Footprints

It had been a long day and he was finally home. He paused just inside the door. Someone had been here. He was always meticulous about everything in his house. Everything had to be neat, organized just so, and he knew something wasn’t right. He could sense it. Something was out of place. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Deep in his soul he knew something had changed and something was different.

For quite some time he’d had feelings as if there was another presence somewhere in his home, but he could not pinpoint the reason for this recent unease. He’d given his home a thorough search from the attic to the basement, but he’d found nothing out of place. Was it a ghost?

He discovered only small hints of the other entity that had recently joined him in his abode. He noticed that things that were out of place or had been moved slightly. Small telltale marks were left behind. There was the package that had been partially opened and he found a crumb where he was sure he’d wiped the countertop.

The creature was elusive. It was not leaving enough evidence behind for him to identify it. On one occasion he thought he’d seen a furtive movement from the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t quick enough to recognize what it was.

This intruder was getting bolder. More of his belongings were being moved, knocked over, or gone missing. Just small things, but he’d noticed nonetheless.

After thinking long and hard, he decided to set a trap. Perhaps, he’d find out at last what had come in uninvited and decided to join him in his home.

He sprinkled a bit of talcum powder on the floor before he left the house. Perhaps he would see the footprints of the intruder. He initially planned to stay away for a few hours, but couldn’t keep away for that long. After only an hour he returned, hoping to find clues on the powdered floor.

“Aha!” he thought. The powder had been disturbed. The mysterious footprints in the powder led to the trap he’d set.  It had been sprung and the rat’s lifeless carcass was there at the end of the trail.

With Halloween So Close

All hospitals have ghost stories and Frick hospital was no exception. It was rumored, although didn’t see it myself, that a pale, white apparition would walk from one side of a patient room to the other in our coronary care unit. The ghostly appearances would occur without any type of regularity, only happening when the room was empty either late on the evening shift or early into the night shift. No lights would be on in the room when the gauzy white form would slowly glide across the floor. At first the nurses would investigate, thinking that someone had strayed into the cubicle, but after several times, no one wanted to go in and would say, “Did you see that?” or “I just saw our friend.”

The next story occurred on one of the medical/surgical areas. I was a witness to this phenomenon. At our nurse’s station, we would hear footsteps at the far end of the hallway. There was no way to gain access to that area without walking past the nursing station or entering through a thick metal fire door that made a loud noise when it was opened or closed. We would have heard if someone came through that door.

The footsteps always started on the right side of the hallway and walked to the opposite side through a short connecting hallway. The sound we heard was the steps of thick soled shoes or boots and not the shuffling sound made by patient in slippers. We would check the hallways and patient rooms at that end of the unit each time we heard the steps, but we never found anyone who was up walking or even awake.

Another ghost story occurred on the same med/surg. floor. It involved the bathroom of a patient room. The call light to summon nurses would turn on. When we checked, everyone in the room would be asleep or the room would be empty. We had maintenance check the switch for a short. They even changed the switch and the light still came on randomly.

Several years later, the administration changed the floor to a pediatric area. When the kids came, the “ghost” left and the call light didn’t come on unless it was actually pulled. I guess the spirit didn’t like kids.

Following Up Friday

I accepted a friendship on Facebook. Candee is the wife of my wife Cindy’s cousin. The cousin was my boss when I fried sausage at the annual Buckwheat, Pancake, and Sausage Festival in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. It’s the one major event that supports the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department. The first day of the event the people attending seemed light. I was worried that income for the fire company might be down.

Because weather was great, I initially thought there would be a good turnout, but the roadwork on the bridge at one end of town and the creation of a pedestrian tunnel at the other had traffic slowed to one lane, moving along at a crawl. We didn’t have the usual lineups and rush periods that keep us sausage fryers hustling to meet the demand for the fresh whole hog sausage ready to be served. The slack crowds gave me cause for concern.

As I fried, the wheels in my brain began to turn. I made a suggestion to Candee for the firemen’s store where the ladies sell products: sausage, liver pudding, spare ribs, honey, cider, maple syrup and various other items. A small area they sell hot coffee, hot spiced cider, and sausage sandwiches. These offerings are for people who choose not to eat the full meal but still want to eat something.

I spoke to Candee and suggested that they try to sell fried potatoes as a side order. Fried potatoes are prepared for regular meals; why not offer them with the sandwiches. Patrons who buy a sandwich have no desire to eat the full meal. She said, “There are always left over potatoes at the end of the event” and they’d try it. Because I had the flat tire leaving Friday’s fry session, I didn’t make it back out to help on Saturday to see if my suggestion was a boon or a bust.

When she requested to be friends on Facebook I was eaten alive with curiosity as to whether my idea was a hit or not. She and her husband both work and I was always afraid I’d disturb their meals or their bed time rituals. So, I didn’t call them, but when she asked to be a Facebook friend, I quickly messaged her. She said they sold 2.5 large crock pots of the potatoes and they will offer fried potato side dish again next year. If it’s profitable, why not do it? There’s little extra work or extra items needed to serve them. It gives the customer more a meal and not just a sandwich.

Almost Heaven

I saw a video post on Facebook of a woman waving a microphone and standing before a large crowd here in the U.S. praising her homeland. The crowd cheered in agreement. She continued by saying that her homeland was heaven and again the crowd roared in agreement. I posted the question, “If your country is heaven, why are you living in America and why aren’t more people trying to move there?”

She got huffy and called me a racist for telling her to leave America and go home. She totally misconstrued what I was saying. Out of curiosity, I asked the reason for her claim. I made no inference to her or any in the crowd to move out of the United States. I was genuinely desirous to know why her country was better than America and why people were continuing to leave her homeland and immigrate here. She never answered me.

I can understand why most immigrants still have a love for their country, even though they might have been forced to leave because of wars, famine, or even a desire for a better life and why their heart and soul would continue to long for homes that they left behind.

Many immigrants will form enclaves in America wanting to retain their ethnicity and their roots. Most arrivals have, up until now, assimilated, adopting America as their home. Lately these communities have formed not to preserve their history, but to change the United States into something they escaped.

They choose not to obey the laws of our country. Some also refuse to learn our language. Many want to change our culture and our tolerance of religion. Even some politicians want to have open borders and invite anarchy instead of the championing rules of American civilization.

It may be if they allow illegal drugs and people into our country, it will cause chaos and these politicians will seize the opportunity to impose stricter control of American and rule as did Hitler in Germany, Stalin in Russia, or Mao in China. The more control the politicians can gain, the less power the people have in their own lives. Guns, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, all will become things of the past. If these politicians also take control of healthcare, the licensing of transportation, weapons, and housing, they have a distinct advantage that few people can refuse or overcome.

I am still wondering why this woman praised her homeland and yet doesn’t choose to live there. Can anyone enlighten me?

P.S. I researched information about where she lives and I guess many countries would seem like heaven when compared to San Francisco.

Evolution Notion

“Scientists” that promote the evolution of man believe that human beings were once apelike creatures that by happenstance found a way to make fire by rubbing two sticks together or by banging two rocks together. Or that they were foragers collecting only what grew wild and untended. They also believe that it took millions and billions of years for that creature to form from primordial ooze and to move from one life form to another.

Is it easier to believe that the world’s delicate balance and design for each creature, plant, star, moon, and sun just happened without a guiding hand. Or that the order and rhythm of days and nights, the occurrences of each season, the regularity of ocean tides, the ability for seeds to become plants, animals to regenerate into the same species time after time, randomly appeared without a plan. What could have imagined the DNA and developed it without a master craftsman’s touch? It took generations for scientists to discover that DNA existed at all and what purpose it served. It boggles the mind that these “learned people” falsely developed a belief system that takes more faith and stretch of mental boundaries to form an ideology that is more unbelievable than creation. It’s another attempt to promote humanism and self aggrandizement of man while denying God. They wish to promote themselves into that position.

From the beginning, God created all things and set them in order. Since the time he removed mankind from the Garden of Eden, it was obvious that humans were as intelligent if not more so than mankind today. Early in Genesis, Adam and Eve’s children and grandchildren were agriculturists who cared for plants. They created tents in which to live. They created the occupation of husbandry: taming, breeding, and using animals. Some of them became musicians with harps and wind instruments. They also became artificers in metals, brass and iron. Cain himself was an architect that built a city.

They had the skill of writing. Genesis says there was a book with the generations of Adam. The Phoenicians, the Egyptians, the Mayans, the Aztecs, and many other civilizations created hieroglyphs to express the thoughts of their unique languages. Many of those words took decades for modern man to decipher. Some writings even today haven’t been translated.

The Egyptians did brain surgery. They did embalming that can’t be matched today, and learned to make brass almost as hard as steel. Many cultures have erected buildings that engineers say couldn’t have been built without modern tools. The accuracy of astronomy and mathematics was developed as real scientific achievements.

Evolution from the primitive to life today? I believe it’s just the reverse. It’s de-evolution of the species.

Remembering Things

Some strong memories in my life still remain very vivid. They are not necessarily important. Many are just small things, like the old cobalt blue glass jars of Vicks Vapo-rub. It was the smell of the sharp menthol salve my mom Sybil Beck would rub onto my neck or my chest when I had a head or chest cold. The tingling cold sensation as she applied a thin layer and the burst of the intense menthol fumes that would escape my flannel pajama top or the white cotton undershirt. Now the jars are plastic and the ointment's aroma doesn't seem as intense.

Another remedy that my grandmother Rebecca Miner and my mom used was the cure for a sore throat. It wasn’t as elegant as the Vicks, but as a home remedy it sure seemed to work. My gram would stitch a thick slice of fatback bacon to a strip of folded flannel cloth. She would dribble tincture of turpentine onto the piece of fatty pork, then liberally sprinkle a layer of coarse salt onto the concoction. The cure-all would be wrapped around my neck using safety pins to secure the ends and press the healing concoction tightly against my neck. Turpentine fumes rose from the mixture as the heat from my fevered body would arm the mixture. In turn, the mixture would generate a deeply penetrating heat of its own. I won’t say the cure was soothing, but it seemed to do the trick, relieving the pain I felt in my throat after about an hour or so.

There was an older lady from my church as a youth who shared a sure-fire way to “draw out” a splinter or thorn. Soak a piece of white bread in milk, then bind it in place over the injured area. After a few hours, the wooden shard would rise to the surface to be removed without difficulty.

My neighbor used to butcher and process meat, some for farmers and some for his own small market. He sometimes would render the beef tallow and other ingredients into a thick, nearly tar-like paste that could be applied to wounds to act as a drawing salve. When it was smeared over an injury, it would draw the infection or splinter out of the cut and allow the puncture of small laceration to heal without infection. I still have a small amount in my medicine chest.

I can’t forget the donuts my gram made or the sour cream sugar cookies my neighbor Mrs. Carrie hall used to make. A veritable storehouse of foods I recall from my youth, but they will have to wait until the belly of my recollections begins to growl.

Full Feelings from Friday’s Flat

If you’ve ever driven from Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania to Mill Run during the daylight hours you can see the beauty of the scenery as the road meanders up and down through the forested hillsides, but if you’ve traveled that route after nightfall you can understand my concern when one of my tires decided to go flat. In the “mountain” areas, the cell phone coverage is sketchy at best and the houses and businesses are even more spotty.

The thrumming sound of a tire going flat increased as I approached the dark and closed entrance to Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpiece, Fallingwater. Can I make it to a gas station to add air? What can I do and where can I pull over if necessary to change a tire? My thoughts became moot when the tire decided for me. With a loud sigh, my tire gave up the spirit and the thrumming became a flapping sound.

I pulled into a wide area at the Bear Run Schoolhouse where my wife’s grandmother lived. No one lived there now and the building was dark. I got out of my car and of course, the flat was on the side that was next to the traffic of the roadway. Just ahead was the Bear Run Church and the light of the parking lot. I drove to a spot where I could at least see and be away from the roadway.

I retrieved the jack and spare tire and tried to change the flat, but the lug nuts wouldn’t budge. My limited strength in my injured arm couldn’t pry them loose. I had my cell phone out to call my daughter and have her husband rescue me, when a car stopped in front of the church. I dialed her in case the person stopping meant no good. I was mumbling into the phone when I say a gray uniform and a voice asking if I needed help. I stopped my rambling into the phone and disconnected.

It was a Pennsylvania Conservatory Park Ranger. He helped me change the tire and I was very grateful and relieved. After thanking him, I drove home. Once I was safe in my house, I decided to recall my daughter only to find that I’d dialed her old cell number and had been talking to a strange female. A male answered this time and didn’t seem too pleased that I called and bothered his spouse. I explained that I’d dialed a number that my daughter once owned, then beat a hasty retreat. That number has now been deleted from my cell’s directory.

This was the background to my post on Monday, sharing the full story of my concerns and my full feelings of my flat tire episode.

The Blessings of a Flat Tire

Friday morning was my annual pilgrimage to Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania to fry sausage for the Buckwheat, Pancake, and Sausage Festival. It is the major fund raiser for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Company. I’ve helped since 1973, first as a dishwasher, then as a cake baker, finally settling down to fry sausage. I’d been recruited by my father-in-law Bud Morrison.

On my morning drive to Ohiopyle, I thought, “Wow, a weekend festival without rain. They should have a great turnout,” but when I drove into Ohiopyle, traffic was restricted to one lane on both ends of town and parking space was reduced significantly. Since the state designated it as a park, their “improvements” have sorely impacted the town.

After frying most of the day, all I could think of was going home and putting my feet up. As I neared Falling Water, I could hear a thrumming sound from a tire. Crossing the bridge near Bear Run School my tire went and I pulled over at a wide spot in front of the church. I was concerned. This area is dark with no houses. The flat tire was on the side closest to traffic and in the shadow of my car. I backed into the church parking lot where there was light and unloaded the spare tire and jack from the trunk. I set up to change the tire, but I found I couldn’t break the lug nuts free.

I heard a vehicle slow, then stop. It was a park ranger checking on me. I explained what happened. The side wall of my tire was shredded confirming my story. He volunteered to help. I thanked him profusely, but was still feeling flustered and failed to give him a Gospel tract for his kindness. I didn’t get his name, but I’d like to extend my sincere gratitude to him should he read this blog.

I prayed all the way home on Saturday morning that I hadn’t damaged the rim. At the tire center, I met a young employee. He’d heard me talking to another customer about the books I’d written and said that he liked to read. He shared some rough circumstances of his life he’d endured growing up. I was impressed with his forthrightness. I told him my books were in the Mt. Pleasant Library. Before I left with new tires, I gave him one of my business cards and a Gospel tract.

The blessing of the flat tire was the location where it happened, the arrival of the park ranger, my safe trip home, and that the tire rim wasn’t damaged. I was also thankful to have met this young man and was able to share a Gospel tract.

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow

During my 34 year career of working at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, I’ve met many women as workmates; some came and went quickly, while others were a long time part of the institution. Each of these women had their own unique style and ways of doing things. I guess their hair color and style were just one of their lives stuck out as something for me to remember.

One of the older women, who volunteered wore what I call a helmet head. It wasn’t the bee hive look or a bouffant style. She had rows and rows of tight curls that looked as though her hair was still wrapped around thin curlers and hadn’t been brushed out at all. It wasn’t braided like cornrows, but had a very similar look. Her curls covered her head in long rows that swirled and reminded me of miniature horns that graced the sides of the St. Louis Ram’s helmets.

There was another blonde woman who was older as well. She still wore a “beehive” hairdo. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head. It was fluffed out like yellow cotton candy and was sprayed to within an inch of its life with a heavy lacquer coating of hair spray. Even if she would have gotten caught in hurricane winds, that hair was not going anywhere. It was as fixed and as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Another hair style that I remember was worn by one of our older nursing assistants. Actually to call it a style would be a huge misrepresentation. She had dishwater blonde hair that looked as though a farmer had tried to create a hay stack on her head and failed miserably. It wasn’t just a bad hair day or on occasion, but her messy looking coiffure was askew each and every day that she worked.

The array of hair colors for the women ranged from a basic ebony to bright henna; from sliver gray to a platinum blonde. Straight hair or curly, short hair or long hair the styles were as varied as the women with whom I worked and their personalities.

The final hairdo I’ll mention is that of a ward clerk who had thinning hair. She would poof it out and lift it to give her hair volume, but that was not what attracted my attention. It was the color that she would dye it. Her own natural brown pigmentation was completely changed to a deeply intense burgundy color. Her pale skin only highlighted the unnatural hue.

At Your Service

So far this week I have heard 4 wonderful sermons for our revival meetings, 5 if you consider the message that was given in our Sunday school class. This week we have the evangelist Dwight Smith speaking for revival services at Mt. Zion Community Church. He’s a very energetic and dynamic speaker. Last night was “invite a friend to attend” meeting with a dessert fellowship to follow. After my Facebook invitation, several phone calls, and a couple of face to face invitations to attend, I didn’t see anyone I’d asked to come, but there are still 2 more nights of preaching. However, the missed chance for the “sweet” fellowship afterwards no longer exists.

I rarely bake anymore, so instead I made pudding dessert. Crumbling gingersnaps, I laid the bottom crust and spread pumpkin spice pudding with whipped topping over it. Once it chilled in the fridge I spread a layer of whipped topping over the pudding. It stayed in the refrigerator until just before church, then I topped it with crumble made of melted butter, crushed ginger snaps, and chopped pecans. I managed to claim a spoonful sample at the fellowship and thought it tasted good. Others must have thought so too. The dish was empty except for a teaspoonful that stuck to the sides of the container. I’m glad it went over so well. I never know what others will think when I make up a new recipe and try it for the first time. Church members sometimes become my tasting judges. No one’s died yet from my made-up concoctions.

It’s been a busy week so far. Monday was a doctor’s appointment. Yesterday my contractor came to install several new windows and reapply calking to the others. He’ll be back on Thursday to replace an old door. Today I have my usual workday at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society, but I might do some yard work before another evening service at church. Thursday evening will be the last of the revival meetings. And yes, the invitation is still out there.

Friday I plan to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Company. It’s for their “Buckwheat and Pancake Festival.” I may slip out to fry again on Saturday morning before attending the wedding of an old friend’s child.

Sunday will be my usual Church, Sunday school, choir practice, and evening services routine. Is it any wonder that at my age, I still need a nap?

It Distresses Me

As a child I was raised to respect God, my parents, my teachers, and people in authority. I developed a feeling of loyalty to my church, my country, and my flag. I was taught the Constitutional values of life, liberty, and the desire to pursue happiness. I had no illusions of my rights impinging on the rights of my siblings or my friends. My parents would set that right with a smack and “give that back to your brother.”

Things have change dramatically over the years that have passed since my childhood. Life today is no longer considered sacred or valuable. Abortions are being promoted and paid for by the government. Those who murder are given slaps on the wrists or protected in “sanctuary cities.” Some politicians are encouraging civil unrest, promoting violence against our police, and supporting their constituents to take the law into their own hands against those who do not have the same partisan views as them. Lies have replaced truths. False accusations have replaced actual evidence. Laws are being twisted into horrendous almost unrecognizable meanings that were never intended.

Liberties and rights are being stripped away in the name of safety and security. Laws forcing views not held by Christians violating the tenets of their faith are instituted under the guise of equality. Foolishness is being promoted and substituted for wisdom. Manmade “intelligence” is replacing knowledge and common sense.

Public assistance by the government is trying to sell happiness instead of allowing people to pursue it. That plan didn’t work in ancient Rome with bread distribution and entertainment from the Coliseum. Rome collapsed on itself under the staggering burden of taxation.

America has come a long way down that same road to perdition. A country once founded on the freedom to worship God in the manner they choose has now all but turned its back on their Creator. America is a land that grew powerful and great because God blessed it. Those blessings will only continue for so long before God withholds his favor and judgment will fall on the United States. Israel turned its back on God. He was slow to anger, but his punishment did fall on them time after time. They chose to have a relationship with idols instead of the Creator who wanted them to be his chosen people. I pray that the same time of Ichabod isn’t happening for America.

Unless there is a real revival with a return to recognize God as the holy being that he is, to honor him, and worship him, America will cease to be a great nation and will face his anger.

Impractical Practical Jokester

At Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania where I worked, there was a nursing assistant named Kurt who had an extremely wicked and perverted sense of humor. Nothing was sacred to him and his quick mind would exploit any opportunity that appeared. This prankster would go out of his way to play a joke on a fellow employee.

Sara our head nurse on the med/surg. floor was a short, full figured woman while the assistant head nurse Angelica was thin and tall.

When they stood close to each other, they looked like Laurel and Hardy. These women had a mutual dislike for each other and rarely stood near each other. It was only because they had to work together, that they tolerated each other at all. They worked on the daylight shift and Karl who worked the afternoon shift, often played jokes on both of them. He would do something for one nurse to find and make her upset by making it look like the other nurse had done it. He did it to spur their rivalry.

The head nurse still wore garters and a rubber girdle. She kept a container of talcum powder in the restroom. She used it to powder herself so she could more easily squirm back into her girdle after using the toilet.

When Kurt found out about this habit of Sara the head nurse and became the target of his next prank. He pried the cap off her talc container and poured a layer of Ajax cleanser onto the talcum powder in the container. He popped the lid back on and set the container back in place on the restroom shelf.

The trap was set. It lay in wait for the head nurse to come in on the daylight shift the following day. After she used the bathroom the next morning, as usual, she applied her powder and a few minutes later, she began to squirm. She fidgeted for a few minutes before she made a second run to the bathroom. The itching became a nuisance. She told one of the other nurses, “I don’t know what was wrong. Something’s making me itch.” She never did find the reason for her itch or that she was again the “butt” of one of Kurt’s warped jokes.

Sharing the Seed

Several times in past posts, I have mentioned a project that our church does in conjunction with an outreach program of the First Baptist Church in Milford, Ohio. The program is printing the Bible or specific books of the Gospel in diverse languages to be sent to missionaries or distributed to the citizens of other countries to read in their own language. It is reported for each document printed, seven people will read it and one of the seven will accept Christ as their Savior.

The Bearing Precious Seed organization brings the unassembled Gospel, covers, and machines to staple and trim the booklets. We provide the space, time, and volunteers to assemble, staple, and trim each printing before packaging them in boxes for transport. Bearing Precious Seed takes them back to their receiving area, loads the finished product into shipping crates, and sends them to the different countries.

Some finished products have gone to Sierra Leone, 390,000 copies of John and Romans. Scotland received 1,035 copies of the New Testament. Grenada was sent 1,200 whole Bibles. A printing we helped to assemble went to Lithuania 250,000 copies of John and Romans. Different countries in Africa have gotten 2,790 New Testaments, 3,490 Bibles, and 315,240 copies of John and Romans.

We assisted in assembling Korean translations of the Gospels of John and Romans in time for the Winter Olympics. They were distributed by missionaries from Bearing Precious Seed and local ministers and pastors in South Korea. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know if some of the copies were secreted into North Korea?

Another project was printed in Spanish and was distributed at the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio De Janiero, Brazil. Missionaries from Bearing Precious Seed joined Brazilian pastors and missionaries to distribute God’s word to the athletes gathered there.

Our most recent endeavor with Bearing Precious Seed was printed in Portuguese. Its destination is Bolivia. In four hours, we completed the task of assembling nearly 8,500 copies of John and Romans. We could have completed more, but the project managers had promised another church the remaining unassembled copies for the next day.

More facts about this ministry: each minute, 68 pounds of paper runs through the printing press PER MINUTE. Paper costs have risen and have limited their outreach. If they continue to print at their present rate, they could produce 14,000,000 copies of Scripture this year. They ask for continued support with prayer.