Bush League

My aunt Violet Miner Bottomley and Uncle Charles had a large garden and several fruit trees on their property in Mill Run, Pennsylvania The garden had raised beds and when my family visited there were certain rules for us kids. We couldn’t go into the garden and could only eat apples that had fallen to the ground. My favorite tasting was the sweet and juicy Grimes Golden apples. We weren’t allowed to “encourage” an apple to fall.

Aunt Violet had several golden currant bushes at the perimeter of her yard. They were also off limits, but often the allure of their tangy flavor often me to err. I’d eat only a handful of two as I hunkered down concealed among the leaves as we played “Hide & Seek” with the other cousins. Violet wanted a good harvest when she made currant jelly.

Uncle Charles also had a Concord grape arbor. The rules about eating the grapes were less stringent than with the apples or the currants. We could eat the grapes as long as we didn’t waste them.

The other story about bushes that comes to mind happened at Granddad and Grandma Miner’s house. Grandma Rebecca Miner had a large lilac bush at one side of her house. The bush had a few trunks that were about 4 inches in diameter and rose nearly 12 feet high. They were surrounded by a multitude of slender shoots. When cousins congregated for holidays It made the perfect place of concealment as we played “Hide & Seek.”

Gram loved her lilacs and we knew it was off limits, but that didn’t stop me. I entered the maze of saplings. I knew if someone parted the leaves, I’d be discovered easily, so I climbed the thick trunk and edged out on a nearly horizontal branch where I wouldn’t be seen. It was a great place to hide…until my foot slipped and I fell. I didn’t fall too far, my heel caught in the crotch of a branch and like a bat, I hung upside down unable to free myself.

I yelled for someone to get help. My granddad Ray responded. Pushing his way into the maze of the lilac bush, he stopped when he came face to face to face with me, although mine was upside down. In his usual quiet manner, he said, “You know you shouldn’t be in Grandma’s lilac bush. I have half a notion to leave you there.”

One More Day

There’s one more day of our Vacation Bible School. One more day of cooking and serving in the kitchen to feed the different kids. Bright eager eyes and hungry bellies line up along the kitchen counter, waiting to be served. They can make their selection from the items offered, some kids wanting only a couple different foods choices, while others wanting everything. Many coming back for seconds and possibly thirds before the food and the time for lunch are gone. The children are all hustled out to the auditorium in a final assembly before they are dismissed to go home.

I was able to stay with my granddaughter Thursday morning before Bible school started and then to drive her to the Bible school. While we were waiting at her house, I helped her memorize some Bible verses. As each child memorizes several Bible verses, they are able to select a prize. Sometimes she has difficulty with her spelling words or with memorization. But she has the talent to play the piano by ear after hearing a tune played only once. She loves to sing and is always singing even in the car. She’s just like her mother was at that age.

An idea hit me, “Why can’t I get her to sing the verses?” It worked. We started with a verse that she hadn’t tried before and after about ten or twelve times singing Romans 6:23, she had it memorized and was able to say her verses and able to earn a prize.

My mom, Sybil Beck would sing a chorus or a line from a song that paralleled something my brother, sister, or I said. I guess I’ve inherited a similar trait, especially while I was still working at Frick Hospital, Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, but it wasn’t that I always sang a ditty. Most times it was either telling a story or joke that hopefully lightened situations or gave my fellow workmates a reason to smile.

My granddaughter’s great-uncle David has the ability to play a tune once he has heard it, playing the music perfectly on a guitar, banjo, or mandolin, but he can’t read music. He’s of Scottish heritage and when I last heard, he was teaching himself to play the bagpipes. He bought the blowpipe and chanter, hoping to eventually purchase the more expensive bagpipe parts later.

They Refuse to Stay Buried

Many times memories refuse to stay buried and will spontaneously resurrect. These remembrances are mostly what I write about and share. While I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland, I got a telephone call from my mom, Sybil Miner Beck. With phone rates being so expensive other than local calls, I was surprised with the unexpected message. I was 20 years old and no longer a teenage kid. What she had to say hit me quite hard. Raymond Miner, my grandfather, her father had passed away. He was the first close member of my family to die.

A coal miner at night and working his farm to feed his family during the day, he had finally worn himself out. Hardening of the arteries had been destroying his mind for several years. He was so used to tending the farm and caring for his animals that he was constantly restless creating problems for my grandmother Rebecca. She had to constantly be on the alert to keep him from wandering off. All of his animals were sold off and the barn had collapsed, but in his mind, they were still there and needing him.

Many times during the day he would rise from his padded rocker and slip on his shoes. Grandma would ask, “Ray, where are you going?” He would reply, “I have to take care of the horses.” Grandma would have him look out the window at the rubble from the fallen barn and remind him, “The animals are gone, Ray.” He would shake his head, kick off his shoes, and settle back into his chair in front of the television. His tobacco spit can beside him on the floor. Chewing tobacco was a habit that he’d picked up at the coal mines. Many miners chewed tobacco to remind themselves not to swallow the coal dust laden saliva. It wouldn’t be long until he would again become restless, finally rising out of his chair with a replay for his desire to check on his animals.

            Grandma did have a helper. It was a stray dog that they named Laddie. He was a large mongrel collie mix, mostly black with some brown and white markings in its coat. He was an outside dog and would follow granddad when he managed to escape grandma’s watchful eyes. Laddie was a faithful companion, hanging close to Grandpa’s heels. Laddie seemed to assuage some of Granddad’s restlessness and the need to have animals near.

            Alone in Iceland without family, the phone call was difficult for me to bear. Time, distance, and finances made it impossible for me to attend his funeral, but memories of him refuse to stay buried.

Busy and Still Rolling

Monday I thought I’d mow my yard before working at V.B.S. but the deck belt broke only after doing part of it. So I showered and prepared for V.B.S. instead. Our church began its week of Vacation Bible School for children 5 years of age to 12 years of age. It’s a time for children to learn the reason Jesus came to earth. There is also a time for crafts, recreation, and a time to eat the meal provided for them. I volunteered as kitchen to help prepare food and drink for the kids. Monday’s meal was chicken patties, macaroni & cheese, and cookies for dessert.

Tuesday, I was my friend’s service companion when we went to West Virginia to have an evaluation of her knee. She had a total replacement and was doing well until she had another injury and began to have increasing problems. The orthopedist that did the surgery didn’t want to hear about, thus the second opinion. Her PCP referred her to Dr. Frye, sports injury orthopedist in West Virginia. He was remarkable, giving her extensive x-rays and a thorough physical exam of her knee. All of the time, he was explaining to an intern why and what he was feeling with the tests at different positions. So, we got a very detailed explanation of what he was feeling and why she was having problems. The original knee replacement repaired the damage of arthritis in her knee with bending, but didn’t stabilize her knee on the sides, allowing some play with rising from sitting and going up and down inclines.

His recommendation was for her to have another knee replacement. It would be a little more extensive, but it would correct the problem she was having. He’s known for repairs and partial repairs of knees and his detailed explanation made it clear as to why it was needed.

We made it back just in time to assist in the kitchen to feed the hungry youngsters. Hot dogs, chips, fruit, cookies and drinks were on Tuesday’s menu. There were nearly double the number of children that came to V.B.S. Tuesday. Then there is always cleanup.

Back home, my son Andrew came over to replace the belt on my mower. I’m glad that he did. It needed more repairs than just the belt. There were some things that I wouldn’t have recognized, diagnose, and fix. I was so blessed. Thank you Son.

There are three more days for new kids to join us. Today’s menu will be pizza bagels and pizza slices, but can’t remember what else other than chips and cookies is being served. Little Hugs and pouch drink pouches to slake the thirst of the kids before returning to their homes.

Privilege

So much of today’s news media centers on privilege. The privilege we have is the freedom found in the United States. It is something that is denied in many other countries. “All men are created equal” a concept taken from the Bible and reiterated in the Constitution of the United States of America. It’s a privilege often misconstrued, overlooked, or completely ignored, but it shines forth like a beacon when compared to countries with systems based on castes or countries where privilege is based on a person’s gender. It is why so many human beings attempt to come to America; they seek that privilege.

Created equal is the starting point. What a person does from that point in their life is not based on race or sex. I know there are those who will point out examples of black poverty, white poverty; city slum areas in cities and pockets of disparity in pockets of rural America. Both people have to contend with extreme poverty, with less than quality education, drug usage, high suicide rates and in day today struggles. Instead of trying to solve the underlying problems, politicians have a tendency to point them out, not in attempt to lessen them, but to further divide and exaggerate the differences to promote themselves and hold sway over them, much like feudal lords once held over serfs in medieval times.

There are more privileged people, those who are live in a stable, two parent home, where a mother and father raises and supports a child in a nurturing manner. So many things have a tendency to intervene: divorce, domestic partnerships, stepparents dividing the children between several homes, etc. But the largest and most devastating attack on the family has been the attack on the family unit by the government when it steps in to be the daddy.

Our government actually encourages the father to leave the home, then subside a single parent home. Men are able to spread their seed with little or no repercussions or responsibility. Women have accepted the male lies of free sex without consequences. Chastity and protection from conception is not a necessity with the availability of free abortions and if they decide to carry the child to delivery, no problem, Uncle Sam with become Daddy Warbucks.

Being Good in Church

We weren’t the best kids, even in church. Mom and Dad had to keep a sharp eye out for us even then. My brother, Ken and I knew that our sister, Kathy hated and nearly went bonkers when she heard a finger nail clippers being clicked shut. For some reason, that sound set her off and it still does to this day.

She was younger and had to sit with Mom and Dad. I was older and Mom allowed me to sit with friends. Waiting for a silent moment in the service, I’d snip a fingernail. CLICK. I would watch Kathy’s head whip around like the girl in The Exorcist. The only difference was Kathy didn’t levitate off the pew and spew split pea soup out of her mouth. Her eyes would shoot daggers across the sanctuary and I would sit and stare forward, smiling inside. Sometimes I’d wait, letting her settle, then snip a second nail.

When my sister grew older, a friend of hers would often sit with her. Her friend would grab the back of the pew in front of her and scoot under the seat, scooting on the wooden floor, and swing back into the seat again. One time, Kathy’s friend’s hands slipped and she slid across the floor under the next four pews. She flipped herself over and scrambled back to her seat, face red with embarrassment. Kathy almost popped a gut, trying to keep from laughing out loud.

During a Christian Endeavor Meeting, the youth led part of it. A friend of ours, Joyce was up front and reading a lesson. She began to smile and could barely finish the reading without laughing.

My brother Ken had cut a jack ball in half. He sat where she could see him and put half of the ball in each eye socket and squinted, holding them in place. She had to look at him staring at her with unblinkim=ng red jack ball eyes. I’m sure it took major will power to finish her reading.

When Ken was younger, he would race down a pew and jump over the end. It happened several times. Mom warned him not to do it again. The next Sunday, Ken ran down a pew and jumped. He saw my Mom coming down the main aisle, He cringed in the corner of a pew at the back of his class area, saying, “No, Mom, no.”

It was too late. Mom grabbed his arm and hauled him outside. Once outside, she dusted the seat of his pants, then said, “Don’t cry. You’re going right back inside.” After a few sniffles, Mom took him back inside. On the way home, Mom said, “From now on, I want you to listen and tell me what your lesson is about.”

Several Sundays later, Mom asked, “What was your lesson about today?”

Nearing the Christmas season, Ken said, “It was about the three wise guys.” He had listened and it was close.

On the Go Monday

I got a phone call from my friend and fellow writer, “Could you drive to Walmart to pick up the groceries I ordered”? My feet are so sore to walk on.” I’d driven her before and knew she only asked when she couldn’t drive her own car, so I agreed. She helps me to publish and create covers for the books I’ve written.

It was fortuitous that she made the pickup time when she did. Otherwise I couldn’t have accommodated her. I’d already volunteered to help at church decorate the front of the sanctuary in preparation for Vacation Bible School.

My friend must have had almost nothing left in her cupboards or refrigerator. As we drove to collect her groceries, she began to tell me that her blood sugar dropped and she ate a few bites of a candy bar and a can of beets to stave off her hypoglycemia. She had a frozen TV dinner, but was saving it in case I couldn’t take her to retrieve her groceries.

As the young lady was moving the shopping bags from her cart into the trunk of my car, I said, “I’m her grandson.” The girl laughed and my friend just scowled. She’s only a couple of years older than me.

Back at her apartment, she brought out 2 shopping carts and we filled them. My trunk was full of her supplies. I felt better knowing she had food in her house.

I hurried home, had lunch, and joined a few other volunteers turning the raised dais ad the baptistery into a scene from an old time gold mine. Mining for gold is the theme for VBS this year. First we covered the front walls with huge crumpled sheets of painted paper to mimic the rock walls of a mine. Then we began to decide where we would place the props: lanterns, old wooden bucket, powder keg, “dynamite” and dynamite box, carbide light, a mine cart filled with gold, and various mining tools.

Three hours of work and the scene was ready for the first day of Bible school. June 22, from 10 A.M. until noon at the Mt. Zion Community Church located at the top of Kreinbrook Hill Road. It’s for kids 5-12 years old and lunch will be provided.

Fish Fries and Friends

When I was stationed in Orlando, Florida as a Navy corpsman, one of the things I enjoyed doing was to fish. Many times it was for bass in the several lakes on the base or close by. Here in Pennsylvania we measure fish by its length, but in Florida fish are measured by how much they weigh. Some of the best fishing was at night. Using plastic purple night crawlers, I would wade through the cattails to the edge of open water, cast the bait, and slowly reel it back in, hopefully with a fish on the line. Most times it was catch and release. I had no way to keep or cook it.

Not so when I fished with a friend who had an eighteen foot fishing boat on the Atlantic Ocean off Cape Canaveral. We kept, cleaned, and sent those fish home with men who had homes off base to store the catch in their freezers. When the freezers were filled with sea trout, blue mackerel, and flounder, the fishing buddies and their wives would plan a fish fry.

It was usually at the house of a chief petty officer. On duty he was addressed as chief, but off duty it was Floyd. The ladies would make the coleslaw and whip up the batter for the hush puppies. Floyd would pull out a round charcoal grill and place the huge harvest skillet over the hot coals. It took three cans of melted Crisco to fill it with hot grease to fry of the fish and hush puppies. My mouth still waters at the thought of the flakey succulent fish and hot tasty onion flavored corn meal balls fried to a golden brown. The coleslaw was the balance to the meal. It was a BYOB with some guys drinking beer and others like me sipping on soda pop.

Once while fishing, the ocean swells were six foot. I never got seasick, but came close. The waves lifted the boat one third of its length. I stood in the boat to fish. My buddies said, “Sit down or you’ll fall overboard.” I tried to sit for about five minutes and knew that wasn’t going to work. I was nauseated and stood saying, “I’d rather fall overboard than hanging over the side puking.”

I kept three of blue mackerel and took them to the base chow hall. I asked the cooks if they liked fish. When they said yes, I said you can have two if you cook one for me. When lunch came, I had a wonderful fish plate and French fries while the other men were served glops of beef ragout with okra.

Swan Song

As I relaxed and was watching television this evening I was reminded of my time that I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The base was thirty-four kilometers from the capital city of Reykjavik, most of the time I rode the bus. The ride wasn’t always interesting, but one thing unusual was that many of the headstone in a cemetery were lit with bright colored Christmas lights. I’d never seen anything like that in the United States, especially out in the countryside where I live.

I was fortunate, because of my rank; I could go off base in civvies. (Civilian clothing) I was often mistaken in Reykjavik for an Islander, because of my full red beard and the civvies I wore would match what the men wore. This mistaken identity caused a few odd encounters for me. I may share them at another time, but back to my story.

Another type of travel for me while in Iceland was to fly in an airplane. When I had free time and could catch a ride to other areas of Iceland on board a military transport, it didn’t cost me anything but time. The ride was less than first class, not serving snacks, often bumpy and always noisy. I was able to visit several areas that would have been inaccessible otherwise.

We had a physician who needed hours in the air to gain his commercial pilot’s license. He was willing to fly several of my fellow Navy friends and me to other destinations in Iceland. He would pilot the plane if we would pay for the rental of the airplane. We flew to Akureyi circling over the island of Grimsey or over Heimaley to the volcanic island of Surtsey’

It was advantageous for both parties. I can’t remember which flight it was on, but it may have been to Akureyi. As we flew over one area, it was filled with hundreds of tiny ponds, almost small enough to be called large puddles; we could see a breeding pair of swans at each puddle claiming it for their own. Now that was a memorable flight. On the return trip heavy clouds hovered close to the ground. It was difficult for our Doc pilot to navigate in the pea soup; he hugged the ground, following a highway a few times. Because I’m writing this, it’s obvious we made it back to base safely, and that trip wasn’t my swan song.

Back to Normal in Normalville

Last Wednesday was the first day I started to actually work at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. We were not actually open to the public, but because there were things I the files I needed to finish our newsletter, Down Memory Lane. The contents are things of local interest; historical things in the Laurel Highlands. The one I had planned was to share the important place Southwest Pennsylvania played in the Underground Railroad and in the Abolition of slavery. Due to the delay because of the C-19 virus and following concerns, the officers decided it wasn’t the time to share. I had to scramble to replace that feature article.

Yesterday I was finally able to be seen at my dentist’s office in Normalville, Pennsylvania. I somehow had three roughened areas or made chips in my teeth. It wasn’t a dire emergency, but it created areas for food to collect as I ate and made flossing difficult. I have had the same dentist for nearly thirty years. One of us is definitely growing older. Some things changed, but it was great to see the Doc and his office help.

The procedures for the dental work had changed because of the virus concerns. I had to rinse my mouth before we started with hydrogen peroxide and water wash. I’ve always had a good relationship with my dentist. For anyone who has come in contact with me, they know I enjoy teasing and plating with words. That maybe why I like to write and share my thoughts. I can’t wear the paper face masks. I have allergies to something in them and wheeze for a few days after. A good friend of mine made a black cloth mask that has printed on it “Trump 20202.” I slipped it on when I heard the dentist entering my cubicle and asked “Do you want me t open wide?”

He laughed and said, “You do know that I’m a Democrat?” We both had a good laugh and he went to work smoothing and making the necessary repairs.

That done I returned home to make some props for our upcoming Vacation Bible School. The theme is “Mining for Gold.” The front of the sanctuary will be transformed into a gold mine vignette with lanterns, mining tools, kegs, wooden buckets, ropes, “dynamite boxes” and other items to set the stage for anyone who attends.

Children from 5 to 12 years of age are encouraged to attend Monday June 22 through Friday June 26 at 11 AM. There will be a lunch provided. It’s time to get things back on track.

What’s at Steak

After Corps School in the Great Lakes, I was assigned to the Orlando Naval Training Center at the hospital; first on a medical/surgical and orthopedic ward, then the emergency department. While I was stationed there, I found two places that served great steaks. I can’t remember the name of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but it had great steaks, covered in mushrooms and onions. To me back then it meant the T-bone steak was cheap and flavorful, served with side orders of baked potato, vegetable, and a roll. My recollection was that the restaurant was long and thin. Six booths lined both sides of a narrow aisle with the cashier at the far end.

The other place in Orlando, Florida with memorable steaks was at my uncle Jake and Aunt Helen Stahl’s house. Jake was choosey about his steaks, going to a butcher and having the meat cut to an exact thickness, then he would grill them over a charcoal grill. He always cooked them to well done, I guess that was the way he liked them and supposed everyone else did too.

I was assigned to Iceland as my sea duty and I was often tagged as the designated driver. I’m a teetotaler, so when my fellow sailors wanted to go to the enlisted men’s club and bend their elbows, they would offer to buy a steak dinner for me if I drove. Who could turn down a good steak dinner? Although the club was close to the barracks and they could have easily walked, sometimes the weather was inclement and sometimes they were under the weather and couldn’t walk.

The reason they chose me as driver other than the obvious dangers of driving under the influence was the facts of the Icelandic cops and their judicial system. One requirement of the policeman was that he had 6 feet tall or above and had to know how to wield a Billy stick. More than that, if you were caught and suspected of having alcohol aboard, an immediate blood draw happened. The court showed no mercy, looking at your blood alcohol level and your salary. The higher your blood alcohol, the higher percentage of your wages was garnished by the court. The fines was more than most people were willing to pay.

At home the steaks I remember were cooked with onions in brown gravy. Most times the steaks were just cube steaks, which are basically chunks of cheap beef passed through a meat tenderizer and pressed together into a square slab of meat. I loved it because my mom served mashed potatoes gravy.

In Round Eyed in Surprise

When I made rounds as nursing supervisor, I was often asked to look at photographs of weddings, vacations, new babies, children, and grandchildren. I was able to share events of their families through their own eyes and it was nice to be able to see just a bit of their lives away from a work setting.

One incident stands out as the most vivid and shocking photograph I can recall seeing. A nurse asked me to look at her vacation pictures. She’d gone on a cruise spending several days on a Caribbean island. She invited me to look at her photographs, I felt obligated, because I always tried to make time with any staff member to do a quick review. It was a way for me to connect with them and with the things important to them.

Her photographs were beautiful of sand, sea, trees, and flowers. I was casually flipping through the pictures until I saw what seemed to be a picture of a man, but I could see bare breasts. The person was raised up from the sand on elbows with breasts dangling inches from the sand. They were completely exposed. The person had wide buttocks that were squeezed into a pair of “Daisy Duke” cut off jeans.

I was about to ask who this person was, when I had to bite my tongue. I recognized the face in the photo. It was the nurse who’d gone on vacation and who’d taken the pictures.

This nurse had a square, manly face. She had large hips, legs, and thighs.  She was the last person I expected to see in a pair of short cut-offs shorts and being bare breasted.

When I looked up, all of the other nurses in the unit were all watching me. They saw my face going from puzzlement to a sudden recognition, then astonishment, already knowing the picture that was lurking and what photograph I’d just seen. They were just waiting to see my reaction.

I am still puzzled why a person would keep a picture like that in with her other photos or why would she allow me and her co-workers to see it? She wasn’t afraid to show me her photographs, but I was afraid I’d never be able look at another set of her pictures without fear and trepidation.

One of the nurses later said to me, “I knew exactly when you saw that picture and exactly when you recognized who it was in the photograph. Your face reddened and you shook your head.”

Bathtub Bed
My mom Sybil Miner Beck and my dad Carl were both stubborn at times. One night they locked horns. It wasn’t a fight actually; it was more like two Sumo wrestlers seeing who would move first. It was like the water and a rock, seeing who would wear down first.
Dad was upset that Mom had walked into the bathroom while he was still inside. He got into a huff because she didn’t leave right away, but quickly forgot about it all. A little while later, he walked in on her while she was in the bathroom.
That started the standoff. Mom asked him to leave and he wasn’t ready to leave. Mom exploded “I can’t come into the bathroom while you’re in here, but it’s okay for you to come in while I’m in here?”
Dad said, “I can be in here if I want to.”
“If I can’t be in here while you’re in here, you need to get out.” Mom exclaimed.
Dad countered, “I’m not leaving until you do.”
Dad refused. Mom really got her back up and she refused to leave; stalemate.
Mom called to us kids, “Kids, get me a pillow and a blanket.” Mom had laid claim to the bathtub. Mom was short enough to fit the tub comfortably slightly curled. It would have been hard for Dad who was just over six foot to be comfortable in the tub. She settled in for the night.
Dad decided to sleep on the floor. He was too bullheaded to call for a pillow. He used the bathroom rugs and a few towels for his bedding.
This is the kicker, it was Saturday night and Mom was an intelligent woman. She knew Dad would not miss church in the morning. He might stay in the bathroom to shave and brush his teeth, but he would leave the bathroom first to eat breakfast before making the Sunday morning trek. She was going too, but she could go without breakfast if need be.
Dad did leave the bathroom first and all it accomplished was that they were both stiff and sore that Sunday.
I was glad that I didn’t have to use the restroom that night. You know what they say, “Two’s company, but three’s a crowd.”

18 People Reached

10 Engagements

Back in Business

It feels as though the harsher stages of isolation and virus induced panic are on the decline with a more normal way of life returning. Most states’ governors are relaxing their tight fisted choke hold on business and the American way of life. There are still a few areas of the business community they haven’t relinquished their unconstitutional and repressive restraint.

During the time of my forced quarantine, I worked on the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Center. It is definitely a labor: lining margins, placing photos, and getting the stories to fit into seven pages. The eighth and final page posts a photo of something that is no longer around. It also has the society’s return address and room to affix members’ names and mailing addresses. Sometimes it frustrates me when I shift one item and it messes up the rest of the pages and the entire newsletter has to be reworked.

The part of creating the newsletter I enjoy most is deciding on the feature article, the front page story. In the past it’s been about a Lost Fort, local Mine Safety Crews, area Railroad companies, a serial killer on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and our military heroes. Once the topic is decided, I have to do the research, finally combining several accounts into one cohesive and hopefully interesting article.

My next chore is to search for local tidbits of interest and filler items. It might be history, folk tales, or accounts written by local residents. I might find articles from newspapers on regional events, incidents, or residents. I also include one old time recipe to keep our cooking heritage alive.

As I neared the finish of next issue, waiting for an okay to place one final story about a local man’s jail break in place, things changed. I thought I’d soon be finished. The letter could be sent to the printer and ready to slap on mailing addresses. Then suddenly, things changed.

My subject was to have been to highlight the important part southwestern Pennsylvania played in the Underground Railroad, its involvement with slavery, and the influential role of abolitionists from our area played in the emancipation process.

It was to honor Black History month, February, but this inexcusable and reprehensible murder of George Floyd intervened and the story was deemed inappropriate. It was shelved. I’ll possibly use it later when people are more able to digest the black history of our area without malice and the tainted influence of the present times.

It was back to the drawing board looking for a new idea and beginning the laborious, time consuming task of research.

It Ain’t Like That Anymore

I was fortunate to have met Chuck Martin and his wonderful wife Sally before their passing. I am also friends with their son Tom Martin. My thoughts of Chuck in this time of the Corona virus induced panic and the death of George Floyd with the ensuing riots has caused me to share a story that was taken as a single page in Chuck’s life and another page in the life of our nation.

Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered on April 4, 1968. MLK Jr. was at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement in the Unites States making progress peaceably. His fiery marches were necessary to draw attention to the issues of black American citizens. His occupation as a Baptist minister allowed him to speak eloquently and to the point. His protests drew attention to the inequality of minorities in the United States. Although violent acts were being committed all around him, he remained law abiding while wielding a wedge of civil disobedience.

Most people know the history of MLK Jr. much better than I do, but because history is being neglected in our schools, I gave a brief synopsis of his stance for a better America.

Now, back to my original connection between Chuck Martin and MLK Jr. Chuck was a world traveler with Sally. He was also a noted photographer. His black and white photographs from around the world and especially Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania are extremely candid and prized.

With both men’s shortened history behind me, I’ll connect the two. Chuck Martin drove into Pittsburgh the day after the killing of Martin Luther King Jr. He understood the historic event that was unfolding and walked into the Hill District to capture the grief and sadness of the community at MLK Jr.’s death. Chuck was the only photographer that caught the crowd’s reactions. The grief over his death bound the men and women together. There was sadness, yes; grief, yes, but there was no violence. The crowd maintained the dream of MLK Jr. and remained peaceful. Most media people were afraid to cover the story in the Hill District, but Chuck felt it was necessary to be there.

The death of George Floyd is tragic and inexcusable. His death should not go unpunished. But was the murder of MLK Jr. any less tragic. Are the ideals MLK Jr. upheld to be casually tossed aside? Are the riots and looting the same as the protests of MLK Jr. or have they evolved into excuses for looting and greed? The peaceful protests of MLK Jr. are a far cry from the scenes of anarchy and destruction that we see today under the thin veil of protest.

(See: https://digital.library.pitt.edu/collection/charles-r-martin-photographs?page=1)