been working both evenings.

Christmas Eve in the emergency department, we received a radio alert from an inbound ambulance, a trauma victim from a motor vehicle accident. We only knew that it had been a head on collision between a car and a large truck. We got the rest of the story when the ambulance crew arrived. A middle aged male was going the wrong way on a four-lane divided highway. There was little more we could do than to pronounce him deceased. He had massive trauma to his head, legs, and chest.

Later that evening when we were able to identify the driver, we were crushed to find he was the husband of one of our medical/ surgical nurses. She was a nurse with whom I had worked the nightshift several years earlier. They were going through a divorce and had two young sons; eleven and thirteen. The sadness of that tragedy affected the entire hospital. Actually it affected the whole town. It was as though someone dimmed or extinguished the Christmas spirit. Shortly after his funeral, the nurse quit her job at our hospital, sold her home, and moved away.

The second suicide occurred on New Year’s Eve. Again I was fortunate enough to be on duty. The ambulance crew called with an abbreviated report. A young man had been found unresponsive in his garage with the car’s engine running. He was slumped over the steering wheel. Not knowing how long that he’d been there, the ambulance crew attempted to revive him and brought him to the hospital.

He was a well known person in the community and the ambulance crew did all they could to resuscitate hem. We continued for a short while after his arrival, but to no avail.

It was rumored that he was heavily in debt and he left behind a lovely young wife to deal with the chaos of his death. They had a new house and a new baby, but with all the things she had, she’d lost so much.

The tragedy of these two deaths extinguished my Christmas lights and silenced the New Year’s bells for me. It was as though that year’s holidays were wrapped in a gray blanket. I remember nothing more about that Christmas and New Year other than those two deaths and the grief and sympathy I shared with those two families.

Catch a Falling Star

Almost seventy years ago, the song “Catch a Falling Star and put it in your pocket.” It was a catchy little ditty that was sung by many artists. In 1958, one of the most prominent artists to release it was Perry Como. His crooning voice made the song a hit.

I have no idea what its actual meaning is, but for myself it means to capture moments in time before they fall away into obscurity. Like meteors that shoot brightly across the dark night sky, memories flare intensely for a moment before they begin to fade and finally disappear. So many things that my dad, Carl Beck and my mom Sybil Miner Beck have slipped into dark crevices and may never be recalled again. Stories of my grandparents Edson and Anna Kalp Beck and Ray and Rebecca Rugg Miner have been lost. Sometimes someone will breathe on the coals of a memory and I can fan it into flames. When that occurs, I quickly write about it in my BlogSpot. I try to replace as much of the facts from the incident. Sometimes it’s not completely accurate and when another relative furnishes more facts, I will go back and correct the mistake or expand the scope of the story.

I wish that I would have paid closer attention to the details passed down in an oral tradition. I’m trying to record the pieces of my heritage and pass it to my children and grandchildren. I don’t have the patience or the ability to do the research of the genealogy of our family. I will let that task to others. To me that path is dry and dusty. I try to add flesh to skeletons of the past and make the readings of them more interesting.

Catching that falling star is what I am attempting to do. I want to create a verbal picture sharing the beauty, the sadness, or the joy of our family’s past. I share some of my own stories of my life growing up; from the time of my youth through school, the Navy, college, and days of work. Not too long ago I shared a story that I hadn’t shared with my children. They were surprised to hear that when I was in the Navy, my “friends” had planned to kill me, thinking I was a snitch.

Keep Christmas Merry

The Christmas season is often filled with the rush of buying gifts, wrapping presents, and with the many other tasks like writing greeting cards, baking cookies, or creating an extravagant meal. These are the temporal things that will keep us busy, consume our time, and will frustrate us. When Christmas gatherings occur, it’s a blur of activities that are over and done within a matter of a few hours. Then what? Sitting among the crumpled colored paper and discarded boxes, we sigh and often feel let down, depressed, and deflated. We may think, “Is that all there is?” Is this what the Christmas season is all about…or is there more?

Celebrating Christmas isn’t about the lighted and decorated tree in the center of the living room nor is it about the stockings on the mantle of the fireplace. It’s not about Santa, the elf on the shelf, or a sleigh and reindeer. The Grinch was close to finding the true meaning of Christmas, yet missed it by a mile. He recognized that Christmas was so much more than food, frolic, and favors, but didn’t look far enough for the reason. Perhaps the celebrants of Whoville didn’t know the real reason either.

There was no mention of the birth of the Christ child, no mention of the baby Jesus. There was no mention of the angels announcing the virgin’s conception of the prophesied Messiah. There was no mention of the shepherds being directed to visit this special child that was swaddled and lying in a manger, no mention of the heavenly omen of the star that guided the magi to Bethlehem seeking this newborn King of kings.

Television renditions of Christmas have purposefully removed and avoided any mention of the Christ child’s birth, yet they invoke his holy title in each Christmas story that they create. They use only his title without sharing anything else about this Holy Child who is God and yet willingly took on the form of a human. God loves us so much that he sent his only begotten Son to understand the trails and temptations of mankind and yet he remained sinless. He came to suffer and to die; carrying all of our sins to the cross at Calvary that mankind could be redeemed from sin’s curse and to provide a way to heaven and to dwell eternally. This was the ultimate Christmas gift. This is reason for the joy of the season. This is the true blessing of Christmas.

Merry Christmas to all of my readers and thank you for your supportive comments.

The Christmas Corsage

After Mark died, I was going through the boxes that had been stored in our closets. I was trying to sort through my emotions and the years of accumulated things. There were boxes of books, old clothing, and souvenirs stored over the many years. Near the bottom of a box I found a much smaller carton that held a souvenir. It was dried and wrapped in thin white tissue paper.

Immediately, my mind went back to 1949. I was a senior in high school and had accepted a date with Mark. Earlier, Mark volunteered to join the Marines. After the war, he was discharged and returned home. He was considered a man even though he was only nineteen. He was often somber and held the memories of the last two years tightly inside.

Our date was for the high school Christmas dance. I needed to find a fancy dress to wear, but it wasn’t going to be easy for me. Money was still tight and formal wear wasn’t readily available. Mom decided to take me shopping to see what we could find.

We searched through the several stores in town. Either the prices were so very high or the designs didn’t fit my body or the color of the material didn’t go well with my hair and skin color. We were almost out of options when my mom said, “Let’s try one last store before we give up and go home.”

It just happened to be a store which sold recycled clothing. I’d walked past that store many times, but I’d never gone inside. It seemed to me that the shop had been there forever. Pushing open the wooden door with glass inserts, we were greeted by the soft tinkling of brass bells hanging on a thick cord from the door handle.

Across the narrow sales floor I saw a mannequin wearing a dark emerald green gown with a full, flowing skirt. I somehow knew that it would fit. I nodded to my mom. She smiled.

The tall, gray haired sales lady came from behind a sales counter and asked, “May I help you?”

Mom said, “Yes. We’d like to look at that green gown.”

“It is a lovely satin gown.” The sales clerk replied as she removed it and handed it to me. She pointed out the dressing room near the back of the store.

I quickly slipped out of my clothing and carefully climbed inside of the gown. I loved the feeling of the smooth silkiness in the material as I slid my hands over the skirt. I stepped out of the dressing room for my mom to see the dress.

I heard my mom gasp. “Honey, that gown looks like it was made for you” as she eased the zipper up on the dress.

The sales woman said. “Come here.” Reaching beneath the sales counter, she pulled out something shiny. She slipped the narrow rhinestone covered belt around my waist, cinching the dress tighter. It looked beautiful.

The clerk said, “I have one more thing. It’s been around the shop for awhile and I’ll make it a great deal for you. You will look stunning.” She disappeared into the back room returning with a short garment bag. She unzipped the bag and withdrew something white. It was a white fur stole. Draped around my shoulders, it completed the outfit.

Mark had bought the corsage of white carnations and holly. He pinned it on me just before we went to the dance nearly sixty-three years ago. Although the carnations had withered, my memories of Mark had not.

Voice of an Angel

Overnight a light snow fell creating a winter whitened world where ice and lace graced the bare trees surrounding the cabin. In the past she’d often entice me to walk with her when there was new fallen snow, I dressed her warmly and taking her hand, we walked beneath the crystal and powder covered canopy. I was lost in the beauty of the moment, while my wife was lost, somewhere inside of herself. As we explored, I noticed a stand of pines behind the cabin.

Nearly forty years ago, I said, "I Carl, take thee, Sybil…."

It had been years since I’d decorated the house for Christmas and even longer since we’d brought a live pine into our home. I felt that it was time to do it again; after all, this might be our last holiday together.

It was December 1976. We’d just moved into this rustic cabin. It was the home place where my wife was raised. It was a long shot, but her Alzheimer’s was progressing rapidly. I thought if she was in familiar surroundings it might slow the invasive nature of the disease. It wasn’t called Alzheimer’s back then. It was called hardening of the arteries or dementia.

I could see it all slipping away, she scarcely recognized me as her husband. She’d been forgetting things for a long time and eventually she retreated into a shell of silence. We still had occasional moments of intimacy. I would sit beside her, hold her in my arms, and stroke the hair which had turned from gold into silver. I would remind her of the things I loved about her and memories which we shared.

Helping her to dress, eat, and wash controlled my life. She had given so much of her life to me, what could I do but share mine? It was very stressful at times, but she was the love of my life.

Seeing the group of young pine trees we turned back to the cabin. I unlocked the shed, removed a hatchet from my toolbox, and led her back to the small grove. She stood nearby watching as I chopped at the tree. Snow sifted onto me with each swing of the blade. The evergreen groaned once, then fell. I tucked the hatchet behind my belt, grasped a branch of the tree with one hand and took her hand with the other, towing the tree behind us. Our progress back to the house was slow; stopping to catch my breath several times.

I helped her climb the steps onto the porch, then pulled the tree onto the veranda, I leaned it by the side of the door and made a hasty trip to the shed to fetch the box of ornaments and the tree stand. Leading her inside, I helped her remove her coat and gloves, then sat her in her favorite chair. Trading the hatchet for a saw, I trimmed the pine’s trunk to fit the stand and brought it inside. The tree was soon covered with lights and ornaments. It looked so bright and festive. She watched as I worked, but I was unsure what registered in her brain.

I was in the kitchen making cups of cocoa for us when I heard her stirring. I needed to check to see what she was doing and to be sure that she was safe. She was standing and staring at the tree. I watched her lift a tentative finger to touch one of the ornaments. I held my breath. It was the first Christmas bulb that we bought after our wedding. Our names Carl and Sybil were painted on its smooth, silver sides. A light flashed from her normally dull eyes.

Touching the bright, shiny orb, she glanced around. A vaguely familiar voice spoke. It was rusty from many years of disuse. “Where’s Carl? I love him so.” The voice stopped as suddenly as it started. The flicker of light in her eyes went out, but an angel had spoken.

Divine Intervention

Have you ever heard a small voice inside tell you that you needed to do something? Whether it was to call someone on the telephone, stop by for a visit, or send a text or a card. I know that there were many such incidents in the past, too insignificant to remember. It’s almost like the pay-it-forward movement. The past month or so instead of reclaiming the quarter from the return grocery cart, I pass the cart along to the next person. It gives me an especially warm feeling when it’s an older person who looks like they count every penny and that person gives a big smile and says, “Thank you.”

Life is made up of many such moments that make someone’s day a little bit better. A smile and saying Merry Christmas to employees of the bank or grocery store may make their day just a bit smoother or a ray of sunshine in a bad day. I made a resolution many years ago that if I was grumpy, I wouldn’t leave my house; no one wants to deal with a grumpy old man. I sometimes share that resolution with people at the checkout counter. It’s surprising the smiles and responses I get when I share it. I feel amazed when they tell me they just had a rude customer that caused them grief.

This entire prelude was to share something that occurred Thursday as I returned home from shopping. I saw our Pastor emeritus standing behind his vehicle in his driveway. His eyesight has been failing lately and has become a definite problem for him and his wife. She has to carry more of the burden and she was sick last Sunday. That little voice began to tickle my ears, “Stop and see how they are doing.” I almost ignored it and turned to go home when the voice got a little louder, “See if they’re okay.”

I pulled into the driveway and asked how his wife was doing. He told me that the doors were frozen shut on his car and needed to get them open. His face was reddened from the cold. I was worried about his health. Getting out of my car, I used the heel of my hand to loosen the ice on one door. I pulled it open. The other door was coated more thickly and I couldn’t loosen the ice the same way. I said, “Let me get inside and push while you pull” It was a success. It was then he shared they needed to go to the hospital to have blood work for his wife. Thank you for prodding me into action God.

Yes My Deer I’m Through

Last Wednesday I managed to get a young button buck, antlerless deer not too far from my parent’s home. It was at the top of the hill that my brother and I as well as the neighborhood kids would sled ride. It was the same hill that we would struggle up to meet our friends to go swimming in the summer. There was a closer swimming hole, but the trek to swim with friends sometimes outweighed the heat of the journey.

The first couple of days hunting, the fields and woods seemed void of deer, although there were buck rubs and trails. It didn’t seem to have any deer there. I tried some other areas before heading back to that hilltop. It was a success.

Over the past few days I was able to butcher the deer myself. I learned basic meat cutting at my grandfather Ray Miner’s farm. Each year the family would gather to butcher two hogs and a beef. It was an all hands on deck project with assigned tasks. My uncle Francis Peck and I would strip any meat that clung to the bones for sausage or ground beef. The women clean the natural casings, season the sausage meat, and then stuff the sausage in the casings. They would also sort, wrap, and label the types of meat to put in the freezer. Before the freezer, the meats were canned in Mason jars and stored in the basement. Pork fat was rendered into lard for cooking and baking. The hog hides would be scraped and the beef hide was cleaned to be sold.

There are several reasons that I like to butcher my own deer. If I find a hair on the meat, I know who to blame, I remove the meat from the bones before cutting. I don’t like the splinters and bone “dust” from cutting the meat with a band saw. I know it is my deer and not someone else’s. I know how it was handled and how long it waited to be cut up. The meat I get is all the meat from my deer.

Friday, I used some of the meat to make jerky. I put the strips to marinate for several days, then I placed it on trays to dehydrate. My house quickly filled with that spicy, mouth-watering aroma. I usually have to hide it to save some for myself when my kids visit.

Monday, I removed the last of the meat and took it to my brother’s house to grind, season, and fill the casings to make salami. Coming home, I placed the salamis in a roaster. After cooking, I hung them to cool. I finished wrapping the steaks bound for the freezer.

The Stroke of Love

The small clapboard building was the center of the community located at the head of a valley in the backwoods of Tennessee. Families could only reach their homes by foot or riding their mules. Single-file trails were the only passages through the mountains. Running water came from springs or streams. Indoor plumbing was nonexistent.

On Sunday, the clapboard building was a church; on weekdays a schoolhouse. Pews were backless, plank benches. They had no preacher, so elder Haden ministered to folks of the rural community. His messages were always Hell-fire and brimstone. Each sermon spoke of an angry God who wanted to punish sinners, preaching of a harsh and judgmental Father.

In school were eight children in five grades, taught by a single teacher. Layton Chance was an outstanding pupil, reading every book he could lay his hands on. When he’d read every book in the community, he walked nearly six miles to borrow books from a nearby town’s library. His appetite for knowledge earned him a reputation and a scholarship to a Bible college.

After years of sermons on an angry God, Chance discovered the attributes of a loving Father. He learned that God sent his Son, Jesus, to die as ransom for man’s sin debt. Chance graduated, carrying the message of God’s love in his heart.

Back home Chance found that Haden was still preaching sermons about a wrathful God.  Chance attempted to breach the walls of a vengeful God, but Haden fought back.

“If you’re going to try to teach that love foolishness in my church, I will throw you out.” Then he addressed the rest of the congregation, “Listen to him and you can leave the church as well.”

Chance countered, “Brother Haden, 1 John chapter four reads ‘God is love.’ It doesn’t just say God loves, it says God is love. He sent his Son, Jesus to die for our sins. That’s a Father’s love, not someone who hates mankind.”

“Out, out!” Haden screamed. Spittle flew from his lips.

Chance had just turned to leave when Haden collapsed. He helped the other men of the church carry Haden home. Chance stayed by Haden’s side.

The stroke left Elder Haden weak. Chance worked Haden’s farm and his own, often eighteen hours each day. After many weeks, with help Haden was able to walk to church.

As he entered the sanctuary an expectant hush fell over the small congregation. A fly buzzed overhead. Haden shuffled to the pulpit. Pulling himself erect, he said, “God is love.” Turning, he took a seat on a plank bench.

Christmas Character

A memorable person that I met and cared while working at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, was a wizened older gentleman who had been a mule skinner in the United States Army during the Great War. He took care of the mules that were used to drag the cannons and caissons in World War I. It wasn’t called World War I until the second was fought. He told us that he had been very young when he signed on and when the war was over, he went back to school and had become a doctor. He talked about the animals he had charge over and about the several that he owned, rather than war stories. The time he spent with those animals he was caring for seemed to be what he chose to remember about the war.

His terminal cancer had sent him to us. He became weak and could no longer take care of himself or control the growing pain in his cancer withered body. He came to Frick Hospital because he needed our help.

It seemed that Belladonna and opium suppositories with an occasional injection of morphine gave him the most pain relief. I tried to make time to stay with him until he was able to obtain some pain relief. He would talk to me as he waited for the pain relieving effects of the medications to take hold of his frail body. After that, he settled down to sleep until the pain woke him again.

He told us that he was a surgeon. This fellow warrior in the health field came to us just before the Christmas holidays. Some of his friends brought the gift of a small artificial Christmas tree that was covered in tiny lights and delicate ornaments. The little tree was beautiful and filled his room with soft light. This was a time when hospitals still allowed electric lights to be used.

Sometimes when we would make rounds he would be awake quietly staring at the tree. The tiny lights glowed in his eyes. He was discharged to a long term care facility shortly after Christmas and I never heard from him again. Stories of his life glowed in my life like the Christmas lights from that small tree glistened in his eyes, even if it was only for a little bit.

More Momma Sib Stories

My brother Ken and I went hunting deer yesterday. The snow came, but the deer didn’t. As we sat we chatted quietly. He reminded me of a story about our mom, Sybil Miner Beck. She held many jobs in her lifetime. In high school, she worked at Resh’s Red & White store in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. She worked at the local bank and did accounting work for two large corporations. She also did taxes, a leftover from helping our grandfather Edson Thomas Beck. Mom’s office was a room at the side of our house. It could only be reached from the driveway by walking past the front door of our house along a covered walkway.

Too many times Mom’s customers came to the front door and knocked, thinking that it was her office door. Mom finally made a sign posted on the door directing them to her office area. The sign read, “Use other door” with a drawn an arrow that pointed toward her office.

Ken was at home when two older women came to have their taxes done and knocked on the front door. Ken was inside watching television and ignored them. They knocked a second time and Ken ignored them thinking they would soon read the posted sign and move on to Mom’s office.

When they knocked the third time it upset my brother and set of his temper. He answered the knock and opened the door. The ladies smiled and started to come inside, but Ken stood his ground and they couldn’t get by him to come inside.

Ken had only partly opened the door and he said, “Can’t you read?”

They smiled again and tried to come inside after saying “Of course we can.”

Ken said, “Then read” and slammed the door in their faces.

They stood there, stunned for a few minutes and finally noticed the sign and walked down the walk to Mom’s office to keep their appointment time.

Mom was also Notary Republic. She heard the office door open and went to investigate. A stranger sat at her desk. She asked, “May I help you?” When he looked up, he had a glassy eyed stare that gave mom the chills. He didn’t say a word, it was then Ken’s Doberman Pincher Sam walked out and sat at her side. The man saw Sam, rose, and left the house. Whether he meant to cause a problem or not, Sam answered the question for him.

Memories of Family Farmhouses

As I walked into my house after Sunday morning church services, I caught a faint peppery, spicy smell. It was a lingering smoky odor from the furnace pipe separation the other evening. I thank God my cat Willow and the smoke alarm kept me from passing through the pearly gates of heaven. However, that aroma took me back to my youth when we would visit my great-great-grandfather Curtis Rugg’s home in Mill Run, Pennsylvania.

His home was the gathering place for the annual Rugg reunion. That farmhouse was white clapboard with dark green trim. There was a small front porch with a swing and I can remember seeing Curtis and my great-uncle Lincoln sitting on the swing. Curtis was stick thin while great-uncle Lincoln was rotund. Curtis was dressed casually, while Lincoln was in a three piece suit, a vest covering his wide expanse of belly.

There was a permanent stale smoke smell inside his home from the many fires that had been built in the kitchen stove. I’m sure they had a furnace in the basement, but I’d never been down there until long after Curtis had died. His son Theodore had also died and I went into the basement to do something for my great-aunt Ruth. I can remember the wooden shelves filled with canned goods in glass Mason jars, but I can’t remember seeing a furnace.

Like most farmhouses of that time, the downstairs consisted of a parlor, sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. Somewhere inside were the stairs leading up to four bedrooms; bathroom, only a path to the outhouse. There was a chicken yard where turkeys and chickens roamed and kids who ventured inside did so at their own risk. Many of the roosters were protective and floggings were frequent. Closer to the back porch was the well. It was topped with a concrete pad and a four foot tall hand pump. A tin cup hung on the nozzle ready to catch the cold, clear water tasting slightly of rusty iron, drawn up from below. The house was surrounded by fields, fruit trees, a small stream, and bee hives. Ruth dealt harshly with any kids caught messing with her bees. A large red barn sat across the road from the house.

My grandparents Miner’s farmhouse was laid out in much the same manner, but I can’t remember a similar smoky smell in their home. Usually it was the aroma of baking bread or something else cooking. The only harsh odor I can recall was when chickens were killed, their feathers dunked in scalding water, and hair were scorched off their carcasses. All these memories tumbled out from a tiny sniff of smoke.

Obits and Not a Day Too Soon

A few days ago I was scrolling through the local newspaper, searching the obituaries on my computer to see if a friend had passed away, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but the name Thomas P. Beck. I did a double take because I knew that I was still alive. Looking more closely, I noticed that the middle initial didn’t match. My middle initial is “R.” I was named to honor both of my grandfathers, Edson Thomas Beck and Raymond Miner. Seeing “my” name under the obituaries gave me a good chuckle before I scanned past.

A couple of nights later at prayer meeting, I was approached by a former workmate and church member who said she was initially shocked to see my name in the obituaries. She hadn’t gotten a prayer call from the church. Stopping, she did notice the photograph and middle initial didn’t seem right. When she began to read the article beneath the photograph she breathed a sigh of relief. We both smiled at the near miss.

Now comes the coincidence. Wednesday evening I built a small fire in my basement wood burner. The weather forecast had been for wind chill temperatures in the morning, so I thought I’d ease the burden of my oil heater. About three a.m. Thursday morning my cat Willow came to the side of my recliner where I’d fallen asleep. She was meowing. Usually she’ll jump onto my lap until she decides to explore elsewhere in the house, but not so. She finally did jump onto my lap, but didn’t settle down like she normally does. I was about to go back to sleep when I hear “Beep-beep-beep.” I pushed Willow off my lap. It was either the smoke or the carbon monoxide detector. I sometimes get a low battery alarm, but this was different. I hurried to my computer room where the monitors are kept. I snapped on the light and saw some smoke in the air and hurried to the basement.

The last time I cleaned the chimney and furnace pipe, I must not have secured the pipe completely. It had separated. Smoke and carbon monoxide was spilling out from the opening and was filling my cellar. Pushing the pipe back together, I secured it and opened the garage door to air out the basement. Then I went back upstairs to silence the alarm and turn on the bathroom fan to pull the fumes out of the house. Last evening I still had a bit of a headache, but at least the Tribune Review doesn’t have a matching name for their obituary list…yet.

P.S. Willow got a few extra treats yesterday.

The Closer to Christmas We Get

Each year I start to buy and store gifts early. I “hide” them at the side of my bed until it’s time to wrap them. Months earlier I buy things that I think my family will enjoy. Some are gifts to make them smile and some are things they need and can use. The gifts aren’t usually expensive, just something for them to unwrap when we gather to celebrate the Christmas holiday. When I was still working, they made times to celebrate around my schedule. Nurses are one profession that doesn’t get every holiday off. They work odd schedules to provide care 24 hours of each day, 365 days per year.

Instead of going out on “black Friday” and face the insanity, small gifts are gradually and a Christmas card with money will make them happy. What makes me the happiest is that cards are easier than gifts to wrap. I got burned out with wrapping years ago. My mom, Sybil Beck would put gifts in bags so I couldn’t tell what they were and I got assigned the chore of wrapping them. I’ve kiddingly said that I want to spray paint the gifts. It would be easier and much quicker. I haven’t tried it yet, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t at sometime in the future.

This year our Pastor asked if I would come up with games and a skit for our Christmas banquet. I said that I would and have a few games planned. I was drawing a blank for an idea for a short skit. I asked my daughter Anna Prinkey to help with an idea. She did, but sometimes she can be a bit flamboyant. Her play had a cast of thousands with multiple scene changes. It was too much to prepare inr the short amount of time we had. Her idea was great, but the skit needed some trimming of characters and scenes. I sharpened my “knife” pencil and began to whittle away at the extra fluff. The core idea remained the same, but the cast is now three people: a wife, husband, and narrator. The stage is set with only a table and a chair with props that are replaced on the table to indicate scene changes.

One of the games is a dexterity game where even older people can join and enjoy. One game is using Bible passages to name towns in Pennsylvania. I was able to make a list of about twenty-five cities and small towns. Another game is a twist on Charades. Several “volunteers” will be “enticed” to act out the item found to get the audience to give the correct answer.

TREE-ting Myself

I had planned to hunt deer Saturday morning, but queezies from Friday evening continued Saturday morning and held hands with stomach cramps and skitters. Needless to say, I spent Saturday inside, confined. I decided to decorate my thirty year old artificial Christmas tree by undertaking the Herculean task of dragging cardboard boxes and plastic tubs filled with decorations into the living room.

We purchased it after my uncle Teddy died. Our custom had been for us to go together and cut a real pine for my wife Cindy and my grandmother Rebecca Miner. It was no longer felt the same and I just couldn’t carry on that tradition.

Each manufactured limb had to be inserted into the metal pole trunk and each branch had to be spread out to make the branches look “real.” Stringing lights, white iridescent rope garland, and finally, I began to hang the family’s large collection of handmade, passed-down heirlooms, and other ornaments gathered over the many years.

The only ornaments no longer hung on my tree are those that were given to my kids. Each year, Cindy and I would buy new ornaments for each child. When they were old enough, they were responsible to hang them on the tree and to store them safely until the following year. As each child got married, their ornaments left home with them to decorate their tree in their new home. They took part of their Christmas tradition with them.

But don’t worry. There still remained more than enough ornaments to fill the tree to overflowing. There is more of a problem to try and find space for them all. Some years it’s difficult to see the green “pine” needles among the dangling ornamentation. There’s a method to decorating the old holiday bush. The heaviest cloisonné bells and balls are placed nearer the “trunk” where the branches are thicker. The lightest and least breakable hang nearer the bottom where visiting children and my cat Willow can’t wreak havoc and cause breakage.

Between rest periods, I managed to empty almost half of the tubs and boxes. I’ll have to move some furniture so I can hang more ornaments on the back of the tree or just give up when the front and side branches are completely filled.

On a side note, I returned the huge tree storage tub to the bedroom. After I replaced some items to store back inside the tub, its lid fell and became wedged against a dresser and the door as I left. I spent the next 45 minutes trying to unwedge the lid to reenter the bedroom and nearly lost an arm in the process.

Keeping the Christmas spirit alive, “Bah, humbug.”

We Gather Together Thanksgiving 2019

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone. This year the people gathered at the table were less than usual. It wasn’t because of tragedy or loss but because of conflicting schedules. As our family expands, our members start to pull apart and the places they are expected to visit also grow. My son and his family were in Michigan visiting Renee’s Sister Monica. My brother Ken was at his hunting camp in West Virginia. Darcie could only stay a few minutes and ducked out with her daughter Breanne. Darcie’s two sons were in other states. My daughter Anna and her husband James were expected to celebrate at their home that they share with James’ mother and brothers.

Fewer people, but the spread of food was as large as usual. I made two pies. One pie was my usual offering of pecan pie and the other pie was a new recipe, Reese’s peanut butter and chocolate pie. Both pies turned out quite well, but when I arrived at my Sister Kathy’s home I found that she and her husband Doug made the same chocolate-peanut butter pies as well.

I made baked corn casserole, although it was as good as the corn my mother-in-law, Retha would make. I also roasted turkey breast. Others brought ham, fresh baked bread rolls, green beans, deep fried turkey, dressing balls, mashed potatoes, and lasagna. One thing that was overlooked was gravy. There was none for the mashed potatoes and none for the dressing balls, but we “made do” with what remained.

During the meal we shared family stories. These mealtime conversations were as usual good times for reminiscing and sharing of memories in an oral tradition. It was the way ancestors passed their history along throughout past generations.

One subject that unfortunately reemerged and remained alive was past recollections of passing gas. It was again introduced by one of the family member stepping out of the room to relieve abdominal cramping. A telltale aroma followed on the return to the room. After a prolonged spray of air freshener, the tales of noxious gases emerged. With Ken missing, the tales were more fleeting than the aroma of the air freshener.

Shortly after the meal, our family members went their various ways to other Thanksgiving Day feasts. I’m not sure how others fared, but late into the evening I still felt full. I did rewarm a small bowl of leftover chili, because some of my medications need taken with food or I probably wouldn’t have eaten anything at all.

Thinking of Thanksgiving at Home

As I look back, I can’t remember any special moments or memories that stand out in my mind when we celebrated the Thanksgiving holiday at my parent’s house. I am unsure why, but I imagine that it’s because there were no major events or rituals attached to it. There was no giving or receiving of cards as on Valentine’s Day. There were no displays of fireworks or picnics as on Independence Day. There weren’t any scary costumes or passing out of treats like at Halloween. Then there came the celebration of New Year’s Day, which included a meal of oyster stew, apple pie, and ice cream at my grandparent Miner’s place.

Thanksgiving is tucked between Halloween and Christmas. Retailers have now pushed the Christmas sales so close to Halloween that it almost smothers the “be thankful holiday” out. I’m sure that these other more celebrated holidays have something to do with Thanksgiving being a less appreciated holiday.

The reason for thankfulness is the belief in a divine being as the provider of all of our blessings. Without a belief in God, to whom should we be thankful? Do we thank ourselves? Or should we be thankful to agencies or to the government for a free meal and handouts? When a society isn’t thankful to God and continue to make demands, it will not last. God judges the people who push Him aside and are not grateful for all of the things that He provides, the freedoms that they have and that He continues to do for them.

I believe the reason that I don’t have outstanding memories is that they’ve all have blurred together. The warm feelings of the food, family, and friendships have melded into one pleasant memory. Those feelings of sitting around a table laden with food are now shared with the memories of my family and continue to strengthen those ties. Laughter fills the room as full as do the aromas of the turkey, dressing (Mom always called it stuffing, whether in or out of the bird.), and the spices of the pies and cookies. 

It isn’t that I’m not thankful for my blessings, but the celebration of Thanksgiving was a low-key joining of our hearts and those memories has blended into one. Those Thanksgiving celebrations have connected one with another. Each year becomes another building block in for me and my family and love is the cement that binds these years into one. Happy Thanksgiving.

Here’s My Number… Call Me Maybe

My wife and I were attending a coworker’s Christmas party and she introduced us to a woman who was her good friend. I remembered the woman.  Mona had mentioned her at work. Months earlier, Mona came to work one night and appeared bleary eyed and tired.

“Mona,” I said. “What’s wrong? You look worn out tonight.”

She explained, “I don’t know what to do. My best friend calls me every day between ten and eleven o’clock every morning. I try to tell her that I’m sleeping, but it doesn’t seem to register with her and she keeps on calling and talking to me. I’m so tired.”

I tried to explain to Mona, “She doesn’t understand. People who have never worked the night shift think you should be awake and available to talk when they are. You have to make her understand what it’s like for you. Call her some night about two a. m. and start talking to her. Let her feel what it is like when she calls you at ten o’clock.”

Several nights went by and Mona looked more and more tired. She had a day off and when she came back to work, she looked awake and refreshed.

 “You look so much better. You must have slept on your day off.” I told her.

“I did what you suggested. I called my friend at two thirty in the morning. My friend asked, ‘What’s wrong Mona?’

“I said, ‘Nothing. I just wanted to talk.’ She fairly screamed into the phone. ‘What! It’s two thirty in the morning. Are you out of your mind?’”

“I quietly explained to her that when she calls me at ten in the morning, it’s like me calling her at two in the morning. I heard a small, ‘Oh!’ on the other end of the telephone.

“Then I said, ‘Good night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow afternoon.’ and I hung up.

“My telephone rang about four thirty that evening. It was my friend. She told me that she still wanted me to be her best friend and she still wanted to talk. Finally I understand now what you were trying to tell me. From now on, after you wake up from your sleep, please call me and we can talk.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Mona said and went off to finish her work with the patients on the floor.

Sympathetic Ears

Apathy is when a person has no feelings about what’s going on around them; not caring about the world situations, other people, or brothers and sisters in Christ. About 50 years ago while in college, I wrote an essay titled, “America: the Red, White, and Blah.” That assignment shared the sentiment of 1980’s. It was an era of “drop out” and “being free” without concern for things that were happening.

I recently listened to a radio sermon based on the question of is a Christian being sympathetic to others. The speaker first gave the definition to sympathy, “Sharing similar feelings. Having an agreement of emotions. The ability to enter into another person’s mental state. Having a kinship of passion.” In the rest of the sermon, he separated feelings by delineating emotions of joy and sadness by asking whether it is easier to share another person’s joy or weeping.

He felt it was easier to weep with a brother or sister because we can easily recall times of sadness in our own lives: the loss of a parent, child, or a close friend. Grief is often a barely healed wound in our lives that can be freshly reopened. It is an emotion that we tend to cover up without allowing that wound to heal properly.

Sharing the happiness of a friend, relative, workmate, teammate, or a neighbor’s accomplishment or having them attain a physical reward of a new home, a new car, or a financial bonus at a job is more difficult than sharing their pain. When blessings appear, too often jealousness, envy, and covetousness creeps in and spoils sympathetic feelings that we may have had. Luke 12:15 admonishes us, “Take heed, and beware of covetousness for a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he posesseth.”

When we cannot rejoice with another person, we are saying to God that the blessings He gives are not enough and somehow He has not met our needs. Our Father knows the beginning from the end and gives His blessings to all. Matthew 5:45, “That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”

Keeping a Civil Tongue

Last evening at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society we had a gentleman who spoke on the weaponry of the American Civil War. He was a last minute substitute for our original speaker Ken Williams who was to have spoken on the Mason Dixon Line. The substitute was Sam Vaughn who is a Confederate Colonel for the reenactments of the Civil War as part of the Campbell Artillery Brigade. Colonel Vaughn shared the reason he was the Colonel was because he was the only person with a cannon.

His hour long presentation of weaponry covered the rifles, carbines, shotguns, and pistols of the Civil War era. He didn’t bring his cannon, because he’d stored it away for the winter. The wide selection of authentic and replica weapons ranged from the basic muzzle loading rifles to the various pistols gave us insight to the guns of the Civil War soldier. With due diligence, Col. Vaughn traced the history of each piece and the improvement and innovation in the next weapon.

The flash pan flintlock was the first weapon he detailed. The nearly 10 pound weapon was passed to the audience. Col. Vaughn also shared the progression of the cartridges that were developed for each weapon. They ranged from the muzzle loading lead ball to a rubber jacketed cartridge. The descriptions lead to bullets wearing brass casings.

Through his presentation he described the difference between a rifle and a carbine, also pointing out the changes in loading each weapon, the cartridges, and percussion caps to detonate the powder. The approximate time for a Civil War soldier to load and fire his rifle was about 20 seconds. The shotguns of the era often used buck and ball muzzle loads. If the larger ball missed its target, most likely the smaller scattering buck shot would injure the enemy. Sam shared that Stonewall Jackson was injured by friendly fire. He was wearing a dark uniform and mistaken for a Yankee soldier. The ball was removed from his arm, but cloth debris from his jacket remained in the wound. It festered and his arm had to be amputated. Later Stonewall succumbed to pneumonia.

Col. Vaughn’s original and most expensive firearm was his Burnside carbine. The carbine was a gun shorter than a rifle and often men from the cavalry or the artillery would carry one. As it was passed through the audience the wear patterns of the weapon were easily noticed.

He also shared the progressive improvement of handguns from that time period, starting with the derringer to the pepperbox and through the invention of the revolver. Thank you Colonel Vaughn, it was a remarkable collection and an extremely informative event.

Goodhearted Men Still Exist

My daughter shared this story with me Saturday evening while she was working on craft projects in my basement. Although she and her husband James own a home, they live in their basement to allow his mother and two brothers to live in the main part of the house. This arrangement has been going on for nearly four years. With no room for her to create and finish her art projects, she came to my house to get ready for an upcoming craft vendor sale.

Now, I’ll share the story she told me about her husband James.

“I'm going to brag about how amazing my husband is! He went to Wal-Mart yesterday and saw a police cruiser parked near the front of the store. He did his shopping and when he came out he saw that the cruiser was still there. He went back inside to grab a drink and a Starbucks gift card. When he came out the cruiser wasn't there. He went to his truck, put the grocery bags in and started getting in himself. He then spotted the police cruiser coming down the parking lot. He jumps out of the truck and motions for the police officer to stop. The officer asked my husband if he could help him. My husband told the officer he wanted to thank him for his service and to give him something. He handed the officer the gift card. The officer was in tears and said that no one has done anything like that to him.

I don't know this officer's name, but I do know that this officer puts his life on the line to keep us safe! I'm so thankful to have a husband that wants to give back to those that have done so much for us!”

She shared a similar story Sunday evening. She and James were entering a store and saw an unmarked empty police cruiser at the front. They bought another gift card and waited. Then the trooper emerged, they handed the card to her. At first she refused, but after some persuading, she accepted.

Yes, there are still caring and giving people in the United States. People that are still wanting to make things better for others; especially those soldiers, firemen, emergency responders, and yes, even the police officers who go about their daily tasks to protect fellow Americans from the evils that exist in this world today. Thank you to those men and women. Take the time to recognize and honor them.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

I was working the daylight shift in the emergency department at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania and as I entered the emergency department, I couldn’t help but notice that the place was already hopping. Back then the night shift was staffed with one doctor, one nurse, and one nursing assistant and that morning their hands were full.

It had been a very busy night and as I arrived, another two patients were brought in by ambulance. I tossed my jacket and lunch into the break room, rolled up my sleeves, and joined the melee. Those patients were no sooner stabilized when an overdose was delivered to the E.R.

By then the rest of daylight crew had filtered in to work, but the tempo never slowed. If anything, it seemed to increase. Patients seemed to flood in. Some of them were routine visits mixed with actual emergencies, but they kept coming. As soon as a bed was emptied it was almost immediately filled with another person seeking help for an illness or injury.

As I rushed past the nurses’ station, I saw the Directress of Nursing standing there, leaning against the ledge. She peered over the top, looking disdainfully down at my shoes.

Back then all nurses male and female were required to wear all white shoes. I had white shoes, but I hadn’t taken the time to change into them. They were still in my locker of the nursing lounge. What I was wearing was a pair of bright electric blue running shoes with white lightning type stripes on the sides.

It looked as though she was going to comment on my shoes. I stopped long enough to say, “If you’re not here to help us; don’t say anything.” And I hustled off.

“Oh, crap!” I thought after I blurted it out. “Me and my big mouth, I’ll be in her office tomorrow.”

Later when I passed the desk again, she’d already left the area, but it was still very busy and I had no time to worry about what I’d said to her. The emergencies kept coming.

After lunch the emergency department finally settled and I was able to change shoes. I was still worried about what I’d said, but the dreaded phone call to visit the D.O.N. never came

Mummified Sky Raisins

Mystified? I didn’t know what a sky raisin was until my daughter Anna Prinkey stopped by my house with her dog Rocky. One hundred sixty pounds of muscle and teeth, Rocky is a German Shepherd Husky mix and highly protective of my daughter. God help the person that would dare try to harm her while he’s around. Even though he tolerates me, he still will snarl and snap if I make any untoward fast movements towards her.

Let me backtrack to say that this autumn, I have had a lighter than usual incursion of stink bugs, only three, about five of the fake lady bugs, two yellow jackets, and one wasp seeking their winter vacation home inside of my house. Where they come from I have no idea, but every fall they seem to make the annual pilgrimage.

The anomaly to the invading insects was the unprecedented number of house flies that have sought a sanctuary from the cold. Their presence has been just short of the biblical plague that God inflicted on Egypt. I soon got tired of chasing and swatting them, so I hung two of the sticky fly traps from the ceiling near the window where they seemed to congregate. So far, there must be sixty or so of the winged creatures stuck to those dangling amber curls. I’ve still been busy using the flyswatter to lessen their numbers and I have “downed pilots” in many places on the floor and furniture tops. They’re dead, dried, and have mummified waiting for me to sweep, vacuum, and dust them away into the trash. I find their dehydrated bodies are randomly scattered throughout my living room.

Back to Anna’s dog Rocky. He likes to catch and eat the flies that are still alive. As he ate one that had fallen to the floor and was crawling across the carpet, Anna said that Rocky likes to catch “sky raisins” and eat them. I thought, “What is a sky raisin?” Then she explained when Rocky catches a fly out of the air, she calls them “sky raisins.”

My cat Willow also likes to eat living flies that she’s able to catch as an occasional one falls to the floor. She will bat them with her paws and play with her food before she finally decides to consume them. She won’t touch the dried ones, mummified sky raisins are not on her menu.

Blessings from Being Busy

I recently posted that my lightly scheduled week quickly turned into a week with something happening on each day. A phone call on Monday to schedule my semi-annual dental exam and cleaning was the start. I never expected the receptionist to say, “Can you come in today?” I was free and agreed, going in for the opening in their schedule and for me opening of my mouth. The blessing of the routine checkup was that I had no cavities.

Tuesday was my appointment to have the manifold replaced on my car. I dropped it off at the mechanic’s garage after going to the polling place to vote. My daughter picked me up and we spent some time together. One place we stopped was at her polling place, so I was able to teasingly say that I went to two voting places. If the Liberals can do it, so can I.

My car wasn’t quite finished when I returned to the garage. As I sat in the waiting area, I met a lady. I asked if she liked to read. When she said yes, I gave her my business card. Then she said “Wait. Let me see if I have my card in the car.” When she returned, she gave me a postcard sized advertisement for her husband’s business. He is one of the crew of the television program the “Barnwood Builders,” Meeting that lady was another blessing for me.

Wednesday was my usual time at Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and then Wednesday evening prayer meeting at my church. Time with friends at the Society and in prayer, hearing God’s word is always a blessing.

The second phone call I made Monday was for an eye exam and for me to order new glasses. Thursday was my appointment. I knew the doctor was going to place drops in my eyes to dilate the pupils, so I did all of my grocery shopping before and even perused frames for my new spectacles before my vision became blurred. With eye exam done, I cruised the aisles of Walmart for the last few items that weren’t available in the other stores. The sky was overcast when I left the store. The medicine had nearly worn off and made it home safely.

Friday was the Veteran’s program at Mt. Carmel Christian School where the students and faculty presented an emotional tribute to veterans from all branches of the military. The students gave personal recognition and thank you to each veteran present. It was a real blessing to see that young people still remember those who have served to keep America free. Thank you all.

The Week's Almost Over

When the week began, I had only three days with something scheduled. By the time it's over, I will have an event happening each day. Two phone calls I made Monday sealed my fate. The first call was to schedule my semi-annual dental cleaning. I’m retired, but had no inkling that the dentist would have an opening for Monday. In the past, I have had to wait at least a week. I did chores at home before going to my dental appointment, doing three loads of laundry and cleaning my kitchen.

Tuesday, I took my car to my mechanic’s garage. Last week I began to smell some exhaust fumes and hear a rattling sound. I stopped at his shop last Friday and he said that the manifold needed to be replaced. The appointment was made for Tuesday. I dropped my car off and got a ride home, then later in the day to pick my car back up once it was finished with my younger daughter Anna Prinkey. The second telephone call was for my eye exam. I wasn’t having problems with my vision, but the lenses were scratched from summer yard work. While mowing on my riding mower, some of my shrubs and trees brushed against the lenses, leaving telltale furrows on the surface. The examination was for Thursday afternoon.

Wednesday was my usual workday at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. Sorting, storing, and trying to maximize the space we have for photographs, maps, records, and artifacts. There seems to be a constant stream of sorting things into alphabetical order or storing into categories. Wednesday evening is always prayer meeting at our church which finished filling the day.

Thursday was an eye appointment, which was my second call Monday. I don’t mind the series of tests, but when the optometrist places dilating drops into my eyes, I don’t particularly enjoy that feeling. While I waited for my slit lamp exam, the tech measured me for the on new frames I decided on earlier. I always go early to choose frames before my vision is distorted by those drops. I purposely postponed grocery shopping until after the exam. Driving can be hazardous with dilated pupils.

I‘m attending a veteran’s ceremony this afternoon, the event is done by the Mt. Carmel School to honor and to thank the United States military men and women for service to the country. This display has in the past been a tremendously emotional presentation with the students singing and reciting patriotic salutes to each flag, each military branch, and recognition of each veteran who attends. Thank you for remembering.

What Can Be Found in a Dash?

When we look back at our lives, what do we see? A sermon I recently heard gave the illustration about one of the etchings on a tombstone or a headstone found in a cemetery. Those engravings on the surface usually list the deceased’s name and possibly a small design and the age, but it always includes the date of the person’s birth and the date of the death. Those two dates are separated by a hyphen or a dash and all of that individual’s life is represented by that small chip in the rock. All the history of that person is condensed into that tiny glyph. Each breath that is taken from the cradle to the grave, from the first to the last is represented by that tiny etched line. Each deed that a person does, each act whether good or bad, each second of that individual’s life on earth, and each accomplishment is portrayed in that small scratch in the granite.

Once that person expires, nothing more can be added or changed to that earthly record. Nothing more can be added to that record our lives. All the things that we meant to do will never be accomplished and will never be realized. What we’ve put off until tomorrow will never happen. Making amends with someone with whom we’ve quarreled, taking a special vacation to a special place, or how about asking for salvation? Once that dash is chipped into place prior our death, accepting Christ as Savior will never happen. There will be no excuse that God will accept once that dash is carved separating the date of our birth and our death. Either our name will be entered into the Book of Life or not. Nothing will be able to alter that fact. The choice must be made before the stone carver completes his work.

Jesus, God’s only begotten Son, was sent to earth in the form of a man to reconcile sinful people to the Father be reunited with God. Jesus was the ultimate payment for our sin debt. He died that we might live eternally as the Father’s adopted heirs to the riches of heaven.

If we don’t choose Christ, for he is the one and only way to obtain redemption, we choose to remain in our sins and to reject the free gift of salvation. We will have chosen to accept the punishment that our stubborn and sinful life has earned. The payment has been made, but we must decide to accept it.  Christ is our personal Savior and to reject him is to suffer punishment in Hell. Decide before that dash into eternity is complete.

Bowling Lanes 

In Connellsville, Pennsylvania across from the old Troutman building, there used to be a hotel called the St. James. As a youth, I never noticed it and would have never known it was there, but several people bowled there as a group and invited me. When I thought of a hotel, I always thought of a place to use while on vacation or to sleep overnight, but a bowling alley?

I think the most unusual thing about the alley was its location. The lanes were located on the second floor. Its position in the building truly fascinated me. Who would have thought bowling alleys on the second floor? Plus it was a rare treat for me to bowl. Money was tight. My brother and sister were too young to go bowling as a family, but my parents allowed me to occasionally tag along with the church bowler friends.

The bowling lanes were old alleys without pin setting machines. It was necessary for them to employ pin boys to gather and reset the pins at the end of the lanes. They would retrieve your ball and place it in the return trough. The ball would rumble back to you.

I can’t remember which night of the week we would bowl, but there was a man there who scared the pin boys and sent them scurrying. He had huge bulging muscles in his arms. When he would bowl, he would hurl the ball down the lanes. The ball was air born until about halfway down the lane and would hit with a thunderous crash to begin its trip and spin on the polished boards. The torque was tremendous. As the black bowling ball hit the pins with a crack, the pins would scatter in all direction. It was a dangerous situation for the pin boys. They would scatter as well, heading to opposite sides of the room to escape possible injury from flying pins. The ball would hit the backstop with a dull, solid thump.

It was almost like a dance with the pin setter boys waltzing out of the way at the crescendo of the rumbling music and then dance back to the stage to reset the pins. I was amazed at the power of the young bowler and the finesse of the youthful pin setters as they scurried to avoid injury at the opposite sides of the lanes.