The Graciousness of Gratitude

Does that sound confusing? It’s not really. Both are often lost in the hustle and bustle of today’s society. They seem so passé and old fashioned that they’ve been relegated to the trash heap. A man tipping his hat to a lady or opening a door for her is now an insult, while a few years back not making the gestures were considered rude and ungentlemanly. Pulling out a chair for your mother, wife, or any accompanying female to sit was expected and if not done, it was inconsiderate.

Those acts are reflected in the word graciousness. When we show kindness to another in even the smallest act of being polite we are being gracious. Something that we are not forced to do but we share is something from the heart. That’s the love-type charity of which God speaks in his Word. When we show compassion to someone less fortunate than we are, or are merciful to another, that’s being gracious. Shakespeare wrote, “The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

Now we come to the word gratitude. Gratitude is appreciating an act of kindness, no matter how small. It’s being thankful for having received any favor or having received a blessing in our lives. It is an attitude that was once developed in homes in the past. This was especially true in Christian homes where parents taught their offspring that all goodness and blessings come from God.

Today, people tend to ignore God altogether. They refuse to acknowledge him. Because of that, they fail to recognize his blessings. Today, pride, sinful pleasures, and arrogance have replaced the need to be grateful. People now flagrantly display shameful acts wrapped in their egotism and self-importance.

History has shown that people who are most grateful are the humble, needy, and brokenhearted. In the past, it has been the responsibility of the church family to care for the destitute. The church was to care for the sick, the hungry, the indigent, and the widow and orphans and withhold from the slothful.

The government has removed this duty from the church and now forces everyone to pay for it by taxation. Government chooses who they will “bless” and from whom they will withhold that “blessing.” People have become dependent on the government to the extent they consider it to be their rightful portion. Recipients are no longer grateful for the bounty that they’ve received. They have become intolerant, inconsiderate, and lazy, showing contempt for those people who continue to work to earn things for themselves.

Respect

Respect is quickly disappearing in the United States of America. The rapid moral decline seen in our government, in cities, in schools, and with people in general can be traced back to an increasing amount of lack of respect. When the authority of parents, police, and our military have diminished to the point that people do just the opposite of what is the proper thing to do. When parents are mocked, police shot and killed, the military, including the Commander-in-Chief, are cursed, spit on, and impugned just because things didn’t turn out the way many ill raised and corrupt people expected.

This lack of respect for the American flag and for our country can be seen all around us. Athletes, Antifa, Leftist politicians, and those who try to force another way of life America show their disrespect by burning the flag, “taking a knee,” and having enclaves in cities instead of assimilating. Our presidents in the past have stopped immigration to allow for assimilation; for the maintenance of our culture, for the respect of our Constitution, and for maintaining our language and national pride.

The lack of respect for human life is another area in which America has drifted away from solid moral integrity. The increasing insensitivity to the pain and loss of life with abortions of an innocent child is just one aspect of that. That lack of respect extends outward to include the murder of police, mass shootings, stabbings, and a mob-like mentality that runs rampant in our streets. Bystanders would rather record events of beatings, acts of arson, and murders instead of calling authorities.

The abuse of children by parents, other adults, the beatings of a spouse, or the reverse; the abuse or beating of parents all stem back to a lack of respect. The use of drugs shows a lack of respect for the person themselves. Many of the crimes committed are by those individuals who are selling or are addicted to drugs.

Have you noticed that about the same time that America removed prayer, Bible reading, and honoring the American flag in our schools, the moral decay and disrespect increased exponentially? The truths once shared with our youth are being replaced with an indoctrination of humanism, Islam, and the prevailing myths of evolution and climate change. If society defines humans as nothing more than an animal or as a blob of flesh, it becomes no worse to kill them than to slaughter an animal. If humans have no soul, if humans are not made in the image of God, and if the Bible is not the basis of all truth, then respect will be lost and anarchy will rule.

Let’s Have Another Cup of Coffee

Eileen worked night shift in the computer room and came to the emergency room to buy a cup of coffee before the beginning of her shift. She was the only person in her area and didn’t want to brew a pot of coffee for herself. She would chat for a few minutes then report to work. The coffee pot in the emergency department sat on a stand at the end of narrow lounge area.

I was supervising when I got a page from the emergency room. The nurse asked if I could come down right away, not explaining why. When I arrived. She pointed to an exam room with the door closed. I gave her a questioning look. She pointed again. “Eileen needs to talk to you.”

When I entered, Eileen was crying. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m gonna get fired!” she wailed. “They’re going to fire me.”

“Wait! Wait! What do you mean you’re going to get fired?” I asked. “What in the world happened?” Eileen was the most meek and timid person that I knew. I could not fathom anything that she could have done to get herself fired.

She said, “I hit Dr. Allen.”

“Okay?” And I paused. I didn’t know what else to say, but I knew I needed to hear more. I wanted to understand the details before I said anything more.

She explained between her sobs, “I walked into the lounge to get a cup of coffee. The doctor was sitting on a chair at one side of the room. As I walked by, he grabbed my knee and I hit him on the top of his head with my coffee cup.” She had the two pieces of the cup in her hands. The coffee mug was a cup that nestled one inside the other to make it insulated.

She explained that she was ex-army and any sudden noise, unexpected moves, or if she was touched when she wasn’t expecting it, she lashed out.

I chuckled and explained, “You’re not in trouble. If anyone’s in trouble, he is. He could be accused of sexual harassment. He had no right to touch you. You could even have him arrested for assault if he wants to complain. He’s not going to do anything. Dry your eyes and get back to work.”

The doctor had a reddened area and a small scrape on the top of his bald head for several days.

Jest in Fun

June was the manager of our medical/ surgical floors. She always complained of being cold and ran the heaters in her office and full blast in the connecting bathroom, even in the hot days of summer.

One winter day, the glistening icicles beckoned to me as they hung in long, thick jagged points from the hospital’s eaves. Several of them were five and a half feet long. I had gotten report from the night shift supervisor and June wasn’t in yet.

Going into her office, I shut off the heat in her bathroom and went outside. Breaking off one of the longest icicles I could reach, I carried it inside and placed it in her commode. It was nearly four feet in length and about ten inches thick at its base. I tried to get the icicle to stand straight up out of the bowl, but it wouldn’t stay. Putting the thickest part down in the water, I leaned the rest of it against the bathroom wall and closed the door.

When she went into the bathroom and saw what I’d done, she laughed. She hunted me down to remove it. She said, "I had to use the restroom. When I saw that icicle in my commode, I almost peed myself. How about removing it so that I can use my own bathroom?

Another story involved  June’s bathroom and a Resusci-Annie mannequin. June kept the CPR dummy in her office for several weeks. She began to pose it in her chair with its feet up on the desk, sometimes with a cigarette in her fingers or she would pose it at her conference table holding a pen. The dummy had more of a social life than I did.

June told me, “I scared myself this morning. I forgot that Annie was in my office and when I unlocked my door, I actually thought that someone was sitting there.”

One morning I moved the mannequin and hung it on the coat hook at the inside of her bathroom door and forgot about it.

June cornered me the next day and complained, “When I opened the restroom door, Annie’s feet and arms flew out and then banged back against the door. I thought someone was in my bathroom and had committed suicide. I almost had a heart attack.” She poked her pointed finger on my shoulder.

She must not have been too scared. She left poor Annie hanging there for several weeks. Actually, I think it was a convenient place to store Annie without using a chair in her office.

Being a Good Scout

While I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland, the Boy Scout leaders decided to have the first Boy Scout “World Jamboree” and asked the commander of our naval base to supply an ambulance and some corpsmen in case of injury or illness.

Three of us volunteered to man the first aid station. It was our weekend off and nice to have something different to do. We were issued a “cracker box” ambulance for transportation and we loaded it up with things that we thought we would need; food, bandages, food, a large tent, food, water and more food.

When we reached the site, we set up our first aid tent. It was an old canvas tent with matching floor, windows, door flap, and a vent for a stove pipe to exit.  The sponsors gathered a dozen wooden skids for firewood. We knew that wouldn’t last the entire weekend and we searched the field around us, collecting all the dried sheep dung we could find and piled it inside the tent to stay dry.

One of the corpsmen made a stove out of a rectangular tin box that had once held five pounds of coffee. Using snips and wire he made two doors, one for feeding the fuel and the other to remove ashes.

The stoves legs war made out of thick twisted strands of wire. The same heavy wires crisscrossed on the inside of the box to create a grate suspending the burning fuel above the bottom of the ash pit. Three pieces of metal stovepipe ran out through the vent hole and turned upward. The stove was ready for business.

Our tent remained warm, snug, and dry. Which was a good thing, because most of the weekend, it rained. The wood from the pallets was gone before too long. Now the dung in the fields was too wet to burn. But we had an ample supply. The smoke from the dung actually had a pleasant smell. We had a steady stream of scouts coming into the tent to “see what we were cooking.” They couldn’t believe it was actually the smoke from the dung that they were smelling. We could have offered them some pieces of liver that we were cooking when they visited, but they wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.

Nothing But the Truth

I’ve been reading a book of short autobiographies. One story that captured my attention was of the British entrepreneur Joseph Caplan. He struggled to make a fortune and through a series of unforeseen events, he lost it all. The beginnings of his trouble occurred when he hired a prominent political figure named Jeremy to sit on the board of directorship for one of his enterprises. Political enemies of Jeremy targeted him with the intent to bring him down. These men began a concerted attack by scandalizing Jeremy’s past. They turned his private life into a public disgrace. The press joined them, having a field day exposing Jeremy’s past indiscretions. The press soon included Joseph’s businesses and finally Joseph himself became “guilty” as well.

The attacks on Jeremy continued and the names of Joseph’s companies soon filled the tabloids. Joseph’s name was never mentioned of course, but his businesses were constantly front page news. The continual reports of “guilt by association” painted Joseph with the same brush as Jeremy. The scandal of Jeremy’s past whetted an all-consuming public appetite that caused Joseph’s enterprises to collapse.

Joseph’s myriad businesses were dissolved by liquidators and his assets were slowly sold for a fraction of their value to pay creditors and keep food on his table. The innuendos of the press blamed him for all of the losses. With only the view of the press, the public believed the stories. The legal inquiries that followed were prolonged and humiliating for Joseph and his family.

Reporters pressured Joseph for interviews. At first, he eagerly accepted their requests, naively believing he could clear his name by sharing facts of his innocence with them. He gave hundreds of interviews, but none were ever published. Instead of reporting with truthful stories, the press only wanted photographs of Joseph, his family, his home, and his car. It was the kind of things that the public enjoyed reading. Then when Joseph refused to give any more interviews, unscrupulous reporters created their own stories filled with innuendos, misrepresentations, and outright lies.

Much of what happened to Joseph Caplan in the 1970s, still continues today. Many of the present day reporters from newspapers, radio, and television are lacking in integrity. They’ve become mere commentators, regurgitating someone else’s thoughts. They mouth scripts of the parent company and try to foist those views on the public. Reporters no longer do their own research for facts, nor dig for the truth behind events. There is no honest presentation of their findings. The entirety of the media is no longer content to present the facts and allow the public to make their own decisions.

Elephants and Wedding Gowns

I was supervising on an afternoon shift when I heard an overhead page “Blue alert” on our obstetric unit. An arrest on OB had not happened to me before. I hurried to the unit. The patient was a middle aged woman who’d delivered an infant girl earlier. The woman’s heart had stopped. When I arrived CPR was already in progress and I took over doing chest compressions to keep the woman alive. Apparently the stress of labor and delivery was too much for her and she’d had a heart attack. With compressions, support of her breathing, and medications we were able to get her heart going again. She was transferred to our coronary care unit for recovery. I checked on her the next evening and introduced myself as a nurse who’d done compressions on her chest when she arrested downstairs in the O.B. unit the day before.

She said, “So, you’re the elephant who sat on my chest.” I laughed at her description and we talked a bit more before I left her room. I walked into the nursing station and her nurse said, “I heard what she said to you and just wanted to show you something.” She opened the chart and pointed to what she had written while charting earlier. “Patient states ‘It feels as though an elephant sat on my chest.’” I chuckled and left the unit feeling good that the woman was alive because "an elephant” had done its job.

Many years later a woman stopped me in the hospital hallwayl. She was with a beautiful teen aged girl. The woman turned to the girl and introduced me as “the elephant who sat on my chest when you were born.” Then she turned to me and said, “She’s graduating high school this year.”

I was awestruck. I am sure that my mouth was hanging open. This young lady was graduating this year and her mom was going to be around to see her. It was a great feeling to know that I’d had a part in keeping her mother alive to see this milestone in the girl’s life.

But the story doesn’t end there. A few years later, I heard my name being called, turned, and there was the same lady and her daughter.

“We’re here for some blood tests.” She said. “My daughter’s getting married this month.” She broke into a wide smile.

            I didn’t know what to say other than “Congratulations!” Such a feeling of wonderment and accomplishment flowed over me. Standing there in front of me was this beautiful young woman and her mother was still alive and able to see her walk down the aisle. What a rush of good feelings engulfed me.
 

The Hodgepodge Dodge

I’m not sure who to blame, myself or our assistant to the Pastor, but I had one of those interrupted, difficult-to-go-back-to-sleep nights. The assistant’s part was his asking how many had a hard time falling asleep at night and I usually have no problem. My part included falling asleep late in the evening while reading. I woke forty-five minutes later, refreshed and not a bit sleepy when it was bedtime. Not only did I have trouble falling asleep, but I woke frequently with the same problem.

If I wake during the night, my usual solution is to spend some time in prayer for my family, my church, my church family, my country, and the people in government. I don’t always get to the “Amen” at the end, because sleep will claim me. This worked to an extent, but waking several times through the night isn’t the most restful.

Friday I met a nun whose home was in Nigeria. She came to our writer’s meeting. Seemi Then was her name. (Excuse the spelling) Her “sister-name” was Philomena and she gave insight to her country and her view on life as she studied nursing.

I spent much of Saturday being docent at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. As a docent it was my responsibility to open the facility, answer phone calls, sort and file items that were put of place and be general caretaker during my shift. I had only one visitor in my four hour shift, but that’s how it is, sometimes a docent is busy sharing the facility with guests and many times not.

Sunday, I partially described by blaming the Pastor’s assistant for my difficult night of trying to sleep. The entire day was busy with church, Sunday school, choir practice and evening services with our men’s ensemble practicing a new song.

Yesterday, my friend and fellow writer had a meltdown. She made arrangements for us to be at a book signing and reading for September. The sponsor wants the author and illustrator to be there. Because I illustrated some of the pages of her children’s books, she relied on me to be there. In my usual forgetful way, I missed the date was the same date as my niece’s wedding. I know, shame on me. I know that both are important, but even though I don’t like to sit through the wedding ceremony, I had to choose the wedding. My friend is trying to work out another date. We’ll have to see.

Being Mindful of the Mind

In Sunday school yesterday, I learned quite a few new facts. Although I’ve worked in the medical profession as a registered nurse for over 34 years and knew the brain processed an enormous amount of information, I had no inkling of exactly how much. The brain has an average of 86 billion microscopic collective communicates 10 quadrillion calculations per second. It consumes 1/4 of our body’s oxygen and burns 1/5 of our total calories each day. And although the human brain is the most complex supercomputer in existence, it only uses 1/5 the power of a standard 60 watt light bulb.

Studies by Dr. John T. Cacioppo have discovered that the brain is addicted to negative information. It reacts more strongly to negative stimuli than to the positive. By flashing images and measuring the brain’s response he found a higher activity to negative presentations. The brain gets a biochemical high from the stress hormones that are produced. People who become addicted to stress are either high achievers or live in constant emotional turmoil.

There is a constant bombardment of information in our lives and it’s necessary to strategize what we do with it. We need to survey our ports of entry and note what information being consumed, barricade sources of negative information, and be surrounded with positive influence. A good example is to create a routine to start and to end the day in a right frame of mind. What happens during the day may be out of our control, but setting minds right will add sane periods to a hectic day.

Thoughts have definite points of entry and we must understand where we get our information. One entry point is our eyes. Things that we see during the day influence our thought patterns, our moods, and our emotions. Television, advertisements, and news can alter our thoughts. The ear is another gate of entry. The music we hear, gossip, conversations we have with spouses, children, or parents can affect us positively or negatively.

We need to assign parameters to our lives, set a higher standard, and focus on things with moral excellence, rising above the daily disappointments and evils. It’s necessary to think on reality and not on the possible. The future is an unknown. Think on what is correct and not about what is wrong. Don’t waste energy pointing at the faults of others. It is not our job to even the score. Thinking on positive actions and perseverance will always be an asset in your family, your job, and to others.

It’s All History

I’m not an in depth historian nor am I a genealogist, I do enjoy uncovering bits and pieces from the past. Local history is often fascinating and isn’t taught in schools or passed down in oral tales from one generation to another. So many times I find tidbits as I volunteer at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. Our organization is dedicated to preserving local artifacts, news articles, marriage certificates, and death notices. It is a rewarding endeavor of love of the people, the history, and the area of the Laurel Highlands. It is our attempt to preserve for future generations the rich history of the land, the dedication of the people, and the contributions to agriculture, industry, and to transportation.

We also have an area dedicated to the brave military men and women who sacrificed much from the Revolutionary War, French and Indian War, Civil War, WW I and WWII, and information on the Korean and Vietnam Wars. The Society is frequently called on by folk trying to find information on people, places, and events that occurred and we do our best to research for the answers.

The Historical Society has become a repository for old photographs: tintypes, sepia, and even a few colored pictures. There is a section dedicated to school photos and local sports teams. Other photographs cover a wide range of subjects from military scenes and people, to places, businesses, and animals. Articles on display include a stone ax, chains, and iron tools. Everyday items like the Gold Dust Twins cleanser, sugar sacks, and an ornate casket handle. Right now, we have 1940s and 50s ladies hats in one of our display cases. There is a section reserved for military memorabilia, photographs, uniforms, and a musket with bayonet.

The Society has census listings going back to the 1600s, deeds, and information from local cemeteries and those interred there. There are multiple volumes of ledgers listing family histories, diaries, and mercantile receipts and exchanges.

Visitors and new members are always welcome to visit and or to donate local items that are no longer wanted. We will make copies of photographs to add to our knowledge of our history. Hours are 11:00 am to 3 pm every Wednesday and Saturday 10:00 am to 2 pm. The Society is located at 1698 State Route 711, Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Stop by and visit.

Ready For the Old Age Home

Somewhere in the midst of healing from my summer cold and the following symptoms of the flu and my rush to pack for a three day vacation, I mixed up the schedule for taking my medications. Some of the meds I take twice each day, some I take in the morning only, and some I take in the evening after meals. Somehow and for exactly how many days, I’m not sure; I was taking my blood pressure pill twice per day and my metformin not at all. The metformin is to control my diabetes. My morning blood sugars were creeping up and I couldn’t figure why it was happening. I was getting more exercise and losing dome weight. Not as much as I’d like, but five pounds is five pounds.

I was stymied as to what was wrong until I received a shipment of my blood pressure medication. It caused me to look more closely at the medicines and how I stored them. I finally realized what I had been doing. It scared me because I wasn’t being as cautious as I should have been. I’m very careful to store my medications where little fingers can’t get into them, but I was being less attentive in taking them. I have labels marked on the lids AM for the morning meds, PM for those I take in the evening, and AP for those I take twice a day. That was my system, but since the confusion, I now look at the printed labels AND their caps AND the meds before dumping out the pill. It has been five days since I’ve returned to my prescribed medication routine. My blood sugars are coming down nicely and I’m starting to feel more energetic.

I’d fallen behind in some chores and hadn’t done any grocery shopping in over a week, but that changed. I washed my bed linens and hung them out to dry. I defrosted my basement freezer and replaced the frozen food, before I went shopping for the groceries. I wasn’t completely out and my cupboards weren’t bare, but I was running low. That in itself isn’t remarkable, but I’d accomplished this all before ten a.m. I’m not sure what today will bring, but it’s time to take my morning medications and to make breakfast.

Many Times I Am Asked

I have had people ask me why I write and I guess it is because I like to share. I share much of my past, my family history as I recall it, and I share the things that are happening to me now. When my parents died, I know there were things they told me, but I’ve forgotten and those stories died with them. I try to resurrect them if I recall them or if someone else jogs my mind. It’s a legacy that I’m leaving for my family. I write things from my youth, from the Navy in Corps School, Penn State, and prominent incidents while employed as a registered nurse.

The when that I write about is taken from the recesses of my mind after I brush the cobwebs from them or recent past and even things that I am doing right now. Writing Haiku poetry, completing new short stories, and trying to tuck the details into a new book take up much of my time. Another when is when do I find time to write? I really don’t have a set time, but probably should, although I try to write my blog the night before I’m due to post it. That gives me time to review it for any mistakes or to clarify some point.

The who I write about maybe myself, my family, my coworkers, friends, strangers, and even patients I’ve met before I retired. Some names I mention because they are the root of the tale, while others I either eliminate or alter to protect the innocent and not-so-innocent. Family stories would mean nothing if the names and relationships were left unconnected.

What I write about is often generated by my mood, what I am willing to share, or what has made an impression on my life. There can be a myriad of responses to this and none take precedence over another without being filtered by my emotions of my frame of mind. Sometimes I start to share a tale and I am sidetracked into writing an entirely different piece.

Where I write about is mostly about places that the incidents have taken place. They may range from vacations to work environments. I’ve written about tenting trips out west with a bunch of teens to a missionary trip to Nain, Canada with our Pastor, a friend, and several of my family members.

Fictional tales can creep out into places I’ve only read about or have altered to fit the scenes I’m trying to display. Local places like Pittsburgh or Confluence, Pennsylvania to the city of Jericho may end up in my writings, and may be as diverse as I allow.

Mini Vacation

I have always enjoyed trains from the Lionel 0.27 gage to the powerful locomotives that plied the rails near my home. Many summer nights, the wail of a distant passing train would slip through our upstairs bedroom window carried by a breeze. It seemed to be a combination of sad feelings and a yet it was a yearning call. I would lie awake wondering where its destination would be and what it was carrying. My first encounter with the true to life train was in first grade on a field trip. We boarded a school bus riding it until we boarded the train at the B & O station in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. I thought that I was on the top of the world as we chugged through the hills and valleys until we reached Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania where we clambered back onto the school bus and were driven back to the classroom. I can remember it felt so exciting.

The next encounter that I had with the trains was at the old swimming hole in Indian Creek. It was a loose rock dammed secluded section of the stream, just to one side of a make-shift softball field. After a game, we’d be hot and sweaty. The water would call and we’d head for the shadow covered creek to skinny dip. There were times we would have to head for the deep water, up tour chins and wave as a train would rumble by on the high bank.

While I was stationed in the Great Lakes Naval Training Center for Corps School, I’d catch the train to visit my Aunt Cora and her family in Sheridan, Illinois. I would have to rush from one train station in Chicago several blocks to another station to catch the correct train in about 15 minutes. I always made it, but there was sometimes a feeling of almost panic until boarded the second train.

My last encounter with trains was on my mini-vacation to Romney, West Virginia. A friend and I made reservations to ride in the club car to Petersburg. While waiting to board the train, I met one engineer, Jess. He was stoic until we chatted and I got him to smile.

I’d read about people riding in club cars and always wondered what it would be like. In the books, it was always the rich and famous who traveled that way, but there was quite a mixture of folk in the two club cars. I had a great meal, met a lot of great people, and it eliminated one item off my bucket list.