Getting It Together

Since the previous editor of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society editor resigned her position, I’ve been assisting to select the subjects for the main topics of our newsletter. Searching through our archives several members choose local events, persons, buildings, or organizations to spotlight and to share. When we find an important fact or relatively unknown item we feel will interest and educate our members, we search through our archives for photographs and create a story that needs to be told. We resurrect information that brings to light some aspect of the Laurel Highlands’ rich history.

We also share upcoming guest speakers for our meetings that occur every third Tuesday evening. Our next will be April 16 at 7 p.m. Thomas Soltis is to present the details of the Flu Pandemic of 1918 and the devastation wrought by this disease.

In the latest newsletter, we share facts of local coal mines’ first aid crews responsible for safety education of the miners and for treating their injuries. Our local crews won several safety awards for Pennsylvania. The crews were easily recognized by their uniforms provided by the mining companies.

We are sharing the names of new members that keep our organization viable. Information of upcoming bus trips and events are made available to our members first, then to the community. Travelers have just returned from an excursion through Amish country and there is another bus trip planned to The Ark and the Bible Museum. An evening at Brady’s restaurant for Dinner and Show is also advertised.

We are dedicating a section for buildings that have either changed their use or no longer exist. In this edition, we highlight the Melcroft Hospital. It was a large structure with all the amenities of hospitals of the times. Photos and a brief history are dedicated to this local house of medicine. It burned to smoldering pile of ashes in 1930 and is no longer there.

The Society is a repository for old photographs of people, businesses, and churches. We house records for family histories, obituaries, newspaper articles, and local artifacts. Schools, military, and even the mail bins from an old post office have found their way to our building. Old deeds, death certificates, marriage licenses, paper trails in ledgers, bills of lading, and books line our shelves waiting for visitors seeking the roots of their families.

We are open Wednesdays 11a.m. to 3 p.m. and Saturdays 10 a.m. till 2 p.m. someone will be there to assist visitors find information that they seek. Because we can only share a small bit of history in our newsletter, visit and join our passion for local history.

Evil Exists

There are people who presuppose that men are good and that it is a warp and twist of the mind that causes men to go astray. Doctors and scientists are searching for a cure by isolating some gene or chemical in our gray matter that causes men to do despicable things. Recently, I saw a video of a man kicking an old lady multiple times on a subway while others stood by filming the incident. The lady was someone’s mother, grandmother, or sister and yet no one raised a finger to stop the vicious assault.

Edmund Burke said more than 100 years ago, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil was that good men should do nothing.” Whether the stranger who assaulted the woman was on drugs, had anger issues, or was filled with alcohol, the result was the same. This innocent woman was admitted to a hospital with head and chest injuries.

People try to blame guns for killings that have happened recently, but incidents of mass killings have happened long before gunpowder was invented. Clubs, rocks, swords, and spears were used in the past: Roman times, the era when Genghis Kahn rode the steppes, and in biblical times. Was it the weapons that caused those thousands of deaths or evil?

Evil exists; how else can you explain the oppression, the graft, the treachery, and the taking of lives in the world? The word evil found in the Bible fill nearly three pages of the “Young’s Analytical Concordance.” Evil isn’t a chemical imbalance in the brain; it’s an issue of the heart. The book of “Mark” says, “For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders, Thefts, covetousness, wickedness, deceit, lasciviousness, an evil eye, blasphemy, pride, foolishness: All these evil things come from within, and defile the man.” Mark 7:21-23

How can we explain people in power abusing their subordinates, embezzling tax monies, or passing laws that allow the murder of innocent children? How can physicians who make the promise to do no harm, rip babies from the womb and call it health care?

Have we, United States citizens, awakened to the fact since prayer and the Bible have been removed from schools evil has grown? Have we noticed that since abortions were legalized our youth has lost reverence for life? Single parent families are creating a lack of responsibility for the father and in the promiscuity of the young women. The consequences of their actions are condoned instead of condemned.

Strings of Sadness

I’m not sure if my sad memories are becoming more frequent or whether they’ve accumulated over the many years. Or is it possible that they are striking me with more impact as I age? Friday, when a friend shared a post about Tyrone Bradley, a sailor who lost his life in Vietnam, it stirred so many memories of an era of my adolescent life.

I distinctly remember the concerns that confronted me with the unpleasant thought of being drafted and sent off to fight in a “war that wasn’t a war.” Like so many other young men, I had no desire to go to a distant land and be compelled to kill anybody. Faced with this dilemma, I had to choose, would I escape to Canada like so many others or would I enlist? My dad, Carl Beck fought in WWII where he was wounded. Could I do any less?

As a teenager, I was adjusting to my rampant hormones, my developing male body, and my adolescent mind. Horror stories filtered back from returning soldiers, their families, and the onslaught of biased media “reporting.” Facing so many unknowns, I chose to enlist in the Navy to become a corpsman where I could save lives and not take them. I wasn’t quite a conscientious objector, but didn’t like the thought of taking another person’s life.

After basic training and Corps School in the Great Lakes, I was assigned to a naval hospital in Orlando, Florida. Because of time factors with our graduating class, none of these corpsmen went to Field Medical Training. Field Medical Training was necessary before a corpsman could be assigned to a Marine unit and was a sure ticket to Vietnam.

Although I didn’t go to Vietnam, I tended for the wounded who returned. Seeing these men and the damage to their bodies, I was thankful that I didn’t go in-country. But, this was a double-edged sword. I was grateful that I hadn’t been asked to kill another soul, but when a good friend and childhood playmate was killed, I felt guilty because he had gone to Vietnam and been killed, while I was safe in the United States. Sgt. Earl D. Barkley, U. S. Army, died protecting me and fellow Americans. To have these brave men labeled as “baby-killers” stabbed deeply in my heart. That feeling remains even today.

With the remembrance for Tyrone, these strings began to vibrate again stirring sounds of sorrow and dredged up emotions. The recollections caused me to go online and review my friend’s service history and look at his space on the Vietnam Memorial Wall. Yes, those strings still exist and often write words to a sad tune.

And the Beat Goes On

For the past few years, I’ve had episodes of an irregular heartbeat. I could feel it in the base of my throat and I found the feeling of a skipped beat when I felt my pulse. It never lasted more than 15 minutes. I did mention it to my physician, but without record of what was happening, she could do little. With the irregularity of the occurrences and its short duration, she couldn’t offer anything at present, but said she would consider an event monitor. An event monitor is a device a person would wear for a longer duration and would record that person’s pulse when it became irregular.

Yesterday the skipped beat and the fellness in my throat returned. I also became slightly short of breath. The length of the irregularity was longer lasting, so I jumped into my clothing and hustled off to the emergency room, fearful that the symptoms might disappear or that things might get worse.

I was placed on a monitor and my tracing showed PAC’s and an infrequent PVC. PAC’s are premature beats that the atrium or upper part of the heart fires off causing those chambers to compress early. It makes the pulse feel like a skipped beat. A PVC is a similar event where the lower part of the heart fires off and electrical impulse that causes an early contraction of the lower chambers. Because this muscle is much larger, the contraction is stronger and more easily felt.

The EKG showed the PAC’s and was similar to my old EKG recordings, not much had changed. On the monitor when I first arrived, the tracing did capture a PVC or two. Mt oxygen saturation was good. I had no chest pain. Because of my feeling of shortness of breath, the doctor ordered a chest x-ray. It was clear. I waited for the results of my blood work. The cardiac enzymes and electrolytes were in normal ranges. I was given two options: the first to wait overnight in the emergency area, having a cardiologist see me and do a stress test or I could go home, relax, and see what I felt like in the morning.

I asked that he talk with my primary care doctor and see what she wanted. She has her way of doing things. It was after hours and she wasn’t available. I chose to go home. I’d done an overnight and stress test about 2 years ago when I had chest pain side effect from taking Cipro. I chose to go home. Those emergency room carts are not made for comfort. I told my kids what was happening just before I left the hospital. All they would do was to wait and worry. They weren’t happy that I’d delayed notifying them, but I’m writing and alive this morning, another blessing from God.

An Evening of Looking Back

Last evening I was invited to my dear friend Kathy’s house for her birthday dinner. She has been my lifelong friend and a frequent travelling companion. Because of her health needs, it’s good for her to have someone with her. We’re able to share costs of small trips and outings. She also invited our assistant to the pastor and his wife to join for the quiet evening meal and good conversation.

Kathy enjoys watching the Pittsburgh Pirates play on television. She buys tickets to attend many of the games at the PNC Park. As usual, I arrived early to help her with preparation should she need help. She didn’t, but she was watching a spring training game. While we waited for the guests, I gave her the birthday gift that I’d brought. She’s collected quite a bit of Pirate memorabilia and clothing, but I was able to find a baseball cap that she didn’t have and a gift certificate to one of her favorite restaurants. She’s recovering from quite a few recent health issues and it was good to see her smile.

Her pet/service dog Beauty is very shy, especially around men, but I’ve made inroads with her. I was able to approach beast and snap the leash in place. Beauty is a large black and white Great Pyrenees mix standing nearly 36 inches at the shoulder. Later as I sat talking with Kathy and waited for her other guests to arrive, Beauty moved from her “guard” dog position beside Kathy, pushed her nose close to me, and allowed me to pet her for the first time.

As her other two guests arrived, I helped Kathy pull food from the oven and refrigerator, then gathered around the table. After saying grace and began to eat, we talked about friendships and incidents in our lives, some of them turned to our relatives and about favorite hymns. Our favorite hymns also directed our conversation into the subjects of the deaths and funerals of my wife Cindy and Kathy’s parents and Sister. Kathy shared her recent telephone call to a dear friend for all four of us who had recently lost her husband. To some, this may sound morbid, but it’s a sharing of our life experiences and memories.

Life doesn’t always have to be exciting to be memorable. It’s often composed of a series of nearly insignificant events that mean relatively nothing until we look can back on them. This comfortable, quiet evening of a simple meal and conversation will be just another page in our book of our life occurrences.

To Ban or Not to Ban, That Is the Question

There has been much debate, especially lately about banning weapons, particularly about the assault style rifle. It hasn’t stopped there and the “powers-that-be” want to restrict the ownership of nearly every gun ever manufactured… perhaps not muskets. The second amendment to the U. S. Constitution forbids the government from infringing on the rights of its citizens. Our forefathers placed that amendment there for a specific reason, to allow each citizen protection from attack, either to his person, his family, or his property, whether it is from criminals or the government.

The government has already deemed non-prescription drugs are illegal and yet they still flourish. Drugs cause untold numbers of deaths or illnesses. Instead of enforcing those laws, many states are decriminalizing those very drugs. They now give Narcan free-of-charge to prevent the overdoses that laws cannot stop.

Prohibition was another failed attempt to regulate a vice. How many injuries or deaths occur from the overindulgence of alcohol or drugs? How many auto accidents, shootings, and stabbings happen near places that sell drugs or alcohol? Would they have occurred if drugs or alcohol was not present?

The problem isn’t with guns; it’s because there has been a loss of morality and self control. Until society understands that there are absolute truths and moral guidelines, there can be no change.

The government has made it easy for the single parent family to exist, actually paying mothers to live separately from the fathers. It’s removed the stigma of unwed pregnancies. Abortions paid for by the government have reduced the consequences for men, women, and even children from their actions.

Although birth control is readily available, this lack of self control and not understanding the respect for one’s body has now made abortion an “easy” out. Abortion not only tears an innocent child from its mother’s womb, it also rips the soul from the mother. Often Its consequences are not felt until the mother reflects on the gruesome act. Groups whose financial existence relies on abortions endorse and make light of the killing of the unborn. It now extends this immoral act outside of the mother to include infanticide.

The idea of absolute truth and prayer has been tossed out of schools substituting flawed ideas and laws of men. The morality of a foundational truth doesn’t change like the “facts’ mankind creates.

Once scientists declared that the Earth was flat or that the sun revolved around the Earth, but we now know that’s false. Yet the ultimate truth, the Bible was proved correct. There is an absolute truth, but mankind refuses to see or believe it.

Frustrating But Not All of It Fruitless

The resignation of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society Newsletter’s editor created a vacancy and I’ve shouldered much of the burden for gathering information and placing it in the newsletter format after the subjects have been chosen. As I reviewed photos, I was impressed and became aware that the larger coal mine companies hired men for first aid teams. Dressed in white, these men educated the miners to work safely and cared for any injuries that might happen. In close conjunction with the first aid teams was the presence of hospitals in Sagamore and Melcroft, Pennsylvania.

Jack Pletcher took photographs of these local men that made up the teams. His captured images are what caught my attention. I spent the day searching the internet and going to local public libraries in an attempt to find more information on both. Sadly, I could find very little.

I was able to share copies of my photocopies with the Carnegie Public Library in Connellsville. They didn’t have those photographs. I also shared Chestnut Ridge Historical Society’s business card and told the librarian about our extensive photo file and our large genealogical records as a resource for her.

Coal mining was such an important and integral part of our local history and it’s frustrating that that so little could be found. As I searched, I noticed that records of coke manufacturing abounded.

The fruitful part of the day occurred later. My son has the brush and rods to clean a chimney. I thought if I bought a 5 inch brush, smaller than my 6 inch chimney liner, I could make the cleaning of soot and creosote easier. I ordered a 5 inch chimney brush on line and when it arrived, the connections between the rod and the brush were different sizes.

I wasted much of Tuesday trying to find an adaptor or a reducer to connect the two items, finally calling a gunsmith friend and asked if he could make something to bridge the gap. He referred me to a local company, CTR Inc Machine and Fab Company. I took the two pieces and asked if they could create the adaptor. They assured me that they could. I received a phone call Thursday afternoon saying it was finished, please come and pick it up. They used some brass pipe to make the connection, then refused to accept any money for the adaptor. They not only quickly made the piece, but were more than courteous and were such a blessing.

Definite Diet Decision

I’ve decided that it is time to watch my caloric intake. If I can keep on with the lower calories and with my increased activities and chores in the warm spring weather, I should be able to drop a few pounds. I’ve always been on the plumper side of things. Even as a kid, I wore “husky” sizes.

I’ve said all of this as a lead in to Monday evening. Because I live alone (the cat Willow doesn’t count) I sometimes choose to go out to eat. I do get tired of deciding what to cook, gathering the ingredients, and taking the time to fix the meal. Often I put off cooking, become hungry, and am too impatient to wait. So, I usually hit a local restaurant, Brady’s. They offer everything from a breakfast menu, a salad bar, sandwiches, desserts, and full meals with a daily special. They have quite a menu and the service is great.

Monday evening I chose the liver and onions with a side order of tossed salad. I enjoy their celery seed dressing. As I ate my salad, three women entered and sat in the both next to mine. Being the outgoing person that I am as one lady removed her coat, I nodded and smiled. We began a conversation that soon involved the other 2 women. I found that they were from Canada. The youngest one was originally from Newfoundland and now lives in Toronto. I also shared some of the places I’d visited on my mission trip through Newfoundland/Labrador. I explained that I was an author as well as a blogger, giving each one of them my business cards. Two of the women said they were avid readers, so I am hoping that they will read about our wonderful accidental meeting.

They were visiting the United States with plans to visit Frank Lloyd Wright’s creation of Fallingwater. They wanted to know how far and I said about 45 minutes. I told them of Kentuck Knob, another of Wright’s nearby creations. Before leaving, I told them that my great-uncle was groundskeeper at Fallingwater and my father-in-law was caretaker of Kentuck Knob.

The tie in with my introduction is by the time I slowly ate my salad, I felt full and brought my meal home. It fit in well with my earlier resolution to cut back on snacks and to eat nothing after 7 pm.

I’ll Huff and Puff

I was unsure as to what I wanted to write about today. After blogging for so long and writing so much, it’s difficult to share something new or different from my past or with my recent adventures. I could write about the extremely windy to the beginning of March. In the Midwest, there was so much cold, snow, and wind it was frightening. In the south, it was much more frightening with the deluge of rain and the devastating winds of tornados. Locally, the velocity of the winds has been very blustery.

This past weekend, Saturday especially, winds marked my surprise birthday party day. A very good friend has the same birthday date. I was invited to “her party” with an invitation. I had a spider-sense feeling that it was going to be a joint birthday party or a subterfuge to get me to my own party, so I didn’t sign up to attend. My youngest subtly wheedled until I went with her.

SURPRISE…the party was for me. I think I was less surprised than they expected, it was still a great experience with so many of past and present friends, relatives, and church family attending. The decorations were done with remarkable skill. Many pieces of my past in photographs, cards of my birth, and my clothing from my career as a Navy corpsman, and as a registered nurse were put out on display. There was a slide show of photos from my own childhood, through the courtship with my wife Cindy, the births of our children, and events through the present. One thing I was grateful about was that I no longer had any of the double-knit, bell-bottom pants or the bow ties of the 1960s to display, although they did find one photograph.

The food was flavorful and plenteous with my children as wonderful hosts.

I was overwhelmed with the number of those who attended; relatives, old work mates, fellow writers, and I was blessed to see so many of my church family. In 70 years, a person can meet a lot of people. I am reminded of that each time I sit to write and my party really emphasized that. Thank you to each friend that attended and to my children who worked so diligently to make it a success.

Cornered

Last fall when we had so much rain and I decided to do my impression of Saint Nicholas by climbing on my roof to clean my chimney, I had to move several things in my basement to retrieve my ladders. As I removed them from a corner storage spot, I noticed that the wall behind them and the floor beneath was wet, and placed a call to a dry basement company. I paid to have my basement waterproofed several years ago.

The field representative came out to evaluate and indeed I was having water seep into that corner from outside due to the heavy and frequent downpours that we had. He made a date to have it fixed, but because of the heavy rains, their schedule was so full, the first available workday for them was in March. So, yesterday was the day, the work crew came out to make the repairs. They arrived at 8:30 and began to carry in supplies and tools. Soon Willow, my cat was almost panic stricken when the jack hammer began its rat-tat-tat breaking up the concrete floor. The section that needed to be removed was approximately i8 inches by 24 inches between the cinderblock wall and the raised concrete pad for the hot water tank.

After shoveling out the debris, they connected the newly laid pipe to the original drainage system, then placed a layer of rounded, smooth small river rocks in the bottom of the hole to surround the pipe. Some things I saw while I tossed some wood into the wood burner and some the men told me.

They placed aluminum flashing along the lower part of the wall to channel the dampness into the rock catch basin, then redirect it into the drainage system. He shared that a large amount of water drained out of the wall before he poured the concrete to top the opening and match the basement floor. Once the cement dries, my cellar should stay dry.

Before company waterproofed my house, a prolonged downpour would inundate my basement and I would have to wade in ankle-deep water. I’d have to break out sump pumps and hoses to drain the accumulated water. If the power went out, I was at the mercy of nature.

The original drainage system that the company installed has 2 collection wells and 2 sump pumps attached to batteries. If the electric goes out now, the system will keep my basement dry in all 4 corners.

Hanging Out With Grandpa

As I was looking at the titles of my past blogs, I saw one that shared a day I had taking care of my youngest grandchild, Hannah Yoder. I had errands to run, so I loaded her into her car seat and off we went. We had lunch, then parked near the train tracks in Connellsville, Pennsylvania watching the locomotives pulling box cars, hoppers, and flat cars as they chugged past.

It made me think of the days I was able to spend with my grandfather Raymond Miner on his farm. I was young and not able to do much but get in the way, but as I grew, I was able to help in the garden and in the early winter assist in the butchering of a bull and usually two hogs. At first, it was fetch and carry things, but later I was able to wield a knife and trim meat from the bones for the grinder. Using the bits to make hamburger or sausage was important. Only the oink of the pig was the only thing not used.

I also helped when it was time in late autumn to cull the chicken flock. Granddad would hook the hens’ feet with a bent wire, chop off their heads, and toss them into the grass to bleed out. The chickens would be gathered, dipped in scalding water, and the feathers plucked. I always hated the wet feather smell, but did my part to remove the feathers. Butchering and plucking chickens weren’t glamorous things, but are an integral part of farming.

The days spent with my grandfather Edson Thomas Beck were completely different. As a youngster, I can still recall sitting on the shore of a small lake and waiting for a fish to snatch the bait, either night crawlers or salmon eggs. He used to chase the worms from the ground with two prongs stuck in the sod and run electricity through them.

My other memories other than sitting stock still in his house or in church were of occasional trips deer hunting. Often the snow was so deep; I had to follow in his footsteps to get to our hunting spot. I was never able to kill a deer while hunting with him, but then he never bagged one either. For most of his life, he had vision in only one eye.

I hope as my grandchildren grow up, they have memories of hanging out with their grandpa too.

Fragile Memories

The memories are stored in my brain. What a delicate receptacle to store such treasured items. It’s such a fragile container to hoard the precious parts of my life. In February of 2015 I fell on ice after cleaning the walkway. As I look back, I don’t remember anything after replacing the broom on the porch until being in an ambulance on my ride to UPMC hospital.

There remains a hole in my life, a hole where there should be a memory. I still only remember what I have been told. My daughter Anna said I appeared outside of her bedroom door, telling her that “I think I need help.” I don’t remember getting into the car or ride to the hospital at Frick. I don’t remember going into the hospital or the time that I spent there with any of the testing, the physician, or the staff.

I should remember the staff. I worked at Frick for 34 years and knew most of them. Many are friends. I walked the hallways for all those years and knew the building as well as I knew my own home. I remembered nothing. It’s like opening an empty closet. I know the hangers mark the things that should be on hangers, but there’s nothing on them.

I have snatches of recollection from the emergency department at UPMC, snatches of going to the floor, and snatches of the admission process. I remember a long day of a stiff neck and fullness in my head. I remember a stream of physicians and technicians. The nurses and my roommate and his family made the most impression on my brain, but the memories are blurred. I barely remember my night nurse who was from India, sweet and patient, wheeling me down to my 4:30 a.m. CT.

I remember an assistant in forest green scrubs who took a job as an assistant. He wasn’t able to find what he wanted in his area of expertise. For some reason, I can’t recall his name but he studied music and was from Munhall, Pennsylvania.

I now can hardly recall my daylight nurse and all of the demands that I made for comfort and care or the two men came into my room and talked to me about my injuries. They discovered the crystals in one of my vestibular canals had misaligned and was misreading my position. By leaning me back over the edge of the bed and turning my head, they realigned them, reducing my feelings of disequilibrium. I remember two sweet, slender, cute young female aides, and how impertinently and teasingly refreshing they were. The names and faces of these benefactors have vanished and many of these memories have faded, lost in the fragile cells of my past.

Remembering a Scary Time

            Every Friday evening, my mom and dad would allow me to go skating at our local community center. For twenty-five cents I could skate for two hours safe and supervised. When it was over, I would walk the quarter mile to my grandparent’s house. My parents could pick me up later after shopping. Friday was mom’s grocery day. Dad would drop me off close to six o’clock P. M. and they would leave. It was the earliest that Dad could be ready after coming home from work and get cleaned up. Dad sometimes worked Saturdays. They established a routine to do their shopping on Friday evening.

            It was completely dark in late autumn when the skating activity left out at eight o’clock P. M. At that time there were no houses between the community center and my grandparent’s big farmhouse. The only light was from passing cars and the windows of their farmhouse. There was only one home closer, but it was on the opposite side of the community center. It was another farm that belonged to a man named Harold “Snuffy” Gallentine.

            Darkness had fallen by the time I left the center and I felt ill at ease. I’d walked to Grandpa’s place many times before and never had this feeling. It was nothing I could put my finger on, but something just didn’t seem right. I moved to the center of the highway while I walked through a cut in the roadway between two steep banks that were about seven feet high. They were crowned with thick tangles of mountain laurel.

            The dark green leaves and the depth of the banks of earth made it seem even more dark and oppressive. I felt a little nervous as I entered. It became worse when I heard some soil and rocks being dislodged from the bank and trickle down the side. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck start to rise. I wound the strings of my skates around my hand, fashioning a weapon of sorts in case something was there. I wanted to get in at least one good hit in if something attacked me. I didn’t run, but I began walking faster than normal.

            I left the roadway to climb through the field to my grandmother’s house. Soon I was safe and secure inside and thought nothing more of the incident until my dad said something the next morning. “Snuffy had a pig killed last night. Something ripped it open and ate the kidneys and heart. He thinks that it was a bear.” Was it the bear that caused the small landslide the night before? I will never know, but it still gives me chills when I think of it.