Feeling Off Kilter

Yesterday I found that when I bent over I felt dizzy. I thought it might be my sinuses so I took a Claritin tablet. My nose was running. I thought it would clear up. It seemed to pass and I worked outside cleaning the moss and grass that covered my stone walkway from the front of my house to the new small deck near the rear. I had extended the rock walk to be the final step from the deck and connected it to the original walkway. I had to countersink the stones so I could mow over them. I still felt off balance on occasion.

I showered just before the tornado warning was announced on television. A neighbor about a mile away saw the heavy rotation and dark clouds, but it didn't touch down on her farm. I had an appointment with my chiropractor. Old age and my sciatica and stiff neck needed some adjustments. When I rose from the chiropractor's table, I had another episode of dizziness and had to sit for a bit before I could walk out of the office. I had no problem driving home, but occasionally I felt off balance and couldn't visit the families from the church van ministry. I felt bad that I wasn't able and felt guilty that I'd left the assistant pastor down, but I didn't trust myself diving the church van. I napped after I ate my evening meal and took my medications. When I woke, I recalled my cardiac rehab nurses asked if I drank electrolyte fluids after I worked outside or had taken my blood pressure when I felt dizzy. I hadn't done either before. It caused me to dig out my blood pressure cuff and check my pressure. I was surprised to find it was elevated, not just once, but several times. I took a blood pressure pill I hadn't been taking because my pressures have been good. I guess I'll see today when I go for my cardiac rehab if things are working out.

Hey, What's Cooking

Ever since I was a kid I've cooked. Often when my mom Sybil Miner Beck was working and I was hungry, I'd pull out a cook book and make something to eat. Mom was always a better cook, but hunger sometimes overrode my patience and I would rummage through the cupboards trying to decide what I wanted to eat.

Although cooking wasn't permitted in the rooms of the barracks, my roommate and I had an electric griddle. We often made pork chops, grilled cheese sandwiches, or eggs. It was great for late night snacks. We had to be sure the griddle was hidden before inspections. There was a space behind the tall wooden wardrobe. The old wardrobe was large and was where we stored our clothes and other belongings. The space behind it had a removable piece of wood that was a spacer between the wall and the wardrobe.

After I was married I often cooked, especially when I worked the afternoon shift. I made food for my lunch and my family had the leftovers for supper. Often I'd clean out the refrigerator, stir fry whatever I found, then serve it over rice. My daughter Anna loved it, dubbing the dish “Daddy's Revenge” while my son Andrew hated it and asked that I not make it so often. I can't remember my older daughter Amanda commenting. Another recipe I would occasionally make was potato soup. It was my wife Cindy's favorite. When I made the soup, I liked to give it a smoky flavor. Once when I decided to make potato soup, I couldn't find ham, bacon, ham hocks...nothing. As I searched I found several slices of hard salami in the lunch meat drawer. I decided to Julienne them and toss them in. The soup was one of the best I've made. The salami completely disappeared and the spices in the meat was just right.

Since my wife passed away, I now cook for myself. My cat Willow is much too short to reach the stove. She doesn't want to wash the dishes either. The recipes I like are quick, easy, and delicious. One pot meals are great. The crock-pot is a wonderful invention.

I do most of the editing for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society's newsletter. I Get to peruse books for older recipes. It's added under the title, “Hey Grandpa. What's cooking?”

 

Me, A Normal Person?

I grew up midway between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania, so I guess I’m only half normal, but I’ve lived a relatively normal life, one of three children of Carl and Sybil Miner Beck. I was the oldest, then came my brother Ken, and finally my sister Kathy Basinger. My family's first home was a rental cottage in Mill Run. It was part of the Curtis Rugg farm and across the field from my aunt Violet and Uncle Charles Bottomly.

We moved when my dad bought a small Insulbrick clad house along Route 711. It had three rooms, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room that surrounded a small U shaped porch. There was half of a basement under the house, containing an old coal furnace, a hot water tank, and a coal bin. Mom managed to squeeze in a wringer washer and a double galvanized rinse tub. The house lacked an inside bathroom. We washed in the kitchen sink and used an outhouse until I was nearly five years old. Later Dad ever so slowly expanded the house and basement while we lived there.

Dad’s first job after he married my mom Sybil was working a coal mine. Most of the mines in this area were composed of narrow seams of coal that required the miners to work hunched over picking, shoveling, and loading carts.

Dad’s next job was at the Walworth factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania where they had a foundry to shape metal into pieces of valves. Once out of the foundry, they were sent to various sections of the factory to be milled, drilled, and assembled into the final product. Walworth made valves of steel and brass. The sizes ranged from thirty-six inch to2.5 inch valves. Each valve was pressure tested no matter whether they were wedge valves or ball and socket. I worked there for a year after high school, before entering the United States Navy. That’s where I earned the money for my first car. I would love to still own it. It was a 1966 Galaxie 500 XL, burgundy with black vinyl top, black bucket seats, and a T bar shift. The engine had a 390 two barrel that could make the tires smoke. I only did it once or twice, because I was frugal and didn’t want to buy new tires. I sold this sweet vehicle to my brother when I flew off to Nay boot camp. He promptly traded it for a pale yellow mustang. I’m still not quite sure I’ve forgiven him for that. So, is that normal?

 

Weary and Tired

Wednesday is my usual busy day. Right now it's cardiac rehab in the early morning, then I spend four hours at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. In the afternoon, I make the calls to see which people will need to ride the church van for prayer meeting or the teen youth group and then I attend the prayer meeting. To shorten the time on the road for the designated driver and chaperone, I drove the smaller van with another church member and split the amount of driving. It made me feel good know the driver would be on the road less time.

This week Thursday was also busy and I'm worn out. Summer is quickly speeding away and I have a lot I wanted tto do. I have a small deck off my back door that has started to decay and has become unsafe. I decided because the weather wasn't going to be as hot as the past few days, I'd at least tear it down and haul away the wood. I would work until I felt tired, rest, then get back to it. While I was working, my neighbors son-in-law began to mow their yard. I haven't been able to use my riding mower because it needed a solenoid. The part has been ordered, but hasn't arrived yet. I watched them as I worked, knowing my lawn needed mowed desperately. I was almost to the point that I needed GPS to find my front door.

I usually moved the neighbors yard when I mow mine, but this time he and his two sons began to mow my yard as well. When I carried away the last of the old deck, I dragged out my old walk behind push mower and began to mow on the other side of my house. With two push mowers running, it didn't take too long to finish half the lawn. If the ppart doesn't come in today, I guess I'll keep mowing today. At least the front and side yards of my house looks neat, but I am weary and sore this morning.

 

 

They Don't Make 'Em Like That Any More

My clothes washing machine finally called it quits. I know it hast been less than nineteen years, because t wife Cindy Morrison Beck passed away nineteen years ago and she never used this washer. It has probably been less than ten years. The control mechanism went kaput. It died in the middle of a load of lights. Thankfully I was able to open the lid and remove them before they could mildew in this hot and humid air. They were still waterlogged. I couldn't spin the water out and didn't want to overwork the dryer, so I hung them on my outside line and that worked. I took them down when they were still slightly damp and tossed them in the drier to finish.

I described the problem with the washer to my appliance service tech. He talked me through any possibility to reestablish the controls, but of course, that didn't work. He told me that the cost for the washer's “brain” would be at least three hundred dollars and it would be worth my while to purchase a new machine. I drove to the appliance store and found that for less than six hundred dollars, I could purchase a new machine. I decided to buy the new machine than stick a Band-aid on the old one. He will be delivering it on Thursday. Hooray, I can wash my undies.

When I was growing up, my mom, Sybil Miner Beck's Maytag, square tub wringer washer was almost indestructible. And talk about water conservation. It puts the new washers to shame. Mom would wash the whites and lights first, then in the same water she'd wash the darks. The towels and or bed linens were washed in the same water, followed by work clothes, then the rugs. No wasted water there. Five loads without using more water. Two tubs of cold water hovered near to catch and rinse the clothing after the soapy water was squeezed out between the rollers of the wringer. Twice into the different tubs to rinse, one then the other before the wringer would spit out the clothes into a waiting basket and hung out on the outside line.

No matter what the weather was like, unless it was raining, Mom hung the clothes on the outside lines, sometimes the clothing would freeze dry in the winter. Mom's hands were often reddened by the temperature. Mom was ahead of her time, water conservation and solar powered dryer. Those old washers and rope clothes dryers, they don't make machines to last like that anymore.

 

Out of the Blue

As a nursing supervisor at H.C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, there were often times that I stumbled across a situation where management had written a policy, but because they were never shared and so infrequently used, I had no idea that they even existed. These would turn out to be fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants moments. They were times when I had to evaluate and make an on-the-spot-decision. Most times they worked out well, but on occasion, senior management weren't thrilled with my choices. One such incident I can recall was during an evening shift. I had two medical helicopters arriving at the same time to collect transfers for victims from an automobile accident. They were vying for the hospital's only one helicopter pad, I was in a quandary. I'd never faced this problem before, so I decided to use an empty parking lot that was adjacent to the landing pad.

I reasoned, “The police are here, the fire department is here, and our security had the landing pad and the parking lot cordoned off, why not land them side by side.” To me it only made sense. The helicopters came and went. They carried off their patients to hospitals in Pittsburgh. I was pleased that everything went smoothly. There were absolutely no problems. The emergency vehicles departed without incident, however, Frick management weren't too thrilled about my decision. I was questioned the next day. They opened the hospital manual to the section describing “what to do should there be two helicopters arriving at the same time.” There was to be a second landing site to be established in a nearby park. Even though I'd never seen that policy or knew that it existed. (I guess it was my responsibility to read and memorize the hundreds of regulations and policies written on the thousands of pages of the several thick black, three-ring binders.)

Fortunately, there were no repercussions for me, but they made it abundantly clear that I needed to consult and follow the policies should another similar situation occur.

 

Excuse Me

I was recently reminded of an incident that happened when I started to date Cindy, my-wife-to-be, Cynthia Louise Morrison. It was the first time I had been invited to eat Sunday afternoon meal with the family. Her mom Retha had made a pot roast with potatoes, carrots, and onions. I can remember that there was also baked corn casserole and homemade buns. She'd also prepared cinnamon apples using cinnamon hearts to flavor the dish. The sliced roast claimed the center of the table. The table had a patterned gray Formica top. It was centered in the kitchen their small groundskeeper cottage at Camp Christian. We were crowded around it on chrome legged, plastic seated chairs popular at the time. Even though I was the guest of honor, I was tucked to one side beneath a set of white metal wall hanging cupboards. Bud was at one end of the table and Retha was at the other end near the stove to reach for any refills that might be needed.

The meal was almost over and eating had slowed. We began to casually talk and Elmer “Bud” Morrison asked me a question. I can't remember what he asked, but as I opened my mouth to answer him, a tiny burp escaped, “Urp!” I was so embarrassed, but to make me feel much worse, Bud said, “How dare you burp before my wife.”

Bud liked to tease, but I was a newbie here. I wasn't sure whether he was upset or not. This was a trial run to meet and greet the family. I wanted to make a good impression and now this. I was mortified. What should I do? I was totally embarrassed to say the least. Should I crawl under the table and wilt away? But my quick wit kicked in and I replied, “I didn't know it was her turn.”

Bud looked shocked at first, then broke out into a smile. I wasn't sure how the rest of the family responded, I was staring at but, but then we all began to laugh. That was my introduction to the family.

 

Vacation Soon?

Retirement hasn't been exactly what I imagined it to be. I thought of those restful days, reading, writing, and possibly painting. I thought when I could an occasional vacation, I'd go on a journey. But now that I've aged a bit more, my legs can't handle riding in a car for hours or being crowded into a seat while flying. Even though I am frugal, I may have to upgrade to first class to be able to stretch out my legs instead of being shoehorned into a tight space like a sardine.

Each week I think will be slower than the last, I'm proved wrong. I am still in the middle of my cardiac rehabilitation Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I still have Wednesday workday at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and prayer meeting Wednesday evening. My friend and usual traveling partner has gone off with the youth of or church to the Bill Rice Ranch in Murfreesboro, Tennessee for a week of summer camp. The ranch was started to allow the hearing impaired to have a summer camp for free,. It also allows others to attend who have no impairment. While she's gone, I have to collect her niece from summer school and deliver to her home. It just adds a bit more to my schedule. I am making the best out of it. She wanted to give me money for gasoline, but I didn't want to take money that she'd earned, so I suggested a trade. I'm getting her to detail my car. Not too shabby a deal.

I have cousins who live in the Orlando, Florida area. I was stationed there in the early 70's and haven't been back. I left before Disneyworld opened and have no desire to visit, but I have cousins that have been trying to entice me to visit them. This may be the year. Later when the Florida weather cools a bit and the beaches are less crowded, it may be the appropriate time. Who knows, I might even find something more interesting to write about in my blog and to gather a few more postcards.

 

One Hundred years and Still Counting

Due to the Covid scare and kerfuffle last year our annual Rugg reunion had to be canceled and rescheduled for this year. The delay caused several of our more ill and elderly not to have survived to see the one hundredth Rugg reunion. Each reunion has been held in honor of the oldest Rugg member. Several years ago it was my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner's turn. This year it was in honor of Curtis Rugg.

One of those who passed away was Danny, our family historian. He was the keeper of the keys, the keeper of the lineage, the person who did the research on the beginnings and the trail of our family's arrival into the United States and their exploits.

I've written stories before about memories that I have of past reunions and tales of my aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I'm not sure if they will make an impression on future generations, but I have written those remembrances in case anyone cares to read about them. I wish I would have listened more closely as recollections that my mom, dad, and others shared while I was a child. In the past, no one had the time or took the time to write the stories down and now some of them are lost. Unless someone says something that sparks a tale and drags it to my memory, they will be lost. That makes me sad and upset with myself that I hadn't listened more closely.

One hundred years is a long time to carry on a tradition. Some things have fallen to the wayside to be replaced by others. Gone is the huge crock of lemonade that sat on the saw horse tables. There is still the tradition of the potluck meal, now supplemented by “store bought” fried chicken. There are still a wide variety of foods and desserts that wait to be eaten.

The Rugg men have aged and can no longer play a game of baseball, but there is a “bouncy castle” for the kids and a stream in which to wade. One thing hasn't changed, that is the joy of seeing the familiar faces of the family. They've aged, but they are now bringing their kids and grandchildren and share memories with them. It's wonderful to see the future generations that will hopefully carry on the tradition of reunions far into the future.

 

Those Wonder Years

Have you ever wondered how you are still alive after the childhood and years of your past that you're still alive? With all of the safety gadgets there are today. I am amazed that I'm still here to write about it. The one that causes me to shake my head are the “Warning” signs that manufacturers have to place on their products because some people don't have the common sense that God gave to a grape. They have to warn folks that coffee is hot or that you shouldn't put glue in your hair. What is even more remarkable is that judges and juries award damages to these brain-dead individuals.

I'm shaking my head as I am writing this piece. Education in the past taught children wisdom that translated into their life outside of the classroom. Knowledge wasn't muddied by trying to indoctrinate children to believe Socialism and Communism are better than the freedom afforded by the Constitution of the United States. Sexual perversion is being taught instead of morality and allowing childhood innocence to flourish.

Gun safety was taught. The value of life was treasured. Deliberate, rampant shootings weren't even considered. The child in the womb was considered precious, not a blob of cells to be wrested from the mother's womb and tossed into the garbage.

Our borders were more secure. Human trafficking was limited. Illicit drugs weren't as large a problem nor were they as readily available as they are today. Our leaders didn't support their use nor want to legalize them. They didn't offer free medication to revive addicts that overdosed.

Politicians didn't turn their face away from violence in the streets. Looting and rioting were dealt with a firm hand. Violence wasn't tolerated. Disrespect for public servants, firemen, police, paramedics was handled swiftly. Killing a cop was a death sentence, not a lifetime behind bars and now many governors want to release these criminals back onto the streets to rob and kill innocent, law abiding citizens. And on top of that, they want to take guns away from those citizens who need them to protect their homes, their family, and themselves.

The real thoughts of survival were of riding in the bed of a pickup truck or no seat belts. How about jungle gyms with iron piped monkey bars or scorching hot metal sliding boards? Then there were heavy seated swings and the dizzying merry-go-rounds. Oh and we mustn't forget riding bikes without helmets or tossing hubcaps like a Frisbee. Baseball and football without protection above and below the waist. We survived. Not because we were offended, but because our parents and us struggled through the difficult times.

 Lazy today and sharing poetry I wrote earlier.

Coloring Her

Eyes the color of summer skies

At evening when the sun sets

Not quite purple and not quite blue

With colors somewhere in between

With hair the color of autumn

Tawny richness of red and gold

Touched by the sun, haloed like brass

It cascades from her head in waves

Her skin is like the snows of winter

Pale alabaster smooth and white

Not ice cold, but warm and supple

Skin unmarred by scar or freckle

Cheeks pink as spring cherry blossoms

Softens the winter complexion

Gives life to the ice princess skin

Vigor and health from that hue

Loneliness Waits

Loneliness waits just outside the door

Sometimes coming to live within

They say, “No man’s an island”

Unless it’s deserted… unless it’s deserted

Alone it waits at the mercy of the see

In waves of sadness huge breakers roll

Will breakers, real breakers, heart breakers

Debilitating, binding, devastating

Controlling, incapacitating, homebound prison

Alone and afraid, isolated

Homebound, no one around trapped inside

Limited mobility, vision, and money

Too hot, too cold, too much sun, too much snow

Old bodies unable to adjust, adapt

Aging joints, weak muscles, fragile bones

Tottering steps wander the home

Forlorn and forgotten

For time unknown

Waiting for someone to call

To stop by to visit for awhile

If the Grim Reaper should knock

He’ll be invited inside

.

Oceans of Jasper

Waves in an ocean of jasper

Draw me back in time

A time when you were living

Late night, late mourning

Sun appears each day

As a bright bronze coin

Alone I sat

In the parking lot

“Ovarian cancer”

They said solemnly

The silent killer

A death sentence

Those words consumed me

You vowed to fight

You vowed to win

But its roots were too deep within

Forever you remain

Forty-nine years of age

And forever you’ll remain that way

I am not ageless

I must go on each day

Aging

 

 

Heavenly Voices

While I was reading the Bible, I was reminded that the word “Hallelujah” is basically the same in all languages of the world. It started my thoughts to wander down a rabbit trail, “What language will we speak in Heaven?” I know that no matter from which nation or where the saved person once lived, they will be able to understand each other and to converse freely with them. That caused me to think what language will it be?

Scientists have argued as to how language started. Some propose that it came from noises such as grunting and growling. Some say it was mocking the sounds birds and animals. I pooh-pooh that. Why, because the Bible clearly states that God communicated with Adam and Eve. He told Adam to name the creatures created by the LORD God and told Adam and Eve to eat from all the trees but one. God often walked in the garden and talked with them and they spoke with God.

Satan the Serpent is a fallen angel and still retained the language he knew in Heaven. He entered the garden and spoke to Eve planting seeds of doubt in her mind by subtly twisting the words of the LORD’s command regarding the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Satan enticed Eve to taste the forbidden fruit and Satan is the same evil being today. He twists God’s Word tempting mankind to ignore God’s warnings to lure men into sin; disregarding the Bible by using subtle changes in a language that mankind understands.

In Heaven we will all be able to understand each other. Although fellow Christians may have spoken a different language here on Earth I believe that will change when we walk the streets of gold and mingle with angels on high. Before the time of Nimrod, there was a common language. He decided to build a tower that might reach into heaven in direct opposition to Jehovah’s directions. Nimrod’s decision was thwarted by God, confounding the people by giving them different languages. Up to this point there was only one tongue.

I have no exact Scripture to back up my thoughts, but it isn’t unreasonable to believe that we will again speak the language that God gave to Adam and Eve when he strolled in the Garden of Eden with them and where they communed with God.

REVENGE

Have you ever plotted to get revenge on someone that has done you wrong? Whether it was a slight real or imagined has your thoughts gone into flights of fantasy? In the past as a youth, I may have actually imagined elaborate vengeful plots to assuage my bruised ego, heart, and mind. Now as a word smith, I can write the “villain” into the plot of my story and allow my imagination to run free and torture the subject with my wrath until I actually cause them to repent or disappear in a whirlwind of fury.

One event in my younger days when I actually allowed revenge to surface was in the parking lot at the old Pechin’s parking lot. The lot was a series of interconnecting potholes and cars parked helter-skelter. Some idiot decided to create a third line and parked my car in. I couldn’t leave. Having perishables in the car, I became more and more upset in the summer heat. Another shopper came out and I was able to leave, but before I left, I emptied a bottle of ketchup on the windshield of the thoughtless driver who made the third row.

One exception to the imagined attempt at revenge happened when I found a dirty disposable diaper tossed from a car in my front yard. A pooped Pamper was so disgusting it makes me believe there should be a way to trace disposable diapers back to the person who bought them. It caused me to return the diaper to the inconsiderate person who deposited it on my front lawn. It made me want to be able to shove it in the parent of the child’s face. My wife Cindy and I always carried a plastic bag inside of our car to collect diapers until we could put them in a trash receptacle. No roadside littering for us other than spitting out a chewed stick of gum.

I did find a dozen red roses in my front yard after the diaper discovery, but I am sure it wasn’t an apology for the pooped Pamper. It was just a coincidence. The roses were fresh and lasted for nearly a week in a vase on the center of my dining room table. I was thinking of the reason for the roses being in my yard. Either they were forgotten on the roof of a car and blew off or a disgruntled girlfriend tossed her boyfriend’s apology out the window in an act of revenge.