Faint Not

An unusual incident occurred in my days of student training at Penn State. I have kept it a secret for many years. It happened while in my obstetrics rotation. One of the doctors decided to do a saddle block on a young woman in labor. The other student nurse with me was in her early forties while I was twenty-three.

The doctor eased a long, thin metal tube inside the woman’s vaginal canal, until its end touched the tip of her cervix. Then he picked up a long needled syringe. The needle was at least ten inches long. The needle made the rasping, grating sound of metal on metal as it slid along the metal tube.

I noticed a slight movement out of the corner of my eye. The sound had been too much for the nurse standing beside me and caused her to faint. Fortunately she was standing between me and a nearby wall. As her knees began to buckle, I shifted all of my weight hardly moving at all, against her and pressed her tightly against the wall keeping her upright.

When students are in nurses’ training, there is little that is more embarrassing than for a student nurse to faint. It was a humiliation for a student to have “passed out.’ It’s not a black mark against your credentials in your training, but you can be certain you will be teased about it for a long, long time.

I turned my attention back to the procedure at hand and watched as the doctor completed the nerve block. He’d just removed the needle from the metal tube, when I felt a stirring of the dead weight on my shoulder. The wilted nursing student began to rouse. She shook her head, once, twice, then reclaimed her weight. As she straightened up, I leaned away from her and she stood back onto her feet.

A few seconds later, she leaned close to me and whispered into my ear, “Thank you.” I can’t remember her name, so your secret is still safe with me.

Me, A Normal Person?

I grew up halfway between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania, so I guess I’m only half normal, but I’ve lived a relatively normal life, one of three children of Carl and Sybil Beck. I was the oldest, then came my brother Ken, and finally my sister Kathy Basinger. My first home was a rental cottage in Mill Run. It was part of the Curtis Rugg farm and across the field from my aunt Violet and Uncle Charles Bottomly.

We moved when my dad, Carl bought a small house along Route 711. It had three rooms, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room that surrounded a small U shaped porch. There was half of a basement under the house, containing an old coal furnace, a hot water tank, and a coal bin. The house lacked an inside bathroom. We washed in the kitchen sink and used an outhouse until I was nearly five years old. Mom managed to squeeze a wringer washer and a double galvanized rinse tub. Later Dad ever so slowly expanded the house and basement while we lived there.

Dad’s first job after he married my mom Sybil was a coal miner. Most of the mines in this area were composed of narrow seams of coal that required the miners to work hunched over picking, shoveling, and loading carts.

Dad’s next job was at the Walworth factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania where they had a foundry to shape metal into pieces of valves. Once out of the foundry, they were sent to various sections of the factory to be milled, drilled, and assembled into the final product. Walworth made valves of steel and brass. The sizes ranged from thirty-six inch to2.5 inch valves. Each valve was pressure tested no matter whether they were wedge valves or ball and socket.

I worked there for a year after high school, before entering the United States Navy. That’s where I earned the money for my first car. I would love to still have it. It was a 1966 Galaxie 500 XL, burgundy with black vinyl top, black bucket seats, and a T bar shift. The engine had a 390 two barrel that could make the tires smoke. I only did it once or twice, because I was frugal and didn’t want to buy new tires. I sold this sweet vehicle to my brother when I flew off to boot camp. He promptly traded it for a pale yellow mustang. I’m still not sure I’ve forgiven him for that. So, is that normal?

Just Another Rainy Day

Saturday evening my good friend and travel partner and I went to PNC Park to see the Pittsburgh Pirates take on the Los Angeles Dodgers. On the way there we stopped at Denny’s Restaurant in Monroeville, Pennsylvania. Sometimes we stop either on our way to evening games or on our return trip for the day games. We were fortunate enough to have a wonderful server, polite, cordial, and very astute to our needs. I didn’t see his name tag, so I can’t give him more than this for a shout out, but he seemed genuinely interested in us as his customers.

After was arrived at the park we found there was a severe weather delay. During the delay I was able to talk and make the acquaintance of several of the ballpark staff, including a police officer who was providing security on the field. As usual, I introduced myself and shared a business card. While we talked, I told him several of my books were about a homicide detective who’d retired from the Pittsburgh police force and that my character could only investigate mysteries. I shared business cards and chatted with some of the grounds crew as I waited.

I took a sign I’d made to the game addressing Jung Ho Kang, but because of the weather delay and restrictions, I couldn’t share the greeting with him. I did catch the eyes of an oriental couple who were apparently media personnel with cameras hanging around their necks. When they saw my sign, they smiled and shot several photographs of me. I was able to slip a business card to them. Who knows, I may be a famous person in South Korea someday.

Another pair of oriental spectators in the stands did the same. Then the rains came and drove the crowd to the relative safety under the cantilevered parts of the stadium. As some old country folk used to say, “It was a frog strangler for sure.” The rain came down in blinding sheets. We were fortunate that there was no lighting. However, the Buc’s bats were silent nearly all night and the Dodgers won the game 7 to 2. It was a damp and disappointing evening, but I was still able to find some enjoyment at the game.

The television weather channel says we are to have another week of rain. Think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?

Unsure

I’m unsure why my visit to plant flowers on the graves of my wife Cindy, my parents, her parents, and both my maternal and paternal grandparents affected me so much this year. As I drove through the Indian Creek Baptist Cemetery among the headstones, I noticed the hundreds of American flags that waved over the graves long before I arrived to the spot where I parked. Many of these veterans who rest here are names and faces that I knew. I felt a lump start in my throat as I unloaded my car.

The first site I addressed was my wife, Cindy’s. I wiped the dust and grass clippings off black marble tombstone. It brought back memories for me ordering it and designing the design and carvings. Cindy’s heritage was Scottish and I created the pattern for a Celtic cross intertwined with the blooms of the Scottish thistle. My name, her name, and our wedding date grace the surface of the stone. After watering the plants, I moved to her parents’ grave, Retha and Elmer Morrison to plant flowers there. Next, I walked to my grandparents’ marker, Ray and Rebecca Miner. I planted pansies and geraniums; my gram’s favorites.

I had to wander searching for my parents’ headstone. It was farther down among the tombstones in the cemetery. As I drew near to the area where I knew it was located, I saw the American flag that the American Legion placed there in honor of my father, Carl Beck. Tears filled my eyes and I stifled a sob as I stared at the names engraved in its gray surface, Edson C. Beck and Sybil J. Beck. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I hurried back to the spot I’d left the shovel, flowers, and water. After I was finished planting, I gathered my tools and drove to my grandparent Edson T. and Anna N. Beck’s burial plot in the Donegal Cemetery. It was easier to find, because of the funeral of my aunt Dorothy.

It was a beautiful day to complete the task, warm and sunny and soon chased away those unsure feelings of sadness.

Paved Over Garden

While employed at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, there was a small courtyard area. It was rectangular, approximately fourteen by twenty feet, a grassy garden area of flowers and beauty. It was tended by volunteers of the community and eventually claimed as the garden honoring their children that had passed away all too early. The “Children’s Garden,” was given the love and tenderness that the parents could no longer lavish on their child. Weeding, mowing, trimming, planting, adding pavers, markers of remembrance, and benches, they made it a quiet oasis for hospital staff, visitors, and where those parents could feel close to their children.

Its location was near the front entrance and adjacent to the outpatient surgery center and operating room. The quiet space of the garden was a great spot for people to relax and feel less stressed while a loved one was in surgery.

Thursday, I drove a friend into the hospital for a procedure. While I sat in the waiting area, I noticed that the garden was gone. The new management decided to relocate it, paving over it to expand the coffee shop. When I inquired, “was it gone?” I was informed it still existed but had been moved to the rear of the hospital. The garden was now out of sight and not easily accessible to visitors. It had been tucked away where it is mostly overlooked or forgotten. I’m sure the parents still lovingly care for the garden, but it is no longer the bright asset that it once was.

Another area that seems to have disappeared from the hospital is the chapel. The volunteer couldn’t answer whether it remained. All of the items of the old chapel were donated by local businesses and citizens. It seemed the Bible, brass cross, candlesticks, stained glass side panels, oak kneeler, and pews were no longer important. The chapel had been a quiet sanctuary and respite from the stress of the hospital for patients, visitors, and staff.

Instead, the management chose to build a grand, expansive entrance hall. The huge room is rarely used and has lost all of the intimacy and privacy of the chapel. It serves no real vital function other than to impress. As so often happens when a small entity is swallowed up by a larger one, it becomes their way of improvement without actually surveying the needs of the smaller unit. Frick’s once family feeling of staff and customer has decreased and much was lost. But because of the central core of workers and the community, the human touch remains.

Maps Versus GPS

When I was growing up our family depended on maps to help us get to where we were going. I can remember as we drew close to our visit with relatives we would either follow directions that they’d given us or drive through the town searching for the correct street address, then cruising up and down that street looking at house numbers. Once when we visited my uncle Nicky and Ina Nicholson in Ohio, the directions read, “After you leave Millersport, drive about 2 miles until you top a small hill.”

We’d gone about 5 miles before Dad turned the car around and headed back toward town. When we came to a slight rise in the road, Dad decided that Ohio was so flat this was what Uncle Nicky meant by a hill. What we in Pennsylvania thought of as a road swell, he considered a hill.

One of the hardest parts of reading the paper map was trying to spread it out in the car at night and actually reading it. There was never enough light from the overhead which reflected on the inner side of the windshield and made it difficult for the driver to see the road. It was also awkward using a flashlight. Another inconvenience of using a map was trying to refold it; most of the times it never seemed to go back in the same position.

Modern technology has made most maps obsolete. Drivers today will never know the joy of driving one handedly and trying to hold the map at the same time. It was every bit as dangerous as texting on the cell phone and driving today. There are also aps on the phones that handle the functions of the Tom Tom or Garmin GPS devices. All these little gizmos are be a great asset at finding the correct address. There is less cruising to look for the street or the house number, the voice tells the driver when he or she has arrived.

For the most part this is great for urban areas, but when the driver heads out of the city and into the country, the GPS may send him or her down a muddy, potholed cow path. These off the beaten paths are more easily traversed by a four wheel drive truck or SUV. Some of them are not for the fainthearted, but there are those who are fool hearted enough to try. An example of this was the first time my computer repairman made a visit and complained about the muddy washboard road he’d driven on.

Maps versus GPS, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

 

Where There’s a Will…

Soon, I want to buy a newer vehicle soon and will need the title to my old one. Thinking I knew where it was on my desk, I wasn’t too worried. But when I tried to put my hands on it I couldn’t find it. I’d put it away for safe keeping. Other papers were stacked in baskets, but not the title. Thus began the quest for the safe spot where I placed it. There were several days of fruitless searches as I emptied drawers holding or once held documents. I revisited and sorted and shuffled the old bills, tax forms, and receipts; thinking surely this was where it was and I’d just overlooked it. I was fishing in a dry well and moved the search upstairs to my writing office, that is to say one of the kid’s bedrooms that I claimed to keep my computer and unfinished scripts.

I really rolled up my sleeves to sort through myriad of brochures collected on travel trips. I found nearly fifty new postcards and other memorabilia. I threw out repeat copies of stories that found their ways into published books. I have a large cardboard egg box in the office closet where I toss bills after I’ve paid them. Maybe the title had accidentally ended up in there? But I found nothing of importance. I have two small filing cabinets. After reviewing, sorting, and tossing away unnecessary things I’d stored inside, I was no closer to finding the elusive paper. My brain refused to share the title’s whereabouts. At the same time, I was also looking for my Print Shop disc. No luck on either.

My daughter Amanda Yoder told me to calm down. I’ll be up on Saturday to help and if we can’t find it, I’ll help you send for a duplicate. True to her word, Saturday came and the hunt continued with her revisiting many of the places I’d already looked. I’m not quite a hoarder, because I do throw things away, but I do keep more things than I really should.

So to make a short story long, we sat down for a break and Amanda opened up a small fire safe that no longer locks because the key has been lost. It had been my mother-in-law’s. It protected birth certificates, military papers, and other family documents. I’d gone through it before and not found the title. One of the things I had added to the contents was my birth certificate and my will.

I knew they were inside. I’d already gone through those papers. While we were sitting, Amanda’s curiosity got the better of her and she decided to pull my will from its protective sleeve and read it. Not only was my last will and testament inside, but so was the title for my car. I’m still looking for the print Shop CD.

Hey Norm

When a certain television character entered Cheers, all the regular patrons would call out, “Norm” as a friendly greeting. My friend, Pastor Norman Johnston was a similar guy. His friendly disposition and down to earth qualities made him special to those he met. He was a missionary to South Korea for many years before he pastored our church for several years. He even adopted a Korean orphan and made her part of his loving family. Our birthdays were close and we would go out for lunch and search for used books of interest.

I told him I’d found a phrase in a book that I’d read. It was a greeting in Korean and I asked about the pronunciation. “Ahn yong he ka ship shee-o.” (I can’t remember the exact spelling, but I’m sharing how it is pronounced.) It’s really the only Korean phrase I know. It’s a fit conversation starter when I have met strangers who were Korean. One such episode was when I was working at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. I was helping in the busy emergency Department after several people were brought in because of an auto accident. Two were students and as I brought one of them back from x-ray, I asked where he was from. I uttered the phrase when I found they were from Korea. He chuckled and I believe it caused him to be more relaxed.

There were a few other incidents, but the most recent was Wednesday. I stopped on my way to the Chestnut ridge Historical Society at Subway sandwich shop in Donegal. There were five oriental gentlemen there. Two were sitting at a table waiting for the others to get their food. I smiled at them, then asked where they were from. One smiled back and said, “We are from South Korea.”

I nodded slightly and said, “Ahn yong he ka ship shee-o.” he grinned and said something softly. With the background noise in the shop I couldn’t understand and said “Excuse me. I couldn’t hear you.”

I leaned closer and the gentleman said, “You’re pronunciation is perfect.” I was surprised, but pleased. I shared with them my association with Pastor Norm. I gave each of them one of my business cards. My only regret was that I didn’t have any Gospel tracts to share with them. If they read this, perhaps when they get home they might find some folk who knew Pastor Norm.

Norman Johnston died almost a year ago. I hope by sharing this story it will cause some of his friends to think, “Hey Norm.”

When Shadows Fall

When shadows fall

And night birds call

Fireflies come out

And crickets shout

Whippoorwills sing

Fresh dew drops cling

 

Silhouette’s line

Peers through thick pine

Weather turns cold

Light rays of gold

Calls of a loon

Heralds the moon

 

Stars sparkle bright

On wings of night

And ebon veil

Share wayward tale

On night breeze sigh

Moon’s staring eye

Wearing Designer’s Genes

Whether humans like to admit it or not, we are created by an all-knowing being. The Creator of the universe formed it and shaped all that is in it. If we follow everything back to what scientists say is a “Big Bang Theory” their conclusions still make no sense. Where did the initial ball of gas come from and what spark caused it to explode? How does gas become matter?

If we look at the entire blueprint of the cosmos, the earth, its plants, animals, gravity, the water cycle, the mixture of our atmosphere, and the complexity of human beings, it takes a far greater leap of faith to believe it all came into being by mere happenstance than a belief of a Creator. There has to be a master designer to have everything follow these precise laws and stay in balance.

The Creator tells of his design of humans in Psalm 139:13-18 by describing in detail that he knew each one of us as we were conceived and grew in our mother’s womb. He tells us plainly that we are not just a blob of flesh until our birth. He set a specific blueprint for each one of us, deformities and all. It was predetermined and designed for a specific purpose. Verse 16 says that he saw my substance, yet being unperfect; and in his book all my members were written, when as yet we had none of them.

Initially, Genesis 1:27 this Creator tells us that he created male and female. That fact is repeated in Matthew 19:4,5 saying he created from the beginning, male and female and also in Mark 10:6. There is no confusion about gender mentioned. What was once considered a mental aberration “gender dysphoria” is now considered normal. God didn’t cause this confusion; he stated it from the very beginning. He further emphasizes it in Deuteronomy 29: 5 by saying men shouldn’t wear women’s apparel and vice versa.

Just because some of people have changed their view on these aberrations, God hasn’t. Mankind has continued to water down God’s Word with hundreds of transliterations of the Bible and sidled ever closer to the world and its view on what is moral and right. What man has made legal is often considered sin. The creation is trying to supersede the Creator and that is what caused Lucifer’s fall.

I pray each day that this great and all powerful God continues to bless America and for a change in mankind’s heart. I pray for revival and a return to God before he decides to judge our nation like he has so many other civilizations in history.

Remembering all of the many things that my mom did to make my life what it is today. Thanks Mom for being the unique and loving woman that you were. Happy Mother's Day to one and all.

Old Postcard Memories

I’ve shared on Facebook old postcards that were left to me by my mother-in-law, Retha Morrison and by my parents, Carl and Sybil Beck. The collection of postcards total well over five hundred,. Some cards have been postmarked while others remain unsent. The earliest card that I’ve found was 1910, but I haven’t shared all of them yet. Some that I’ve posted on Facebook are those gathered on a camping trip our church had for the teenage kids. It was an experience that I look back on fondly.

There were places and things that I saw and shared with them that I will never experience again even if I should live for another hundred years. Two of the most lasting memories centered about two Sundays and the two different church services we had.

The first was at King’s Creek Campground in Utah. We had the service on a Saturday evening because it was necessary to get up early to cover the miles for the Sunday’s journey. We gathered for an an open air service in a rustic amphitheater. Tall evergreen walls and a starry sky roof arched high overhead made our chapel. It was a feeling of closeness to God that I haven’t quite felt since.

The other memorable Sunday was after our tour of Yellowstone Park, Wyoming. Our overnight stay was in a small church in Wapiti Valley, Wyoming. The church was built from timber and boulders, recovered from the site where it was built. Tall mountains surrounded it enhancing its beauty. Inside, the antlered heads of several elk hung on the walls over each door. It was as if the church members were paying special attention to one of God’s creations that the valley and church were named after. The word wapiti means white rump according to one definition used to describe elk. We were allowed to sleep in the basement and cook inside instead of having to set up camp for the night.

We knew we’d run late if we stayed for Sunday morning service, but how could we refuse to such gracious hosts and I am glad that we did. The most memorable incident was the sharing of music and the collection of the offering. Unusual memories? Not really. Our group was the special music and the “passing of the hat” was literal. When the ushers collected the offering, they used white Stetsons as collection plates. It isn’t a memory that will quickly fade, for me and the rest of our troupe.

On the Right Side

Over the years, most of my injuries have occurred on the right side of my body. One summer while on vacation from school, I sprained my right ankle three times. My mom said she was almost crazy thinking of things to keep me busy.

My next injury occurred as we were lowering my brother-in-law and sister’s mobile home. I was underneath tossing up blocks for the beams to rest on when one of the jacks sank into the soft earth, the trailer slid sideways and dropped about eight inches before it settled onto the block I’d just set in place. The weight of the trailer folded me double like a taco without filling. I crawled out. Moving my arm I noticed had limited movement. I knew it wasn’t broken, but my shoulder had been dislocated and spontaneously relocated. I drove myself to the hospital for x-rays drove because my wife Cindy was too upset and almost backed down a ditch.

While working, I had two trip and fall injuries. Both times my right shoulder caught the worst of the fall. Physical therapy alleviated much of the pain.

It was necessary for me to have carpal tunnel surgery on my right wrist. Pain, a declining grip, and the numbness were increasing. About the same time, my right pinky finger began to change. I believe it started when I tried to catch softball that caused an injury. It progressed into a degenerative deformity. I shouldn’t be surprised; my grandmother Rebecca Miner had rheumatoid arthritis.

I’ve had frequent flair ups of pain in my right knee because of the arthritis. It’s progressed slowly so I’ve not needed knee surgery, but there are days when my right sided sciatica teams up with the knee pain to make sitting or standing too long vary miserable.

Somewhere along the line, I developed a minor right rotator cuff tear. It’s caused some limited range of motion, but hasn’t been severe enough for surgery.

My latest injury happened because I’m frugal, although my kids say I’m cheap. My septic tank had become full and I decided to dig to the tank’s opening. I ended up digging two holes because I’d misjudged its location by about three feet. At sometime while uncovering the lid for the honey dipper to gain access, or while I replaced the soil after he’d finished, I separated my right bicep tendon from its anchoring bone on my shoulder. I have pain and it’s limited my mobility, but my PCP said I may have more problems after surgery than I have now. She wants to delay the surgery until more problems turn up.

Rainbows and Beyond

I believe I may have shared before my grandmother Anna Beck’s love for bright colors or it may have just been my grandfather Edson’s frugal spirit that colored their home. This was so apparent when anyone walked into their kitchen. The metal base cabinets and sink were white as was an old Hoosier cupboard and a white side cabinet. They were the islands of serenity in a swirl of color. The tiles on the floor made a sea of bright red. Brilliant blue Congoleum with white lied blocks rose halfway up the walls. Above the blue barrier, the wall was painted a bright sunshine yellow. The primitive hand-crafted upper cupboards were painted pale, pastel of sea foam green. To complete the rainbow effect, ruffled lavender curtains hung at the windows. A small powder room claimed one corner of the kitchen.

This area was the masterpiece of mélange. The rest of their home was more subdued with only splashes of color in the living room, dining room, and Granddad’s office. Old time flowered carpet made the centerpiece, while the dark wood dining room table and chairs rested on it with the china cupboard watching over all. In the living room, a plump maroon sofa and chair surrounded another flowered carpet, their material was stiff and itchy to sit on.

Linoleum of pale gray embossed with flowers covered the office floor. In the center were Granddad’s dark multi-drawered wooden desk, his wooden roller chair, and two chairs for clients. Granddad made wills, deeds, and completed income taxes.

In one corner of the office huddled a pale green metal stand, the resting place for his old Underwood typewriter. In the opposite corner, a huge safe hibernated, its single brass-eyed dial glowed. When the safe needed to be moved, 2X8 planks were needed so it wouldn’t break through the old pine, tongue and groove flooring. A door led to an adjoining and narrow waiting room that held a few more chairs and a pale gray filing cabinet. Several calendars hung on the wall; the pictures helped to eliminate the drabness of the room.

Grandma’s love for colors must have rubbed off onto her daughters Estella Strawderman and Helen Stahl. Fastidiousness and choice of décor could be seen in their homes as well, but I will leave those stories for another time.

Ride ‘Em Cowboy

My mowing is done for this week. I did it yesterday after the return of my riding mower. A local handyman and friend did a tune up; replacing the filters, the sparkplug, changing the oil, and replacing the nearly worn out blades. He does mower and small engine repairs, but the best thing is he will pick up my mower, repair it, and return it. I don’t have to find a way to get the mower to him. He also raised the front of the mower deck which was low from the time I purchased it. It is so much better.

As he returned it, we were talking and I said I needed to fill the gas tank. He looked. There was half tank of gas, then said, “There’s more than enough gas to do your yard,” then I explained I mow the neighbor’s yard too.

“You should only mow for about an hour, then let the motor cool. It is made of aluminum with iron parts and will cause damage if the motor gets too hot.”

I took his advice and mowed the yards in two mowing sessions.

The riding mower is much easier than the way my uncle Ted Miner mowed. Because of an accident he only had the mental capacity of a 3rd grade student and made money by doing odd jobs. In the summer he mowed lawns. Several of the vacation cottages were 2 miles away from his home in Indian Head, Pennsylvania, but every week he pushed and pulled his Lawn Boy along Route 711 to cottages on Poplar Run Road. His mower was always a green skinned Lawn Boy. Replacements were Lawn Boys, too. To him, nothing else ran as well. He carried his lunch with him. His favorite lunch was a hard cooked egg sandwich slathered with Miracle Whip and covered in salt. He ate Oreos with it. He’d take a bite of the sandwich, then a bite of the Oreo. Once he enticed me to try a bite. It tasted okay, but I wouldn’t want it as my daily fare like he did.

Occasionally I’d go with him to “help.” He didn’t often allow me to use the mower. I think he just wanted someone to talk with when he took a break. I can’t remember how his customers paid him. They may have left money hidden for him, but as soon as he was finished, he walked the area looking for anything he may have missed, before strapping the extra gas can to the mower deck and trudging the 2 miles back home.