Poor and Ignorant

Most of the children that I knew as I grew up lived much like me and my family. The house that I remember most had four rooms, a kitchen, living room, and two bedrooms, surrounding an enclosed porch. The half basement housed a huge coal burning furnace. The house was wrapped in brown Insulbrick, mineral clad tar paper and had a path that led to a privy. There was water to the basement and kitchen from a gravity flow spring about 300 yards on the hillside above the house.

My dad, Carl Beck worked the coal mines when I was younger before he was hired by The Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania. We had no television, but had a wall mounted crank telephone on a party line. Dad always provided for us; we were never hungry and were warm in the cold winter months. My mom, Sybil Miner Beck always made sure our clothes were clean, the house was neat, and there was food, cooked, and on the table. The first stove in Mom’s kitchen was kerosene with two or three-burners. Sheets of linoleum covered rough subflooring. Mom had a wringer washer in the basement. Our clothes dryer was a line strung from basement rafters or stretched between two poles in the back yard. I can recall times when Mom’s hands raw and red from hanging sheets, pants, rugs, and towels outside when the snow was heavy on the ground and the air was frigid, then brought back in stiff with ice to finish drying.

I had little to worry about as a child. Never hungry, always warm and comfortable, I always thought we were rich. Because I was always hearing of the starving kids overseas and knew several elementary school classmates who were worse off than me, I kept this notion all the way through high school. I was raised in a rural area of southwest Pennsylvania and no one I knew was a millionaire to whom I could compare myself.

I was probably a junior in college when a professor started a litany of things that separated the classes. I knew that I wasn’t the upper echelon, but considered my family to be at least middle class, but by his standards, we were poor. Not dirt poor, but in the poorer class of society. All these years I had been poor and was ignorant of that “fact.” Who knew? Either his standards were off or my vision of wealth extended beyond his standards of wealth. I still believe that because I had a loving and caring family, I was a rich child.

 

Flower Child Hippie

Recently an old friend and one-time workmate of mine posted some photographs of his past memories. Weddings, dating, etc. and one picture was of him in bell bottom trousers, a vest, and a shirt with puffy sleeves. Someone commented about the era in which he grew up and his comment was that he had been a hippie in his younger days. I couldn’t quite imagine him as a flower child, but if he said so I have to believe him. I’m not sure that flower in his hair suited him, but because of the photograph, but I could see that he had longer hair and wire rimmed glasses.

Today as I mowed my yard, those thoughts came back. I was changed into a person with flowers in my hair. I have a snowball bush behind my house. This year the branches were overly full with those puffy white blossoms. One limb was so heavy that with the last rain storm, the branch broke. I had to saw it off, then remove it before I could mow. As I whirled around the lawn on my riding mower, I had to circle the snowball bush several times. The blades of the mower spit out blossoms that were already on the ground, blowing white rows of them on the green grass. Circling closer, my body, shoulders, and head brushed against the branches, causing an avalanche of the loose white blooms to cover me and the memory of my friend as a hippie returned. Although most fell from me as I mowed, I still had a few that fell from me inside.

When I was in the United States Navy, I met several people who were unhappy that they were in Uncle Sam’s employment and wanted desperately to be hippies. Several were into save-the-planet even that long ago to the point they refused to use colored toilet paper, yet smoked cigarettes like the fumes weren’t a pollutant. A few used drugs. They smoked marijuana or hashish. My knowledge of their habit almost got me killed. Someone saw the Naval Intelligence list of people who were druggies. I didn’t use drugs and my name wasn’t on it, even though I would hang out with them. They thought that I was a snitch. Later they told me if I would have been in the barracks, they would have killed me. After they thought about it, they reasoned because I wasn’t a user, my name shouldn’t be on the list.

 

Barefootin’

Do you remember when as kids we couldn’t wait for the snow to disappear and for the grass to become green? The winter boots were stored away and socks and shoes came off. We couldn’t wait until we could feel that newly grown verdant mat tickling our feet and toes. We would run joyously for no reason at all, other than to have our feet freed from the heavy winter-laced, leather dungeons and the joyous feeling of flesh being freed from thick cotton and wooly cocoons. It was grand to be a child on warm sunny days like that.

Who recalls bare feet skimming over the dark ash antiskid material spread on the roadway’s berm from the winter or skipping across the grey chips of gravel of a driveway without hesitation or a flinch? The joys of our feet experiencing freedom far outweighed the inconsequential and temporary discomfort of small rocks. Now as adults, if we should we be forced to mincingly step onto those tiny pieces of gravel, we dance as though we’re walking on fiery hot coals in a bonfire pit. Is it the extra weight that we carry as adults or have we lost those exhilarating moments of our youth?

My kids would fold their toes under their feet and walk on tippy-toes, somewhat like ballerinas dancing. They would often do their tippy-toe walk to impress people and that would make a memory. Now when they come together, someone will mention their feat of feet. I believe that each of two my kids can still dance on their folded toes.

Most often when I come in from outside, I’ll kick off my socks and shoes. My feet tire when they’re wrapped in socks and shoes, especially if I wear shoes for more than two hours. They feel trapped and unable to breathe.

I still like to walk with my bare feet in the grass. It seems to invigorate my feet and toes, sending roots, somehow connecting me with the world around me. I can’t remember if I could ever walk on my toes as a kid, but I certainly cannot now, and don’t expect me to stroll across the gravel driveway. It’s not going to happen. I have on occasion slipped out to my car for something I’d left in the vehicle, because I’ve been too lazy to slip on a pair of shoes and I’ve tortured the soles of my feet as I danced across the rocky driveway.

 

Personal Prayers and Petitions

The Bible tells us to pray continually, without ceasing. (1 Thessalonians 5:17) Its pages list many things we should be praying for and about. One that seems most unusual is God’s word telling us to pray for our enemies. He also tells us to love our enemies. He doesn’t tell us to love the things they do, but to love the person. We know Christ suffered severe, violent torture and intense pain before being hung to die on a cruel cross. One of the last words that Jesus uttered was, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34.)

The Bible tells us to pray for the lives of our leaders. It doesn’t say if you agree what he or she is doing. God has placed them in a place of authority for a reason. (Ezra 6:10) We need to evaluate our own vision and understanding to understand why God has lifted this leader up.

We should be praying for the church, not just our congregations, but for fellow believers found in the body of Christ. When I wake and find I have difficulty falling back to sleep, I get specific and pray for each person in my church, going from pew to pew. I try to remember if they’ve had specific requests for prayers in the past. I find it’s a far better solution than counting sheep. It’s more productive and makes me a more compassionate person. Many times I drift off to sleep without ending the prayer with “amen.” I’m sure God understands because he tells us that we should pray one for another. James 5:16

We should be praying for lost souls and for missionaries as they make attempts to spread the Gospel. The lost may be local; neighbors, workmates, and even family. If you know that they are unsaved, our petitions should include them.

God tells us specifically to pray for Jerusalem and Israel. The Jews are His chosen people. They are the apple of His eye. It’s difficult to understand the intense hatred of them. Satan is at enmity with God and by extension, with His chosen people.

There are specific missionaries that I pray for, one family in Greenland, two in Haiti, one family in Myanmar, and one in the Carolinas. I pray for America and for a revival of hearts with souls being drawn to the Gospel message. I pray for hedges to be placed around my loved ones, friends, and our church congregation as well as our pastors.

One thing I’ve been finding out. It’s necessary for me to pray for myself: health, strength, guidance, and wisdom. Who’s in your prayers today?

 

Biker Brother

My mom and dad, Carl and Sybil Miner Beck bought a bicycle for me when I was a child. I’m not sure of the brand, but was probably bought from Montgomery Ward or Sears and Roebuck. The bike was bright red with white pinstripes. It came with training wheels. The tires were solid rubber. The bicycle was probably twenty inches high. I was very happy to have a new bicycle. I cared for the bike, keeping it clean, riding it in our yard only. I outgrew it and my parents saved it for my brother Ken, who was four years younger than me. It was in pristine condition when my brother inherited it.

That didn’t last long. Once Ken decided he no longer needed training wheels, he removed them himself and became a holy terror on wheels. Riding in the yard lost its appeal and he became a daredevil making challenges for himself and the bicycle. In front of my parent’s home is a steep hill that makes part of Route 711. He would ride the bicycle to a spot near the top. It was still in my parent’s yard, but was as far as he could “safely” go.

Once he was sure there was no vehicle traffic, he would hop on the seat and start peddling like a madman. He would hurtle along the Macadam roadway, whizzing past the front of our house. Partway down the hillside, there was a deep drainage ditch. On one side was a high bank that had a gentle slope at one end. That slope drew my brother like flies to an outhouse. The rocky surface gave the bicycle traction and my brother would ride it to the top, where he would slam on the brakes to stop in a cloud of dust. He would sit there for a while with a victorious smirk on his face. This was his thrills and would repeat the runs time after time.

Needless to say, the bicycle didn’t remain pristine for long. As a matter of fact, Ken wore the solid rubber tires in a shirt time. The tires were shredded and the steel wire cores were exposed.