Marines: Semper Fi, Corpsmen Always Sly

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

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

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

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

One Holiday Season I’d Rather Forget

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catch a Falling Star

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

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

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

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

Keep Christmas Merry

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

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

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

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

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

The Christmas Corsage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voice of an Angel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Divine Intervention

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

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

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

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

Yes My Deer I’m Through

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Stroke of Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas Character

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

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

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

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

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

More Momma Sib Stories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories of Family Farmhouses

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

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

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

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

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

Obits and Not a Day Too Soon

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

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

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

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

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

The Closer to Christmas We Get

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

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

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

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

TREE-ting Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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