Starving the Old Year Feeding the New
There are several New Year’s menus that I can remember distinctly. My mother Sybil Miner Beck always served pork and sauerkraut for New Years’ Eve. She told us that it’s an old German tradition to eat pork and sauerkraut to ensure good luck and to welcome in the New Year. The type of pork wasn’t always traditional, but with Mom it was a pork roast. At other New Year’s meals I’ve eaten sausage, kielbasa, or even hot dogs.
My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I often shared meals with Cindy’s best friend, Deborah Detar and her husband Bill. We sometimes spent New Year’s Eve at each other’s homes to celebrate. Cindy’s menus were more “traditionally” flavored foods, while Debbie always added sugar to all of hers. Her sauerkraut was brown, heavily flavored with brown sugar and her mashed potatoes were one teaspoonful shy of being candy. Even the sour cream dips she made for veggies and chips was more like dips served with fruit. Her kids carry on that sweet tradition.
Sometimes Cindy’s parents Bud and Retha Morrison would share homemade sauerkraut with us. It was a veritable feast with freshly its canned flavor. This year I helped make sauerkraut and can hardly wait to share the flavor with my kids.
Another menu that remains firmly established in my memory bank is the meal my dad and grandparents Ray and Rebecca Miner made for New Year’s Day. Dad would buy several cans of oysters, the tiny round soup crackers, and vanilla ice cream. My grandparents had a farm and provided the milk, cream, and freshly churned butter to make the oyster stew. Gram always baked an apple pie or two. While we waited for the oysters to stew, we would play games like dominoes, Pachisi, or Uncle Ted’s favorite Sorry on the dining room table.
Gram’s house soon filled with savory steam from the stew simmering on her wood fired, kitchen cook-stove. It merged with the spicy aroma of the pies still in the oven. Hungry eyes of the older members huddled around the dining room table would occasionally stray into the kitchen “wondering if the soup was ready yet?”
Finally Gram would put the games away. She’d set the table with shallow bowls. Dad would carry the stew pot to the table; steam often obscuring sight through his glasses. The rich broth was ladled into the bowls and cellophane package of crackers passed from hand to hands until everyone had some. Soup spoons clicked as we slurped the broth. The flavor was remarkable. The meal ended with slices of still warm pie and melting ice cream. It’s still a deliciously full memory.

 Needs
We all have needs. Our needs appear at different times, in different situations, and for different people. Sometimes we have needs that are an absolute necessity and sometimes our needs are little more than our wishes or desires. Some needs are us wanting to lose weight or finding some free time or even finding something to do in your free time. Just like clothing, needs come in all shapes and sizes. Some needs are universal, like oxygen, water, food, and shelter and are essential for us to survive.
Sometimes the needs are to finish chores around the house, vacuuming, laundry, dusting, doing dishes, or cooking meals and if we’re not careful, those chores can accumulate and cause a backlog to the point that they overwhelm us. The very same thing may happen when things need repaired or fixing. Sometimes when we don’t have the knowledge of how to make the repairs or we don’t have the cash to hire someone to keep up with those repairs, the chores become major problems.
It may seem strange, but I don’t like to talk on the telephone, especially much of my job as a nursing supervisor was using the telephone. Telephone chores included confirming surgeries, giving instructions to patients, or searching for personnel to cover shifts. I don’t know if my fellow workers noticed, but if I could, I would often make rounds to the different areas of the hospital when a telephone call would suffice. It may have been weird, but I had the need to see someone’s face when I talked to them. It was much easier for me to see if what I was saying was being understood. The biggest insult was when the “need” for my assistance as nursing supervisor was changed from an over-head paging system to a pocket-carried voice-pager, then to a cell phone. With the over-head and the voice pager, I could delay answering if I was in the middle of something, but with the cell phone, I wasn’t allowed to use the restroom in peace.
You can ask my kids, when I came home from an especially stressful day, I would allow our home phone to ring until someone else answered it, even if it was right beside me. I’d been drained of my phone tolerance. Need I say more?

 Keep Christmas Merry
The Christmas season is often filled with the rush of buying gifts, wrapping presents, and with 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 possibly frustrate us. When we gather at Christmas it’s a blur of activities that are over and done within a matter of a few hours. Then what? As we sit among 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 a lighted and decorated tree in the center of the living room or is it about the stockings hanging on the mantle of the fireplace. It’s not about Santa, the elf on the shelf, or the sleigh and reindeer. The Grinch came close to finding the true meaning of Christmas, yet missed it by a mile. He recognized that Christmas was so much more than food, frivolity, and favors, but didn’t look far enough for the reason. Perhaps the celebrants of Whoville didn’t know the real reason either.
No one mentioned the birth of the Christ child and no mention of the baby Jesus. There was no mention of angels announcing the virgin’s conception of the prophesied Messiah. There was no mention of the shepherds being directed to seek this special child that was swaddled and lying in a manger. There was no mention of the heavenly omen of the star that guided the magi to Bethlehem to seek this newborn King of kings.
The television renditions of Christmas have purposefully removed and avoided any mention of the Christ child’s birth, yet they often 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 endure and understand the trials and temptations of mankind and yet Jesus remained sinless. He came to suffer and to die; carrying all of our sins to the cross at Calvary so mankind might be redeemed from sin’s curse and to provide a way to heaven and to dwell there eternally. This was the ultimate Christmas gift. This is reason for the joy of the season. Jesus birth is the true blessing of Christmas.
Merry Christmas to all of my readers and thank you for your supportive comments.

Basement Blues
I’ve been working off and on working in my basement to clean and rid it of accumulated items from the past twenty years or so. Things that weren’t worn enough to toss have now been tossed. Things that haven’t been used, tossed. Things that have been stored for others, I gave options and some of those got tossed. There were plastic shopping bags of newspapers. I imagine nearly twenty in all and most of them were incinerated. This was written in 2018 and the hoarding has resumed.
I burned a coffee table and two end tables that had become scarred and wobbly. Some small scraps of wood joined the pile and helped to bring on the global warming that scientists have lied about. An old plastic cooler minus its lid sent a smoke signal to be saved, so I tossed on two foam rubber pillows from an old couch, but to no avail. They ascended into the heavens on dark billows. In their place is a patio table and a dining table with chairs.
Old pieces of warped plywood became part of the funeral pyre, as did some magazines, a few rags, and other odds and ends. My daughter, Anna and her boyfriend, James, said that they got a call from NASA saying they could see my signal. It was bright that evening they commented, but I thought it was more like the rubbish heap outside of Jerusalem, called Gahanna; the place of eternal fire.
I certainly made a blaze that I fed over several days as I uncovered more and more things that had lost their usefulness. I have saved boxes on shelves. You never know when a solid cardboard box will come in handy.
The original reason for ridding the basement of unnecessary things, and believe me there is still a lot left, was that my basement was a wet basement. A slow trickle of water would slide across one side of the basement and sometimes cover the floor when it  rained. I decided that I wanted to keep it dry and have a usable basement.
I hired a well known company to come in on a contingency plan. If an opening came up, they would give me a week’s notice to get everything away from the walls, so the workers can open a channel on the inside floor to arrange all seepage into a sump area and be pumped outside. The remedy worked. I now have a dry basement and that is why the accumulation of items has returned and hoarding now has returned. Who can throw away a good box? I need to start the de-cluttering again.

 Coincidences Sometimes Confuse Me
Coincidences… why do they happen? Sometimes the randomness of them confuses me. The coincidence is an unexpected collision of two or more instances happening at once. The happenstances may have some relation to each other, but others seem to defy logic. Recently I received a pecan fruit cake from the Collin Street Bakery from Corsicana, Texas. I found it in my mailbox. This company makes excellent fruit cakes. They aren’t the bourbon drenched wheels that your Aunt Sarah baked and passed out as Christmas gifts; the heavy super-dense cake that became an heirloom and was passed down to some other unsuspecting relatives years later with it still in pristine condition. Their cakes are 29 % pecans, delicious, and totally flavorful. So now that I’ve given my blessing on that product, I’ll proceed to the coincidence.
I was surprised to see a pecan fruit cake from Collin Street Bakery in my mailbox. I panicked because I thought that I’d sent the fruitcake to my friends in New Mexico. Finding the box with the label from Collins Street Bakery inside, I thought to myself, “Did I make a mistake and send a fruitcake to myself and not to New Mexico? I thought I gave the receptionist at the bakery the correct address to deliver the fruitcake to my friends.” But with the recent “slipped cog” incident, I thought perhaps I was standing on shaky ground.
So as soon as I came into the house, I reached for the phone and dialed the bakery. I began to talk with a lovely lady having a sweet southern accent. She looked up the information from my order from the 8th of December. I read the address and information from the packaging label of the fruitcake box to her. I reviewed the label. It read, “Mr. Tom Beck” and my address. The lady shared with me that the fruitcake I’d ordered had been sent out and delivered to San Jon, New Mexico on the seventeenth of December.
Looking more closely at the label on the packaging I saw a note printed on the corner that address label, “We hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”
It was for me. My friends had also sent a fruitcake to me. For me to receive a fruitcake from the very same company was certainly serendipitous event It was definitely a pleasant coincidence. I hadn’t slipped another cog. Now I just have to remember to send my friends a thank you note.

Feast Days
It’s begun. The Christmastime of overeating has started. Not that I’ve been a glutton, but I have eaten more than I usually do. Friday evening Mt. Zion Community Church held their Christmas potluck gathering and meal. The tables were festively set and the gym was pressed into service. About fifty-five people attended. Three tables were filled with a variety of foods with one table reserved for beverages and one for desserts. The tables were heavily laden with meats, vegetables, stews and pasta dishes. I wasn’t able to take the smallest of spoonfuls to sample each dish, so I limited what I sampled. I chose selectively from the dessert table. After we’d eaten, there was a game and a skit as entertainment.
Saturday afternoon was the annual Christmas banquet for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society members. We usually held the meal in the evening about six o’clock, but because most of our members are senior citizens, we began to celebrate earlier at one o’clock in the afternoon. Driving at night has become a problem for us older drivers, especially since the introduction of those new blinding blue-white headlights. Oncoming cars can see farther in the darkness, but they too often cause temporary blindness in the older driver’s vision. The last two years we’ve held it in the Cook Township building, the former elementary school building.
The dining area was beautifully decorated by several ladies of the Society. They had the affair catered with very tasty selection of meats, potatoes, and vegetables. Tickets were sold to bid on donated baskets for the “white elephant” sale. The display of items covered three tables ranging from an oil painting, electronic wares, baskets of car care, and baskets of food items. There was a wreath covered in lottery tickets.
I left early because my oldest granddaughter Celine held her eighteenth birthday party and I certainly wanted to be there. She’s become a beautiful young lady. The party was on the far side of Uniontown and would take nearly an hour for me to get there. It was a nice party and of course I had to have a slice of cake and a small scoop of ice cream.
I lingered and had to drive home in the dark facing the onslaught of headlights and the dreaded blue-white headlights. Only one stretch was a bit difficult when there were six cars, one after another with those blinding beams. I did make it home safe and sound, overfed and ready for bed.

 Having Another Slipped Cog
Although the gears in my brain usually mesh quite well even after the head injury in February 2015, once in a awhile something happens to cause my mind to jump the track. This aberration was the first time in my fifty plus years of owning and driving a vehicle.
As I was driving back from my volunteer work at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society Wednesday, I noticed that the inspection sticker for my car had run out at the end of November. What upset me was that I kept telling myself that I needed to get my car inspected before the end of the month, but somehow my thought process shifted the date to the end of December and not November. The realization suddenly hit me, my car was out of inspection and I was driving illegally.
As soon as I arrived home, I called my mechanic and he said that he would squeeze me in on Thursday since my car’s inspection was outdated. I am now legal and passed inspection. Several days ago I purchased new tires for my car and had the front end aligned. About a month ago, my mechanic replaced the rotors and pads for my brakes. I knew my car would pass inspection. The only thing it might have needed was if a light bulb had burned out. Thankfully all my lights and signals functioned properly. I fished out the proof of insurance and the registration for my car. I was ready and I got my new sticker. I’m legal again.
What now worries me more happened later in the day. I answered my home phone. It was my mechanic. He was missing the paperwork for another customer. He was inquiring whether he’d given the missing papers to me with my paperwork. I tossed the plastic sleeve with my papers into my console without checking them. I had a similar plastic pouch. When he asked, I checked and I had someone else’s papers tucked in the sleeve with mine. My mechanic was very much relieved when I found and returned the papers to him.
Now I am beginning to be worried that cog-slipping may be catching. I hope that it doesn’t turn into another pandemic. If it does start a pandemic, the Center for Disease Control and the World Health Organization will require people to don tinfoil caps to prevent the spread of the invasive slipped-cog disease. They may even try to force inoculations that cause sterilization of men, abortions in women, and other health problems without actually curing the “disease.”

 Jesus Was a Jew
If you read the Bible, you must know that Mary was the mother of Jesus. She was a young Jewish virgin. His stepfather was Jewish as well, and Jesus was raised in a traditional Jewish home. He observed all of the Jewish feasts and holidays. In His life and His death, Jesus fulfilled all of the promises that His Father God made with Sarah and Abraham and fulfilled the prophecies made elsewhere in the Bible. Because of the sins of Adam and Eve, a blood sacrifice was needed to atone for and cover the sins of mankind. The death of Jesus on Calvary was necessary and His resurrection fulfilled many of the predictions of the Old Testament.
The gift of redemption He offers is free, but just like any gift, the person to whom it was offered must accept it before it is actually theirs. It becomes theirs only when they actually claim it. If a person is offered something then refuses to take it, it isn’t theirs to own.
I was watching the testimony of an Indian Muslim who claims to have been saved by reading the Quran. He was a devout Muslim who studied the Quran. As he did, he noticed that Jesus was mentioned more than fifty times, directly or indirectly by other titles. He said that the actual name of Jesus was mentioned twenty-five times, the Messiah eleven times, and twenty-three times as the Son of Mary. He also noted that Muhammad was only mentioned four times. In his reading of the Quran, he noticed that Jesus was still alive while Muhammad was dead.
He went to his mentor and Imam to ask about the things that he read. When the Imam couldn’t give him the answers he sought, he began to read the Bible. When he did, many of the words surrounding Jesus began to make sense. One thing he mentioned was Jesus was mentioned as the Word. At the very beginning of the book of John it says, “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God.” John 1:1. From that, this once Muslim ascertained that Jesus was more than a just a prophet as the Quran branded Jesus, He was more than a prophet, He was equal with God. The more he delved into the Bible, the more he understood his need for a Savior. It was something that he could not find in the pages of the Quran. It became his testimony that he was directed to Salvation by the words he found in the Quran. Salvation can still be found in this Jew-born Man.

 I Can Be Such a Card
Most of my friends know that I have become the repository and caretaker for many of my family’s postcards. They have been gathered by family members over the past several generations. I have postcards from my great-grandparents and grandparents who have saved them and passed them on to my parents. I have also inherited postcards from my wife Cindy Morrison Beck’s family. A lot of them were sent to Cindy or our kids Amanda Beck Yoder, Andrew Beck, and Anna Beck Prinkey over the years that their Grandmother Retha Johnson Morrison travelled with friends all over the United States and Canada. A few of the cards I own were either gathered by me, for me, or sent to me from friends when they were visiting other countries on mission trips or while vacationing. There are some that I purchased while I was in the United States Navy or while traveling on vacation with my family or friends. How many do I have? I’ve never counted them, but I have two boot boxes filled with cards. I have to be honest, several of the saved items are not postcards, but photographs of the local area that were made into calendar tops.
What sent me down this trail of thought was finding several past Christmas cards, thank you cards, and birthday cards. I’ve decided not to keep them. My office/computer room is already cluttered enough. Just to show you that I am ecologically conscious, I don’t plan on tossing them into the garbage to be burned or to fill a garbage disposal site I am passing them on to a friend. She will recycle them. She uses the photographs on the front of old cards, crop them, and then she will glue them to cardstock making a new Christmas card, thank you card, birthday card, special occasion card, or a card with a blank interior so a person can write their own greeting message.
To extend the “I can be such a card” theme, I often would tell a story or joke while I was working at Frick Hospital in Mt Pleasant, Pennsylvania. I hope it made the work day pass much more quickly for my workmates. Even today while shopping I will tease another shopper or cashier just to make them smile. My motto is, if I don’t make someone smile, I might as well stay home. No one likes dealing with a grumpy old man. Unlike a physician that I used to work with, Dr. Vandyk, when someone would wish him a Merry Christmas, he would mutter the Scrooge-like saying, “Bah Humbug!”

A Tree-mendous Christmas Memory
There was a time in our not so distant past that a person could go out into a grove where pine trees grew wild and harvest one for himself. The person would cut the tree that he wanted and haul it home. It wasn’t quite stealing, but it came very close. These unclaimed trees were always fresher and cheaper than going to a Christmas tree sales lot to purchase one.
A friend was doing just that. He and his wife drove their car to get an evergreen for the Yuletide season. Once he and his axe were out of the car, his wife sped away with plans to return to collect him and the newly acquired tree. The friend would recognize it was his wife with the signal that she would flash the headlights on her return. He would hurry back to the road with his prize, he would quickly load it into the car, and they would drive away. The trunks of cars were much larger then and unless the tree was huge, it would fit inside the car’s trunk with only the tip of the pine peeking out from the tied down lid. If the tree was too large for the trunk it could be tied to the car’s sturdy steel roof for the short trip home.
It was a cold day and my friend was warmly dressed in his red and black Woolrich pants, coat, and hat. The thick Woolrich clothing was the accepted winter and hunting clothing of that time period. Having cut the tree, he squatted on a bank above the road to watch for his wife’s return. When headlights of an oncoming car flashed, he hopped down onto the roadway only to find that it wasn't his wife.
The oncoming car had rolled over a bump in the road and the headlights only appeared to flash. He told me that the surprise on the driver's face looking out of the car’s windshield was impressive when he suddenly leaped onto the roadway. Can you imagine the surprise of the man as he drove along and saw a man clad from head to his foot in red at Christmastime carrying an evergreen tree in one hand and an axe in the other unexpectedly pop into view? My friend said the driver of the car slammed on his brakes then swerved the car to avoid hitting my friend and sped away. I really like this story and may be an annual post at Christmas.

 Cluttered
When I was looking for something in the clutter of my office/computer room/ storage area, I thought “Wow, I really need to clean this up.” Boxes of manuscripts, books, and cartons of photographs and postcards have claimed much of the floor space. Clutter has even topped my ironing board. Yes, my ironing board functions as a third desk. I have to clear off a corner when I want to press something to wear and yes I do still iron some clothing. There are enough natural wrinkles on my body without adding another layer.
Boxes of partial unfinished and a few finished manuscripts fill the knee niche in my second, older desk. It also houses my medications, office supplies, and of course an ever-present junk drawer with items that may just come to be handy somewhere in the future. I’ve managed to toss any old batteries before the begin to leak and have outlived their usefulness.
Right now my computer desk is cluttered with Christmas cards. I’m trying to get them sent out before it becomes too late. One thing that I tossed and wished I hadn’t was the envelope with an address for our associate pastor and family. I forgot to copy his new address since he moved to North Carolina to continue his education.
This leads me to the most cluttered area in my life. It’s my brain. Too many ideas collide, mix, and refuse to make sense at times. That is why I have so many unfinished poems and manuscripts stored in boxes. The ideas begin to flow, then close down. I’m not sure if the creative juices dry up or whether a new thought has grabbed my attention.
I have to keep my calendar up to date. So many things are happening this month, I need to keep the drivers and chaperones for each Wednesday evening for our church straight in my head, two doctor’s appointments, four luncheons and parties. I’m still of the old school. It’s necessary to keep the information on a desk calendar as a back-up for my digital “secretary/alarm clock” on my cell phone. I know I’m an old fuddy-duddy and am resistant to change. It could be why my closet is still filled with outdated clothing.

 What to Wear
When I was a kid I didn’t have to make the decision of what I was to wear. My Mom Sybil Miner Beck made those decisions for me. I was the oldest of three kids, so I didn’t get to many hand-me-downs. The only hand-me-down I can remember was a winter coat. I didn’t hate it, but I managed to burn a hole in it trying to get warm on the potbelly coal stove in fifth grade. I went to a two room schoolhouse in my youth. I missed going to a one room school house by one year.
As young kids when we woke we’d run around in our underwear until after breakfast. Mom would put out the clothes we were to wear and that was that. Just like Mom preparing food for a meal. There was no argument. Eat it or go hungry.
Now I have to make these decisions on my own although I usually still run around in my underwear until after breakfast. First and foremost directing my choice is the weather. Will I be too hot or will I freeze exposed skin? Next I must decide where I’m going. Is it a place where grungy clothing is permitted or is it a place where a button-down shirt and tie is required? One of the final and most important decision is considered, will my friends who are there going to really care.
A sidebar here, often my kids will say, “You’re not really going to wear that out where someone can see you, are you?” Yes…I have outdated clothing still hanging in my closet. Who knows, they may come back in style and I can retro fit a generation.
Sometimes I think I’m too old to care about what covers my body, as long as it’s covered. I’m no longer looking to find a date. I’m not planning to impress the checkout people at Wal-mart and do I really care who I bump into at Ollie’s or Big Lots? I do miss the Save-a-Lot store though.
I quite often meet a fellow worker from Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania at Wal-Mart and I’m glad to see that they didn’t dress-up to meet me either. Our trials and troubles at work created a friendship like that. We survived the years of toil and now we are what we are.

 May I Have the Envelope Please
As I was growing up, many of the television programs had an answer or something that needed to be kept secret until the time of the reveal. It was then that the Emcee would call for an assistant to fetch the sealed envelope to announce the winning answer. The emcee would say the oft repeated phrase, “May I have the envelope please.”
I’m thinking the same thing as I sit here with my Christmas card list and the boot box filled with the leftover cards from years past. I’ve said before, I am frugal and I usually but me Christmas cards right after Christmas the year before. Sometimes the designs in the boxes of cards have been picked over, but there are always some themed cards that are still acceptable.
The reason my boot box is filled with Christmas cards is that I usually have more cards than people to whom I send the Christmas greeting cards. So the cards are random with different subjects and verses. I have some cards that look old fashioned with their sepia cover pages. I have cards with fold out features that stand up when removed from the envelope. I have cards with gold writing sharing the birth of the Christ Child and ones that announce “Joy.” Written in gold on a royal purple cover are the words, “Hallelujah, King on Kings and LORD of Lords and He shall reign forever and ever.” There are ones that depict the Christ Child in a manger. The cards come in all sizes: longer thinner ones, smaller cards, and some that are just larger.
I try to choose a card verse that suits the person to whom I am sending the card. Sometimes I will choose a more secular light-hearted one or for someone else, I may choose one that is more serious and religious in nature. If you are like me, you’ve made mistakes writing on the envelope or card which leaves an envelope without a card or a card with no envelope.
Here’s where my thoughts of “May I have the envelope please” comes in. All of the cards and envelopes have been randomly placed in the box. They get shuffled and loosely stored from year to year. So when I’ve selected a card that I like, I have to sort through the stack of envelopes to find a correct size to fit the card. It’s like a miniature scavenger hunt.

Icicles
Looking back I seem to remember a lot of icicles hanging from the eaves of homes. I don’t see as many nowadays because of gutters and downspouts. Their size ranged from little fingerlings to ones that reached the ground from the second story. Some were thin, almost transparent as a window pane to those which needed to be smacked by a hammer to loosen them and to cause them to fall safely.
Icicles can be wonderfully beautiful, clinging to edges of waterfalls, creating another cascade of beauty at the sides of a winter stream. Those icicles mirror the natural beauty of the free-falling water.
One beautiful display of icicles I remember was an annual light show at a house about half way down the Three Mile Hill along Route 31 between the towns of Donegal and Laurelville, Pennsylvania. When the highway had more curves there was a small mobile home situated at the edge of a deep curve. The folks there used a large square of turkey wire hanging between two trees. Strings of outdoor colored lights were fastened to it before hosing it down with water. The water froze into sheets of ice. At night when the lights were lit, it glowed like a stained glass window.
Another icicle story happened while I was working at Frick Hospital Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. One of the nurse managers complained all the time about being cold. Her office had been a patient room with its own bathroom. She would turn the heater on in the bathroom and in the office as soon as the weather began to chill outside. Walking into her office was like entering a blast furnace.
Outside, huge icicles would hang from the eaves of the hospital. I was working as the night shift supervisor and went outside breaking off a section. The icicle was ten inches thick at its base and extended to nearly six feet long at its pointed end. After turning off the heat in her bathroom, I stuck the thick end into the commode bowl standing the icicle up then closed the door. She was not a happy camper when she went into her bathroom. I did remove it to placate her, but it was worth her scolding to see her fuss.
Another story that isn’t quite an icicle story but occurred one year during deer hunting. It was very cold and the bottle of water I carried in the pocket of my hunting jacket froze. Several other hunters’ water did as well. We had to build a fire and place the bottles near the flames to thaw them. The fire was also nice place to warm our hands as we made rounds.

Rural Rhapsody
When I sat in the early morning hours on a log, I was able to survey the countryside around me. Beyond my feet lay muted ecru-colored tufts of dried grass that spread carpet-like to cover the forest floor. Clusters of ground-pine meandered in random whimsical patterns through the dried grass. Spiders hung silvery thin threads to sew the branches to dangle delicate webbed designs. Those spider threads glistened in the sun’s first rays. Briers sported sharp needles that snagged and tugged at my clothing as I settled into place on the log. They retained leathery green and red colored leaves amid the random brown leaves stubbornly clinging to trees around me. Tangles of fallen branches and felled trees wove a jumble of woodsy design, adding depth and height to the forest floor landscape. The trees that refused to shed their leaves wore a ragged cloak of brown. At their feet, fronds of ferns were covered in a frosty glaze that glistened as the first rays of sunlight stroked their curved and feathery stems.
Blue-green lichen clung to the trees interspaced with patches of yellow-green moss. Their interplay brightened the dark roughened bark and frosty areas. Layers of frilly fungi layers stepped down the tree trunk in rows. Nodules of decay and umbrella types of fungus found places to grow on fallen tree trunks.
The sun rose and cast conflicting ribbons of shadows and streamers of light. Interlacing bare branches stretch from the tree trunk pillars to create supports for the blue sky and white-cloud vaulted ceiling. A light wind stirred the clouds, painting an ever-changing panorama above. Vagrant puffs of icy air stirred the briar leaves causing their stems to nod at the breeze’s passing. The brown leaves shift causing them to whisper soft songs.
Earthy flavors stirred by the breeze rise to fill my nostrils. Decaying leaves cover the winter-bared ground. Their frosty glazes begin to melt as the sun’s warming fingers stroke the leaves. The thick mat of fallen leaves share the names of the trees around them, oak, poplar, beech, maple, and birch. The shapes of their discarded summer garb create an interlocking puzzle of shapes, colors, and sizes.
An occasional bird’s call breaks the morning’s silence interspersed with an occasional flutter of wings. A gray squirrel scurried into view with its thick tail flicking as is scampers up one tree and leaps into another. Finally the cold sends me back to the warmth of my house.

Times of Thanksgiving
Another day of celebrating the holiday of Thanksgiving is past. But should we ever not be thankful for the things that we have. So many other places on earth have so much less to be thankful about and yet we hear them singing praises to the LORD God from Whom all blessings flow. If they can be filled with thanks for the few things that they have, shouldn’t we step back and really look at the blessings that we have.
I’ve been trying to do just that. Yesterday my Son, two Daughters and their families came to my house for a family get together and to eat. I was responsible to roast the turkey again this year. I managed not to overcook it to extra crunchy this time. Each of my kids brought side dishes. There was so much to eat. There are enough leftovers in my fridge that I won’t have to cook for several days.
I have a house with a roof that doesn’t leak, running water, and a heater that keeps the house warm and walls that protect us from the elements. So many others worldwide don’t have these “luxuries” and must do without.
What many have is the love of God and the peace found in salvation afforded by Jesus Christ. They know that their sins have been paid for by the blood spilt on the cross at Calvary, Their sins have been forgiven and they have the promise of being resurrected to live in heavenly places where sin cannot enter in. Death has no sting. There will be no tears, no illnesses, and no pain. God the Father has mansions waiting for those who accept Christ as their Redeemer and Savior.
The hope the saved have is not found in works, not found in prayers to anyone or anything else, and not found in chanting or other gods. The way is clearly described in God’s Word, the Holy Bible. There is a ministry called Bearing Precious Seed that prints Bibles and Gospel books for distribution in many languages. Their desire is to spread the hope found in the Gospel throughout the world in native languages so people can read it in their native tongue.
The holiday of Thanksgiving is over, but our days of thanksgiving for what God has given us should happen each and every day.

 American Abundance
As we approach the holiday of Thanksgiving, it is time to think of the abundance of the things that we have in life. As Americans we still have many freedoms. Freedoms we hold too lightly. Although many altruistic politicians in our government is trying remove or at least severely limit liberty and the God-given and Constitutional guaranteed freedoms,  Americans still have them. We need to recognize them and cling tightly to them.
Too many people are quite willing to trade them for a bit of bread or some phantom promise of security. The bit of bread is like the bait covering the fishing hook to entice the hungry and willing to swallow the lies and poison of the snake oil salesmen in positions of power and the media. The imaginary promise of security by removing the freedom of speech and the ability of protecting ourselves, our families, and our property is selling ourselves back into servitude and allowing the government to have complete control of our lives.
Threat is the weapon that the government has pursued to control the population. There was once a time when the citizens directed the policies of our country. Now it seems that the government’s goals are to subdue Americans by instituting new regulations, laws, and taxes.
We need to stand firm on the liberty and freedoms that we still have. We need to secure those precious commodities for future generations. If we don’t teach our children the necessity of being free, they will slowly be eroded away by a centralized government and power hungry elites and politicians.
I started to write about the things that we should be thankful for, and I did, going back to the very basics of abundance in America. If we look around at Venezuela, North Korea, India, and many countries in Africa, we see a lack of physical comforts that are afforded to American citizens. I spoke with a missionary to Haiti. The turmoil, crime, and strife there is unbelievable. She has an orphanage there and her concern for these young men and women makes me hang my head because I’m not always grateful. Even the people who are poor in America have it so much better off than them.
So as we sit down at our Thanksgiving table, let us remind ourselves how fortunate we are. We also need to be reminder of the military men and women who are away from home and protecting our liberty and freedom. Happy Thanksgiving.

 Ladies and Gentlemen
Hearing that refrain takes me back to a time when small circuses made their circuit into local communities. They were sometimes invited by organizations as revenue generating programs. I can recall when a person usually a man would boldly step into the center of a huge tent and address the surrounding audience with the call, “Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages....”
This Emcee would be dressed in a top hat, a bright red jacket, carrying a short whip in one hand and possibly a megaphone in the other. His highly polished black boots would glisten in the light. This person was the ringmaster who would introduce the different performers who would dazzle the audience with their acts. High-wire artists would precariously balance themselves on a wire high above. Trapeze artists would swing and leap from perch to perch. Clowns would scurry out in cars to perform their crazy antics to please the crowds. There would be animal acts of lions, of elephants, and of brightly costumed riders on horses. The music combined with the flashy costumes created an exciting time for the patrons.
There was a time when women were actually ladies and men were truly gentlemen. Too often men and women have coarsened in their appearance in manners and language.  Folks today will go shopping in pajamas and clothing that covers less than underwear. Ripped jeans would never have been tolerated at one time are now in vogue. Skin tight leggings that never should have been made in those sizes are the in thing looking like sausage about to burst their casings. Some fashions are created to expose the maximum amount of flesh without the person being incarcerated for lewd presentations. I can’t understand the reason for men wearing the baggy pants. I’ve fought all my life to keep my trousers from falling down.
I think the coarseness of today’s language is even more bothersome and offensive to me. I was a sailor in the United States Navy and you know what they say about drunken sailors. I’ve heard some pretty rough language, even from the female sailors, but that vocabulary pales to the verbiage coming out of the mouths of today’s youth. Cursing has become all too common, has infiltrated “normal” conversations, and parents allow their children to hear and to use strong language. Parents do nothing to correct their kids and often laugh when they repeat the crude words. I wish we could go back to a time when biological men were men and female-born women were ladies.

Friends and Acquaintances
    Over the years I’ve met quite a few people. Some of whom became very dear to me while others have simply drifted away. Some with whom I’ve made close contact while others I have barely met at all. This may seem strange but the meeting people the internet has closed the distance and allowed those friendships to form much faster than the snail mail of old pen pal letters.
    Because of my blog and Facebook, I’ve met many people and maintained friendships that would have withered and died if left to the letters sent by mail. The books that I’ve written has forced me to go out into the public and tell people that I am an author, pass out my business cards, and that I have written books. In ways, it’s oddly different and yet the same as when I worked as a nursing supervisor. I was constantly working with the public, but on a smaller scale. It was, limited to occurrences inside of the hospital and I was a representative of the hospital and not me.
    With the need to sell my books and share my Blogspot I keep making acquaintances. Most are superficial. My close friends are few and far between. There are many people that I’ve met in school, in the Navy, and while working at my jobs that I wish now I would have stayed in touch. They were interesting people that had much to share in knowledge and wisdom. Many told stories to me and I wish I had listened more closely to remember them and to share them with others. Those who read my blog have been deprived because of my stupidity and those tales will disappear, untold into oblivion.
    That’s the reasons that I write stories of my family, thoughts from my school days, tales of my work experiences, and fictional stories that my mind recalls or creates. I am so thankful to all of those who read what I write and take the time to share their thoughts and lives with me.

Pull Up a Chair
“Pull up a chair” is a catchy phrase that you might hear when visiting an older friend or a relative as they welcome you into their home or to come up onto their porch with the invitation to “set awhile and have something cold to drink on a warm day. Maybe they’d ask if you’d like a cup of coffee. This was a casual greeting that I’ve often heard when visiting my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. She would be shelling beans and ask me to help her with the words “Pull up a chair” here’s a pan. You can help me. She would say the same thing when she had her quilting frames up and she was sewing a pattern to connect the bottom to the “pieced” pattern of the quilt top. The design of the to-be-sewn lines had already been sketched lightly with a pencil. She’d hand me a threaded needle to sew the straight lines. She kept the fancy scrolls and designs to herself stitching them with her practiced arthritic fingers.
Have you ever been somewhere and a good friend enters? Have you ever saved a seat and said “pull up a chair” and join us knowing that it would be special to have them sitting with you? Then there are acquaintances that cause you to cringe when they “pull up a chair” because they either rub you the wrong way or they prattle on talking about one subject after another. Do you deny their desire to join you?
I remember while in the United States Navy Corps School of playing poker to while away the weekend. I would hover around the area where a poker game was happening until someone quit the table and I would “pull up a chair” and join the game. The pots were soda pop top tabs instead of nickels or the larger tabs from cans on nuts or Pringles instead of dimes. Because gambling was against Navy regulations, the actual money was hidden from sight. I never lost or gained money, but would often make money by selling my seat to someone who wanted to join the game and “pull up a chair.”

 Not Quite Like Granddad
I was just thinking of some stories about my Grandfather Thomas Edson Beck. Yes. I was named after him and my Grandfather Ray Miner. I can remember the story of my Grandfather Beck having a toothache so severe that he actually took care of the pain himself. No, he didn’t extract it, he heated and bent the “rat tail” end of a rasp file over into a 90 degree L shape, then reheated it into a red hot weapon of self-destruction and burned the nerve out of the decayed tooth. I’ve not done anything to match that, but I do have most of my dental work done without anesthesia. I prefer to feel a bit of discomfort than to have the feeling of a fat lip in my lap for hours.
When my Granddad was 21 years of age, a logging accident broke his leg severely enough for the doctors to operate and insert a plate and screws. He still had the bill from the hospital. I can’t remember the exact cost, but it was less than fifty dollars. The plate and screws stayed in place until he was in his nineties and a screw loosened. The doctors removed the screw and plate from his leg. He would readily show the hardware preserved in a medicine bottle teasing that is was an antique.
On the other hand as a teen, I developed a cellulitis from and older injury and a re-injury. I was stuck in the hospital for nearly a week getting penicillin injections in my tusch. As a teen I hated being “confined” for a week, writing notes on my lunch tray begging to be released.
Granddad Beck developed a shingles virus that covered his head and forehead on one side. Shingles is noted for following the nerve pathway on half the affected area. The doctors said that he was fortunate that it hadn’t infected his eye, because the pain would have been nearly unbearable. The virus surrounded his “god eye.” He had been blind in one eye for many years.
On the other hand, my case of shingles was on my left side near the bottom of my rib cage. The crusty eruptions made moving and breathing painful, but I am sure that my Granddad’s pain was more severe.
My Granddad was on a ladder cleaning the gutters on the three story side on his house when he was eighty years old. Me. my kids throw a fit when I get onto my two story roof to clean my chimney, but then, I’m not my Grandpa.

 Measuring Up
I’ve mentioned before that my father Edson Carl Beck was a very opinionated, headstrong person who when he had convinced himself of something, it would take God Himself to make my dad change his mind of what he thought was true. One story came to my mind was his thoughts about Jesus Christ. He believed that NO person could be six foot tall. Where or how he landed on this “fact” I will never know, but he said that Jesus Christ was six foot even and because Jesus Christ was perfect, no other person could be just six foot tall because Christ was the one and only perfect being.
While I was thinking on this, I remembered another of his misconstrued ideas. Back quite a few years ago television commercials honed in on the facts their products were low sodium. This was after doctors-in-the-know decided low sodium diets were a necessity, so many companies promoted their product as “No salt added.” It was the craze for the manufacturers to tout the fact that they were in line with the “new standard.” If my dad didn’t have eggs, some kind of pork, and toast for breakfast, he ate shredded wheat cereal. One shredded wheat company was quick to jump on the bandwagon with commercials saying their cereal had “no added salt.” My dad’s attention fastened in on this advertisement. To my dad the commercial meant that they were removing salt from their shredded wheat. Each morning, he would add a few shakes of salt on his shredded wheat, because the cereal “didn’t taste right” any longer without the salt that he added.
Again back to the taste test; when I was in my prepubescent years about ten to twelve years old, Dad would buy our milk from a local farmer. The milk was raw and unpasteurized. Sometimes, the cows would eat weeds and the strong weed taste would permeate the milk. I could taste the weed’s pungent flavoring of the milk. Dad would get upset with me saying that there was nothing wrong with the milk and that I was to drink it or use it on my cereal. I never knew if he told the truth or not, but because of his frugal nature I believe he didn’t want a gallon on milk to go to waste.

 Another Day, Another Memory
Some days quickly flow by one into another without leaving a ripple of a memory to recall later, but there are days that imprint themselves so deeply that they can be recalled many years after. The past few days have been truly memorable. Thursday afternoon I was blessed to attend the annual Mt. Carmel Christian School’s tribute to our military veterans. It was another superb event with songs and recitations paying respect and honoring the military men, women, and the families of the military. The students shared stories of extreme bravery and poignant tales of past military men and women. There was a march of flags for the different branches of military service while playing their anthems. Later there was recognition for each veteran who was present. All grades of the school participated with those in the upper grades taking on the tasks of the dramatic stories.
Following the program, the school provided a lunch with ham, and side dishes as well as desserts, coffee, tea, and soft drinks. All in all another memory was made.
Friday evening I joined with the other volunteers from the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department who recently donated their time and energy to make the annual Sausage, Pancake, and Buckwheat Festival a success. This festival is the fire company’s primary money raising effort for the department to cover its expenses and purchasing new equipment. This year despite the rain, we were able to serve 5,500 paying customers as well as feeding the workers. It was a record event.
Saturday was one of those flow-by days, but Sunday was completely different. The church had our normal services and a goodbye luncheon for our assistant Pastor. He and his wife became part of our church family five years ago. Those years have sped by and they will be sorely missed. He has desires to go farther with his education and feels God is leading him to start a church planting ministry. The ideas for growing our church has increased the awareness that there are those in communities who still need to hear the Good News of the Gospel. The musical talents of he and his wife are phenomenal and will be an asset wherever they decide to land. Best wishes and prayers in your new endeavor.

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. 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 said that 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 that the tiff accomplished was that they were both stiff and sore Sunday morning.
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.”

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Gets Me Down
The decreasing daylight hours and the rain always make me feel sluggish and sort of depressed. It makes me want to hide inside knowing that winter is just around the corner. I’m glad that I have retired and don’t have to go out when the winter winds blow and the snows fall. I won’t say I like the rain, but I guess it is better than the snow and ice.
I do have a metal roof and have heard others say how much they like to hear the rain falling on the roof, but with the windows closed and the plastic storm windows in place, all I hear is the dull roar of a barrage of raindrops hitting the roof. There is no music of the drops pinging off the metal roof.
When the rains make everything soggy and water filled, it does make me want to remain inside where I am dry and warm. When mankind started to build shelters, I’m sure his wife wanted to be warm and dry as well. He would do all he could to keep the rain, wind, and snow outside and to keep their dwelling snug and secure. They had to carry water from a stream or well to cook, drink, and to clean. I’m sure that fetching the water day after day became more and more burdensome, so the woman of the house probably shared the desire to have water brought into the house with pipes and pump. After years of wanting to keep water out of the house, now it became a luxury, then a necessity to have water into the house and then a way to allow it to escape. Need I mention the privy?
Well, it’s Tuesday and the sun pierced the early morning mist with a golden glow. Even though the temperature belied the sunny warm feeling that the sun falsely shared, I was able to do some chores around the house. The “pool noodles” that I placed on the line for my outdoor sump pump several years ago had disintegrated and needed to be replaced. The “pool noodle” for the line that delivers fuel oil to my oil furnace was also in deplorable condition and needed to be replaced. All the “pool noodles” that had been so plenteous over the summer had all gone into hibernation and instead I purchased insulating foam covers designed for pipes. That chore is done.Wednesday, waking to snow. I want to go back to bed.

 Barbequed Bear Balls
I made barbecues meatballs for lunch at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and it reminded me of my first wild game banquet. My brother Kenneth Beck had a spare ticket and asked if I wanted to go. Just like almost every Saturday night, I was free and readily accepted. I had no idea what to expect. It was all new to me. The only wild game I ate were the animals my dad killed and the venison that I shot during deer season.
The first things on the menu were trays of hors d’oeuvres of cheeses, deer sausage, homemade pickles, pickled peppers, and crackers. The next course that was offered were the soups:, regular chili, venison chili, white bean moose soup, turtle soup, squirrel navy bean soup, and wild mushroom soup. I tried the turtle soup and the squirrel bean soup.
The next round of foods that was shared was the main course, fresh cloverleaf buns, small buttered potatoes, and green. beans..Then there were the meats: elk meatloaf, slices of venison roast, wild turkey, bear goulash, venison meatloaf, some type of sausage in sauerkraut, and the barbequed bear balls. The bear meat had been ground up, rolled into meat balls, and cooked in a barbeque sauce.
I didn’t try the sauerkraut and sausage and I wasn’t impressed with the bear goulash. I didn’t like the flavor of the spices that were used in it and I didn’t like the mushy consistency.
A large urn of coffee and several coolers of iced water and lemon Blend graced a small table at the end of the line to wet the whistles and clear the palate between the different meats.
Another small table was festooned and piled high with a plethora of desserts. Cakes of all flavors with their varied icings, small muffins of banana bread, and a few cookies, were bundled in individual clear plastic containers. It made them easy to select and to carry back to your table.
Door prizes and other ticket prizes for T shirts, car care items, cash prizes, framed pictures, appliances, and several guns were given out to those with matching ticket numbers.
I remember sitting at my computer typing with a full and round abdomen. At the time, I hoped that it settled. It must have because I had a quiet night of sleep and the wild game didn’t fight for territorial rights during the middle of the night.

Tricks at Halloween
When I was in my very early teens Halloween was a diversion for a little devilment, a time to be a little rowdy. It isn’t like now when kids run amuck. It was for a bit of excitement. It was more than dressing in outfits like hobos, sheets as ghosts, or wrapped like mummies for school or trick or treating , it was playing pranks like soaping windows and throwing shelled corn at passing cars.
My friends and I would explore the streets of Indian Head, Pennsylvania under the cover of darkness to visit many of the houses with stubs of soap to smear the windows of unsuspecting home owners. We weren’t wasteful using full bars of soap, but we would save carefully hoarded scraps of soap bars when the bar was nearly used up..
Attacks on two homes in particular I remember. The first encounter occurred just as it was getting dark. I was walking with my friends. We spied a stone house with a hedge of shrubs near the front of the house nestled under a large front window. We could see the flickering of a television inside. He program was in black and white at that time. No one had color televisions. We dared the youngest kid in our group to soap the window with the old chant, “You don’t have a hair…” His stealthy approach behind the bushes was perfect. Not a leaf stirred on the bushes. Slowly a hand arose out of the jungle of leaves and began to trace figure eights on the glass surface. The most unusual about the raid was that the homeowner came to the window and was apparently hypnotized by the audacity. She stood there, her head following the soap’s tracings until the hand disappeared back into anonymity.
The second occurred at a home where we were tossing grains of shelled field corn onto her porch. It was rumored that the woman slept with a large pistol under her pillow. When the porch light snapped on at the sounds of corn hitting her door, we ran. It was fully dark by that time and in my blind dash to escape, my legs tripped a turkey wire fence that was about thigh high in height. I did a complete somersault, landing on my butt. The next day, I could see that the wire fence was dented and fence posts on both sides of my assault were leaning toward the spot that tripped me.

I wrote this piece many years ago trying to expose the dark roots off Halloween.
Older and Wiser
Widowed and aged she feared tonight’s visit from the Druid priests. They would soon be at her door demanding food and drink or tribute. It was the usual fees for their intervention with the Celtic gods. If their requests were not met, they would find a way to extract payment in some way. They were not easily deterred nor were their memories of imagined slights easily forgotten.
For hours they would gather in a nearby grove with thick curtains of mistletoe clinging to the oak’s ancient branches. At a clearing in the thicket they’d build a large fire and chant as they danced, preparing themselves for the darkness of night. Beating on drums made from human skins and playing eerie tunes on ivory hued flutes of men’s leg bones, they directed their worship to Anextiomarus the protector god, to Ankou the god of death, and to the goddess of fertility and abundance Rosmerta.
It was rumored the instruments they used in worship ceremonies were made from the victims of the priests wrath and the candles they used were made from the tallow of those who failed to pay tribute for protection. The priests always arrived on All Hallows Eve carrying those candles. Their faces hooded, darkened, and lost in the shadows of the candles’ reflectors.
This year the old woman’s pantry was especially sparse. She’d have barely enough food to survive the winter. How could she keep the little provisions that she had?
She sat and thought as her small barley cake baked in the hot coals of her fire. The cake almost burned as she sought an answer to her problem. The room darkened as the night drew nearer. Was there a way to save her food?
“Berries,” she exclaimed. “I have a few dried strawberries.” Quickly, she ground them and added water. She must hurry. Surely they would be at her door soon. She’d barely finished with her plan when there was a loud pounding on her door. She lifted the latch and offered them the small barley cake from her hearth.
The priest closest to her moved nearer to see the proffered item. The flickering light from the candle fell on the old woman’s wrinkled face and hands. He backed away. “Pox!” he shrilled. “The old woman has the pox.”
When they’d gone, she closed the door, and laughed. Wiping the berries from her face and hands she smeared them on her cake. “This will be a sweet treat for my supper tonight.”

 Not Quite a Wake
Over the weekend I attended a memorial service for the son of a gracious lady that I know. I have attended several memorials in my life, but the unusual thing was where it was held. The woman scheduled the event to be held in a bar. That is what confused me. I know Irish wakes are a celebration of the deceased’s life to remove some of the sting of the person’s passing. I have never attended a wake so I have nothing with which to compare this ceremony.
Several friends and I stopped to greet the man’s mother with a hug and to offer our condolences as we entered. A young man was strumming on his guitar and sang several songs. He left the raised dais after a few songs to mingle with the guests. The area quickly became congested with elbow to elbow people. I headed outdoors when I saw through a glass door there was an empty covered patio. Several tall glass towers of propane flame heated were lighted the area. It beckoned to me. There were half dozen glass topped tables surrounded by chairs outside and as of yet unoccupied. It was unused as of yet. The patio was completely empty. I decided to take my soft drink outside and take a seat where I could at least move and breathe. Several of my friends soon joined me. A breeze caused the air outside to have occasional chilly drafts, but it soon warmed again with the several propane heaters.
Later we were told one corner of the bar area was a food station. The table was filled with pizzas having different toppings. The table also had candied bacon, deep fried cheese sticks, and cheese balls also arrayed to sample. Coffee and tea were available at the other side of the horseshoe shaped bar. Non-alcoholic drinks were proffered free to all, but mixed drinks, beer, and ales were not. They could be purchased if you desired alcohol to drink.
The interior of the bar area remained packed. People wandered in and out of the bar and in and out onto the patio. It was a constant ebb and flow. Even with the heaters the evening grew colder. My friends and I decided it was time to leave. We paid our respects to the mother and departed. I still am unsure as to whether I should call it a memorial or a muted wake.

 
What a Card
As kids my brother Ken and my sister Kathy would play card games at times: Old Maid, Fish, and War. They weren’t challenging, but they’d keep us busy when we couldn’t go outside or during times we were bored with nothing else to do. Later we learned to play Rummy. There were other older card games like Flinch and Milles Borne, but we never learned the rules to play them.
When I was in high school I would visit friends who lived near my grandparent Miner’s farm. Several brothers were my age and we liked to play Hearts and Spades. I liked these games. They were more of a challenge. It’s been so long ago since I’ve played them, I’m not sure I would remember how to play.
While I worked at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg I learned to play Canasta. At lunch several men would break out decks of cards and play. I learned the game through observation. When one of the men didn’t show up for the game, I would sit in. I got the “newbie” hassle because I was still learning and might make the wrong bid or play the wrong card. It was a “learn quickly” or I wouldn’t be invited to sit in and play cards.
There was a lot of down time while I was attending Corps in school the United States Navy at Great Lakes. Since I didn’t drink or use drugs, I often stayed in the barracks and not going into Chicago for the weekend. I would frequently play Poker. We weren’t allowed to gamble, but used pop tops as poker chips. No money was on the table, but the pop tops were used instead of nickels. I made money, not because I was a great gambler, but because I had staying power. Someone would show up wanting to play and they would “buy” my seat at the table. I’d hang around until someone bowed out, opening a seat. I would claim it, coming back in with a fresh pot of money. I’d play until someone else would want a seat at the table.
I also learned to play Cribbage, an easy game to transport. A deck of cards and Cribbage board didn’t take up much room. The board I had was very plain, but I’ve seen some fancy Cribbage boards with ivory or exotic wooden pegs owned by serious players.
Today’s kids play Dutch Blitz and Uno. They can be fun, but Dutch Blitz is too rapid paced for me. I can’t collect my thoughts as quickly as those from the younger generation.

 Sharing a poem of retrospect

Beyond the Never-Mind
When I think of what could have been
And I review what’s passed behind
I wonder what I might have seen
Beyond unexplored never-mind.
My youth seems to have quickly passed
Learning things that had worth or not
As knowledge and wealth were amassed
The Never-mind was what I sought.
Each selection growing older
Each choice led me along a path
Now I look over my shoulder
To see ones made in haste or wrath.
If I could change them in hindsight
Would I take the same path I’m on?
Would I choose going left or right
Not knowing what lurks ere the dawn?
The past is fixed, I move ahead
Walking on firm paths or rubble
I cannot fret about “instead”
Never-mind’s a fleeting bubble.
All never-minds are in the past
Far beyond today’s narrow view
Will I ever know what will last?
Without backward glance in review.
Maybe something I’m reaching for
Something that still remains hidden
Yonder behind the next closed door
On an odd horse not yet ridden
Never-minds unnoticed before.
Traveled but never to return
Paths ahead are often unsure
In passing or will I sojourn?

Thoughts in a Cement Mixer
As I sat trying to urge myself to get out of bed after waking up, thought of what I should write about churned in my head. I should have tried to write something last evening after church, but a combination of low energy and a lack of ideas prevented me from writing. This morning a trailing thought from my dream flowed by. The dream was about me parking my car and walking. It began to snow and I decided to return, but couldn’t find my car. I don’t know what happened then. I woke up. I didn’t want to write about that.
Friday and Saturday I fried sausage at the annual Ohiopyle Pancake, Buckwheat Cake & Sausage festival. Of course my body complained, but there are other men who are the same age or in worse health than me, so I continue to go. This was the 75th anniversary of the festival and I’ve worked nearly fifty of them. My son Andrew and his family and my daughter Anna and her husband came out and we ate together. I saw my dietician Alex who came out with his friends and enjoyed the food as well.
The work of frying sausage isn’t strenuous, but the leaning over the griddles is hard on the back and legs. Each griddle is about eighteen inches deep by twenty-eight inches wide and there are twelve griddles, six on each side. The heat of the first six griddles is kept low, starting the cooking process. The sausage patties are then passed over to the second set of griddles to finish the frying process. Forty-two patties fit tightly on each griddle. The meat patties must be watched carefully so they don’t burn or stick to the surface of the griddles.
The flames beneath the griddles must be monitored or the griddles will get to hot. Sometimes if the air current changes direction or strength, it can quickly affect the flames and the heat. What causes us to return year after year? It’s the camaraderie. It’s the friendships that have developed over the many years. Some friends have passed away, others have filled in, and new bonds have developed.

Breaking Out the Flannels
Now that the days are getting shorter, the nights are becoming longer, and the temperatures are turning cooler, I guess it’s time for me to pull off the cotton percale bed sheets and replace them with the flannel ones that have been stored away all summer. Is it just me or does it feel that we just pulled off the flannel sheets a month ago? Maybe it was a month and a half ago. I know that’s not so because I’ve washed and replaced the cotton sheets more than several times this summer. I can vividly remember hanging them out on the clothes line to dry in the warm sun many times. I can see them billowing out in the breeze, like the sails on a ship.
It’s discouraging to know autumn is fast slipping away and the winter winds and snow will be here before we know it. I’m blest with several sets of flannel sheets, a wood burner, and clothes lines in the basement so I don’t have to dry my sheets outside in the winter like my mom did. I can change the flannels when I need to and not have to dry them in an electric clothes dryer. Tonight I will snuggle down into the warmth of a fresh flannel sheet beneath a thick quilt and a fluffy coverlet.
I haven’t pulled my flannel underwear out yet. The flannel underwear used to be called Dr. Denton’s. They had long sleeves and long legs. The distinguishing characteristic of the Doctor Denton’s was that they had a button-up or a fold-down flap in the rear to allow easy access when going to the bathroom. Long-Johns are similar, but have a fold-over, able-to-button-closed opening. The long-Johns that I have are red. I have both kinds of them as well as underclothing of separate tops and bottom pieces. The flannel drawers will stay folded in a drawer until hunting season, then I’ll pull them out. They’ll be needed when I want to keep warm as I go hunting for venison. It’s always a blessing to stay warm when I try to get and have the extra meat on hand. If I can get another deer this year, I won’t have to go to the store in inclement weather, the meat will be leaner, and I know how the meat was handled.

Old Sew and Sew
I was watching a television program where two veterinarians were doing an operation and were sewing up the incision when they were finished. One vet asked the other whether she remembered the first time she did surgery. Her answer was, “Yes, and I felt so nervous and shaky.”
I tried to think of the first time I ever had to suture a laceration shut when I was a Corpsman in the United States Navy and I couldn’t. I had no recollection of the injury or the wound that needed closure. I do know that it was one aspect that I enjoyed doing and one thing that I was unable to do as a nurse. Each laceration was a challenge. Each wound required me to think of the best way to handle it and sew it closed.
Was it a deep wound that required several layers of suturing? Was there any skin or muscle missing? What was the age of the person? Did the wound need extensive cleaning? Were there any skin tabs that needed to be trimmed to make a smooth closure? What kind of suture material did I need? Would I need help?
In the emergency department at the Naval Training Center in Orlando, Florida there was always a physician on duty who often checked the wound before the repair and after to insure that proper procedure was followed and the wound was closed correctly. The only time the physician was required to do the repair was when it was on the face or hand of a woman for cosmetic reasons.
Often physicians would use a “papoose board” to restrain youngsters while they sutured them. It was a flat board with adjustable straps to keep the child from moving during the procedure. Many times I was able to talk and explain what was going to happen and didn’t have to fasten the kid down. I enjoyed that.
One case I remember that was too severe and I was not comfortable to handle was a long deep cut. A Man tried to jump over a hurricane fence and made a deep gash in his forearm. I didn’t want to tackle it. I asked the emergency room doctor to have a look at it. He smugly said, “Finally found one you couldn’t handle?”
When I lifted the bandage, he said, “Put a moist dressing on it and call the surgeon on call.”

 OOPS, So Sorry
Awhile back I made a post that one of my readers found offensive. It was never meant to stir up trouble or to cause distress. It was an inadvertent reference that was written in my usual exaggerated style to draw readers to my post. It was meant to be done in an exuberant, showy manner to catch a reader’s eye. It was not to sling slurs nor was it meant to upset anyone, especially my readers. If I could withdraw that post, I most certainly would. In my writings, I try not to offend anyone. I try to write what is happening to me, my past, or my family’s history. I will try to be more cautious and more selective in my wording and the intent behind my posts.
To my reader that became offended by my posting, I am truly sorry that I caused you any distress or ill feelings. It upsets me that I caused any type of insult or hurt. It was never meant to be that. It was only to add drama to a shared story. I humbly regret any concern you had with my writings.
It is difficult for me to think of new ideas and to compose a different story. There is only so much I am able to dredge up from my past. Sometimes I rewrite something I’ve shared before, but I don’t like to do that very often. Sometimes I stray when I write, and I am overcome with my own sense of warped humor and I believe that’s what gets me into trouble. I will try to curtail my playing with words, sticking to the facts. My posts may be a bit drier, but hopefully I won’t offend anyone else Again I must apologize to anyone that I have upset and ask for forgiveness. I’m not sure the person will read this post, but I do hope that I have the chance to apologize.
I’m crushed. I found out that I unintentionally also broke a trust. I am sick to my stomach. Trust is not easily gained. It’s a fragile thing. Once it has been broken it is almost impossible to repair. Where do I go now and what do I do to try to make amends. I know that it will never be the same. There will always be scars to mark the breach. All I can do is to try to remain a friend in days ahead. Again I am so very sorry.

All the World’s a Stage
William Shakespeare said all the world was a stage and the people in it actors, but I think that some people act more like characters. Some who would arrive at the emergency department were called “frequent flyers.” They were repeat visitors; some as drug seekers, some were actually sick, while others wanted to be the center of interest and then there were those who were just lonely.
We had a married couple who didn’t quite fall into any of these categories, but straddled several. They came close to being frequent flyers. I think they came just because they could come to the hospital and not have to pay for it. We named them Prince Charles and Princess Dianna. Charles and Dianna were their real names.
The closest thing to having a royal escort occurred when Charles came in by ambulance one night accompanied by medical attendants. Charles and Dianna carried Pennsylvania’s yellow public assistance gold card. You’ve heard the commercial, “It’s the gold card, don’t leave home without it” and this couple never did.
Before anybody complains about my comment I just want to say there are people who are unable to work due to a disability and SHOULD have assistance. But there are those people who are able bodied and intelligent who should NOT be eligible.
I feel that Charles was one of the latter. He was intelligent and if he can have sex he’s able bodied enough to find a job. At an earlier visit he told me in the triage area, ‘I was teaching the old lady how to play chess tonight before we came in.” He had to have some smarts to play chess, right.
So, let me get back to the story. Charles was brought in by ambulance. As he was moved onto our bed, I noticed that under him was one of the dirtiest, filthiest, stained sheets I’ve ever seen and he was completely naked.  The spots were not the pattern of the sheet. He explained that he and his wife were having sex when his “back went out.”
He was given x-rays, medicated, and discharged. We gave him a pair of pajama bottoms because he’d arrived “au naturale” and a patient gown to wear home. He was to bring them back. I doubt that he did. We probably doubled his wardrobe.
He and Dianna had hardly disappeared through the exit door when she came rushing back into the emergency room calling, “Where’s my sheet? Where’s my sheet? I need to put it back on the bed when we get home.”
We nurses looked at each other thinking the same thought. “Who’d put that filthy thing back onto the bed?” We shrugged, gloved up and dug through the dirty linen bag to find her sheet, giving it back inside of a plastic bag.

Hell…? Yes!
Is there a place called Hell? Yes, the Bible clearly states that as a fact. It was initially created for Lucifer and the other angels that tried to rebel against God. It was never designed for man, but Satan managed to get some people to follow him. But before you say, “Why would a loving God send people to Hell, let me say this. If a person owed a huge debt that he could not pay and someone out of the goodness of his heart offered to pay the full price of that debt and the debtor refused to accept the money, whose fault would it be? Would it be the gracious person who offered to accept the unpaid bill or would it be the person who refused to allow the debt to be paid on his behalf? Would the debtor blame the attempted benefactor?
Hell is a real place. It is a place of darkness where there is no light. It is a place of extreme heat and thirst. It is so hot the flames give off no light, a place where the plea for even a drop of water will go unanswered because there is none to be offered. Hell is also a place of extreme torment. It’s a place where there is constant pain, where the gnawing of the worm never ends. The nose will be constantly assaulted by the smell of sulfur smoke and brimstone without relief. The person in Hell will never have rest for eternity. Lost souls will be cast into that lake of fire where the beast, the false prophet, and Satan himself shall be tormented day and night forever and ever.
If there was a fire in a neighbor’s house wouldn’t you want them to escape the danger and flames? If you saw smoke and fire in a house that you knew was occupied, wouldn’t you pound on the door to alert those inside of the danger? If you were in a place where people were gathered and smelled smoke and saw flames, wouldn’t you shout a warning, even though they were strangers?
Isn’t that the same reason Christians share the Gospel message? Wouldn’t you want someone to offer a way to escape Hell? Don’t you want someone to share the message of a Redeemer who’s already paid the great debt that they could not pay with a neighbor, friend, or relative? Are you willing to give the Good News of a Savior with someone who has not yet accepted the free gift of Salvation?

 The Three Wise Guys
I shared a story about my brother Kenneth Beck who called the Three Wise Men, the Three Wise Guys from his Sunday school lesson with the Evangelist Thomas Engle. The amusing thing was that he entitled the Sunday school lesson this morning. His three wise men weren’t the Magi who visited Bethlehem at the birth of Jesus the Messiah. He taught a lesson from Daniel and the three men who refused to bow down to the golden image that King Nebuchadnezzar erected in his likeness and tried to compel all of his subjects to worship his image as if it was a god.
Many of the subjects in Babylon at that time were captives from surrounding countries. He took only the educated elite to improve his subjects. He made every attempt to sever the roots of these foreigners from their home country, traditions, and their religion. Cause confusion. Separate them from the familiar and cause them to cling to the imposed ideas and laws.
Three of the captive Jews Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego early in their captivity resolved not to worship the Babylonian gods, but now the King commanded that all his subjects were to bow down and worship the image that he’d erected. This crossed the line. They were being commanded to worship a god and not God. They had to decide to take a stand or to go with the crowd even though they knew it was wrong, against God’s commands.
They had faith in the Jehovah the one true God and refused to bow down to an idol of the King Nebuchadnezzar. When King Nebuchadnezzar told them to bow down or he would cast them into a burning furnace to die for their insolence. The faith in God did not waiver.
King Nebuchadnezzar was filled with fury and commanded the furnace to be stoked to seven times the normal heat. He commanded the mightiest men in his army to bind and cast Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego into the flames. The furnace was so hot the heat killed the men who threw them into the fire.
The king watched in amazement when he saw four men walking unbound and unharmed inside of the furnace. They had no hurt. He called to them come out saying, “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, ye servants of the most high God.”
It sets a standard for people of God. When the government crosses the line and tries to force anything that goes against the Word of God, it is necessary for Christians to take a stand or follow other sheep. We must do right with the right attitude. Be resolved that when decisions need made, we will stand firm. Nonviolent resistance and non-compliance may be our first choice.

Taking Care of Business
There was a time when I went to events to try and sell my seven self-published books. Ideas of grandeur may have lurked at the back of my mind that I was a great author even though my scribbling wasn’t in the same class as Shakespeare. I gave up on ordering my books wholesale at a slightly lower price and selling them to make a few bucks. I’d rent a table at craft fairs and flea markets, but I usually spent more than I made. I’d buy some of the crafts and food. Slowly I understood the task of peddling my books wasn’t for me. It took more energy than I was willing to give.
Since then my writing has been an avocation. It is a hobby. Lately I only write for my blogspot, http://thomasbeck.blogspot.com/ . Thinking of new and different stories to share often strains my imagination. Deciding on a fresh topic may cause me to rewrite an old story, enhance the memories, or add details that I‘d forgotten at my first blog.
Although I haven’t given up on finishing more books, I find I have less time to write than I once did. I often have so many other things to do. This week I have had something scheduled for each day. It’s not always this hectic, but keeping the days and times of appointments straight are sometimes worrisome. Retirement has a way of causing me to not recall what day of the week. The lack of a regular schedule may confuse me as to which day it is.
I volunteer for four hours each week at the Stahlstown Historical Society sorting and filing the papers and items of the Laurel Highlands past. They may be photographs, deeds, marriage licenses, obituaries, maps, and artifacts that need catalogued and stored. The Society’s aim is to preserve and display as much of our area’s important documents and accomplishments.
I have access to that information stored in ledgers, file cabinets, and items housed in archival boxes at our facility. I’m able to uncover stories that would have been lost if they hadn’t been preserved by the Society. Doing the research is necessary for me, because I’m responsible for writing our newsletters. I have several others who will help me edit the paper. They will sometimes write an article that they’ve authored. Sometimes I find there are stories that almost write themselves with only a small amount of editing.
If you’re cleaning your home and find photos, documents, or items of interest, please offer them to your local historical society. If you choose not to donate them, allow your historical society to make copies and keep our history alive.

 Choose Wisely
A friend and I recently had a short discussion about whether a person is “born that way” or whether it is a choice that leads a person down a certain path. The person I was having the discussion with is gay. I have friends from different states, different countries, different religions, different views on politics, and different points of view on various things. I understand his worldly view on many things and I try to share why I believe it is a choice and not what is innate in every person’s DNA.
If it is an innate property found in our DNA why some people, even twins, turn out to be completely different creatures. One twin may be an evil homicidal maniac and the other a loving parent of children and law-abiding citizen. Is it in their DNA or is it because of the path they chose to walk? How can a loving parent one moment, quickly reverse their path and kill their children and spouse? How can the DNA driven act to kill be hidden for so long, then suddenly erupt?
How can the conversion of a person mired in the habit of alcohol or drugs occur? It has to be their choice to change their lives. They may still have the desires, but choose to make the changes necessary to be something better with their lives.
That is what missionaries and clergy of today should be presenting. The power of Jesus Christ has the power to change a person from a worldly path of destruction to a desire to follow the precepts of the Bible. The blood that Jesus shed on the cross at Calvary has the strength and ability to change the heart’s desire from the lowest, most base, most passionate desires to make the “leper clean.” It can remove the sickest desires and replace it with a yearning and craving. God’s loves the person who has sinned and yet hate the sin that they were once involved in. The transformation sometimes isn’t as dramatic as flipping a switch. It may take time to evolve, but the desire to choose sin will lessen and the desire to follow God’s Word will increase.
I feel that when a person says “I was born that way” shifts the person’s choice to sin and throws it back onto a loving God “who made them that way” and away from them making sinful choices. Choose wisely, one day we will be judged and we won’t be able to defend our choice not to seek salvation now.

Mystery Writer’s Mystery Solved?
I was concerned that I’d have to climb up onto my house roof and be this jolly fat man would have to clean out the chimney’s soot and creosote. I know my kids have threatened before to kill me if I didn’t kill myself from a fall and somehow survived. I cleaned the chimney late last year and didn’t think it would need to be attended to so early this season. I tried earlier to burn a few papers but the smoke filtered back into my basement. That meant the chimney was clogged not allowing the smoke to rise. I knew the gasket on the door of my furnace needed replaced, but the chimney should still have had a good draw.
The gasket is ordered and I decided I’d remove the old worn one and be ready to cement the new one into place when it came. Once the door and the gasket were removed, I decided to clean the furnace pipe from the wood burner to the chimney flue. Soot has a way of building up in the pipe. It too needs cleaned regularly. Tapping on the pipe, I loosened the soot collecting it into a bucket. I cleaned the connecting pipe as far into the chimney as I could reach.
When I finished that, I thought I might be able to remove the clog or at least lessen it from the clean-out door at the base of my chimney. I picked up a bucket, a small shovel, and a long handled screwdriver to attack the sooty buildup. After pulling out a few plants that crowd the base on the chimney that blocked the cleanout door from opening wide, I began the task of removing the black soot that was already loosened and had fallen to the floor of the cleanout pit.
I was in for a surprise. I found the answer to two mysteries. As I began to scoop out the soot from the bottom of the chimney, I found grass and sticks in the debris. It puzzled me at first then I remembered that during the summer, I found a bird in my basement, twice. I’ve never had a bird in my house before. I wasn’t able to find any place where the bird made an entrance. I’m still not sure how it got inside, but the twigs and grass at the bottom cleanout seemed to be the beginnings of a nest that was started inside of the chimney. Once the soot and grass was removed, the draw on my chimney had returned and I don’t think this old fat man will need to mount the roof, yet.

Escape from the Canning Nazi
I have two days off Thursday and Friday this week and the weekend from the canning kitchen prison camp and the head warden, but not so fast. Friday Seedline comes to our church. We will unload the equipment and unassembled printed Gospel of John and Romans from their trailer and move them into the gymnasium. Once inside we will start to place the printed pages into the covers before we staple them into a finished product to be trimmed and boxed for shipping. It is my understanding that the language we will put together is Croatian. Once the order request from missionaries in Croatia is filled, the Gospel will be shipped to them for distribution. Our church has done this for many years and has put together the Gospel in many languages. I can’t remember all of them, but English, French, Polish, Spanish, Ukrainian, Korean, and Portuguese. On average we are able to assemble 12,000 copies or so at each visit from Seedline.
Saturday I will help with the Seedline project before I have to leave early. I am docent at Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. When I’m done with that, I have to hurry over to my friend’s house. She’s making the evening meal for the Seedline people and a young missionary lady who is interested in translating God’s word, so my Saturday is shot.
Sunday is filled with our regular church services. Sunday morning preaching, Sunday school, then evening services. There may be time for an afternoon nap.
Monday begins a whirlwind schedule. It’s back to the canning kitchen to pare pears and put them into jars. Later on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday I am to pick up my granddaughter from school, then return her for her ensemble practice. Wednesday I have morning duties at Chestnut Ridge Historical Society then I have van duty in the evening. Thursday I have an appointment with my dietician before picking up my granddaughter. Friday I am helping a friend distribute food baskets to veterans. I need to be there at 0800 to sort and get ready for the onslaught of needy veterans. I am near weeping at the sight of these old men and women. I hope they have someone at home to help them unload. I’ll be there until 1400 or so.
I’m just holding my breath that nothing comes up for me to do on Saturday. Sunday is to be a day of rest, but I’m hoping that Saturday is too.

 Apple of My Eye
Canning season is hopefully coming to an end. It has been one day after the nest with little rest between projects. Tomatoes are coming to an end. Between the blight and the end of their growing season, the plants look as though they’ve finally given up and I am so glad. Tomato soup, sauce, salsa, canned whole tomatoes, pickled green tomatoes, and tomatoes for the vegetable beef soup have marched across the table and been baptized in the canning kettles. Cucumbers have given their all to make pickles of all flavors. The green beans are being ignored and are in decline because so many beans have already been canned, plain and pickled. Corn has been blanched, cut from the cobs and canned although some ears have been left intact and frozen.
This year the apple trees were hanging full and heavy with their fruit. I can’t remember ever having seen such a great crop. And we’ve been harvesting and canning them as they ripened into all sorts of products. We started out by making applesauce, then made several crock pots of apple butter. We’ve canned apple slices to make pies of apple dumplings later.
I’ve allowed others to harvest apples from my trees and I have gathered apples from my apple trees.  I imagine at least seven feed sacks full of Grimes Golden apples and the other red apple have been picked already. I can’t remember the red apple’s name but its flavor is sweet and makes excellent applesauce. We were recently invited to pick apples from church friends and their trees were just as blessed as mine. Trees were filled and the limbs were hanging heavy with fruit. Other neighbors have shared their bounty with us Golden delicious, Grimes Golden, Harleson, Jonathan, and Winesap to name only a few of the types of apples. Jar after jar of their deliciousness have filled our shelves. I believe that we have a nice supply laid in and canning apples have come to an end. I still have quite a bit of fruit in my trees. Most of the low branches have been picked clean. If anyone wants to pick some, they will have to shake the trees or bring an apple picker to reach the fruit in the top branches.
We are watching for the pears to ripen and the sauerkraut to finish fermenting. They will need to be canned when they are ready. The faithful of the caning crew are tiring, but the end is in sight.

My Cogs Are More than Slipping
It’s happened. My cogs are no longer meshing. Friday I had several errands to run and was concentrating on the next thing I had to do. The first was to have the oil changed in my car. That took longer than I had expected. I got a late start and there were several people ahead of me. I stopped doing my own oil change while my wife Cindy was alive. She was in a constant state of worry, checking on me every five minutes while I was under or around my car during the oil change. To give her comfort and to relieve me from her continual interruptions, I had someone else change the oil.
My next errand was going to the bank. I broke open my last package of checks and needed to reorder them before I forgot and would face the possibility of running out. Yes, I’ve done that once or twice and it is such a hassle. I have no desire to let that happen again.
My next stop was at the gas station, but my mind was on chores that were still waiting undone at home. I went inside and paid for the gas, came out, got into my car and drove away. As I left the station, I noticed that my fuel gage was exactly at the same position as when I pulled in to get the gas. DUH, then it hit me. I hadn’t pumped the fuel and drove off. I quickly turned my car around praying that no one had pulled into the fueling bay until I got back. The bay was empty and I was able to pump the gasoline that I paid for. I’d never done that before and pray that it never happens again. It’s bad enough when I go into a room and forget why I came in or what I came after, but this is taking memory loss to a place where it has never gone before.
The other day, after eating with fellow classmates at Bud Murphy’s, I took the leftovers home in a Styrofoam container and hurried to help a friend with canning. I stuck it into the refrigerator to take home. I planned to eat the leftovers for supper. But forgetful me, I left it in the refrigerator for two days before I remembered to bring it home and eat it.
I used to remember thinking, “How can a man forget to pull up his zipper on his trousers?” I am getting closer and closer to that stage in my life. If you EVER see me in that state, politely say, “XYZ.” Fix your zipper. Thank you.