Windows of Gold
A house with golden windows sits on a hill
Their bright morning beauty erasing the chill
The view from my windows as sun wakes from night
Each morning I’m greeted with this wondrous sight
Rising each day my soul feels drawn to that view
Grass pathway adorned with frost or sparkling dew
Always changing yet always the same to see
They sail on the green ocean and sky blue sea

As the sun rises gold windows disappear
Reflections of morning sun fading to clear
Slowly the windows lose their rich golden hue
The windows dull and lose their enticing view
Day passes, darkness falls, lights inside now burn
I’m overjoyed when the gold windows return
Not as lovely as an electrical stream
And not nearly as bright with a man-made gleam

The full moon appears with its pale ghostly face
Imparting its light with soft milky white trace
Casting deep blue shadows on tall drifts of snow
Weathered barn turns silver in the moonlight’s glow
The mundane becomes an ethereal sight
Old things become new in the magic moonlight
A crystal path shines in the dark and the chill
To silver windows in the house on the hill

Mountain silhouettes rise in the eastern sky
Subtle dim band appears as daybreak draws nigh
The horizon turns pink at the break of dawn
Waking a mother deer and her spotted fawn
The band grows stronger painting the clouds with light
First crimson, then flaxen, and finally white
The light overspills growing stronger until
It gilds the windows of the house on the hill

Woo Woo Overdo
Wednesday was one of those “Let’s getter done” days but let me back up about two months. I promised a fellow veteran and friend that I’d help distribute food baskets to local veterans. I couldn’t keep that promise because I developed double vision. I wasn’t supposed to drive and couldn’t help. Even if I would have been able to get to the distribution center I’d have been more of detriment than an asset. I’d have been tripping over things and not able to load boxes of food for older into the veteran’s cars. I felt especially obligated to help this time. There are fewer workers than needed to sort and load the food than recipients.
I hardly slept the night before, concerned with the weathermen calling for poor driving conditions for our area. The snow and freezing rain was predicted to start at 7 AM, the time I needed to drive to the center. I woke at 3 AM unable to fall back to sleep. I finally ate breakfast about 5:30, then posted a few things on Facebook before I steeled myself for the drive. Just as I pulled into Mt. Pleasant the slushy, slippery snow descended.
The food trucks arrived shortly after that to unload the food pallets. We directed them where we needed the skids for easier distribution. It made better access for the workers to retrieve and load cars. Because different types of foods were delivered, it was necessary for us to calculate how much was delivered and how much each veteran would get.
Initially there were just three people working. The man in charge was often busy registering the veteran’s identification and signature. That left only two of us to collect and load the items into the veteran’s vehicles. Potatoes, milk, soda pop, miscellaneous bags of snacks, bags of mixed canned goods, boxes of produce, dry goods, a boxed cake, and frozen items al had to be gathered and toted to the waiting vehicles. It was a pleasure to do so, but also tiring. Most veterans were elderly. Some had physical problems. It was necessary that the food be carried to their vehicles. Later we had two other helpers arrive I was there from eight AM until three PM.
Wednesday evening I was the chaperone with the van route ministry for our church. Picking up kids and dropping them off after services. I was so glad to get home Wednesday evening.
Leg cramps greeted me Thursday morning. My hip sockets protested, but I still had to haul in wood for the wood burner. Waking this morning, I’m still sore, but it isn’t incapacitating.
 

 Chilling Memories
Granddad Miner’s unpainted wood of the outhouse had a weathered exterior, but it was special with two holes. He made one larger hole for adults and a smaller one for kids. He didn’t want to lose a child into the noxious pit below.
Grandma didn’t believe in toilet paper. Old outdated catalogues filled the vacancy. All the way to the outhouse, I’d pray that there would be some dull pages remaining. No one wanted the shiny ones. Those pages made sharp painful edges when crinkled for use. If they weren’t crinkled the smooth slick surface was useless. The dull surface pages would soften when they were crumpled were more comfortable.
In the winter, I’d put off the trip to the john until my bladder bulged or I was about to lose control on my puckering string. I’d hurry across the back porch. My winter boots kept my feet safe from splinters, then I faced the danger of descending a dozen snow and ice-covered concrete stairs. Quite a few cousins chipped a tooth, cut a lip, or earned a goose egg in the rush down those stairs. There was no railing to hang onto or to steady anyone in their trip.
Bravery got me to the toilet where I’d to remove the lid for the hole. Frigid winter gales blasted up through the wind tunnel I’d created. It took real courage to unfasten my trousers, push them into a crumpled heap around my ankles, then gingerly place my bare flesh to become a partial stopper for the arctic gusts.
The seat was frigid. I was glad that the seat was wood and not metal or I’d have been frozen to it until the spring thaw. The wind always found a way to squeeze through the gap between the cold seat and my warm flesh. It discovered new ways to slip icy fingers beneath my coat and caress my chest and back. Layers of goose bumps would appear and I’d start to shiver. I hurried to finish before my teeth began to chatter and send out distress signals in Morse code.
I leafed through the catalogue pages searching for a sheet of cherished dull paper. I was almost at the point of panic thinking of the torture that the shiny page would cause. Frantically… desperately, I flipped through leaves of advertisement, passing over semi-clad women in panty and brassiere poses that would normally titillate boys to linger. They were cast aside in the search for just one dull leaf of paper.
Aha, I was saved! One lone dull page remained. It was the catalogue’s index directing inquisitive minds to the locations for men’s shoes, suits, and ties. A hasty tear, the quick crush, then smoothing of the paper was the prelude to the actual cleaning.
The return of my pants to the point they could be cinched around my waist was greeted with welcome warmth. I prayed the return trip to Grandma’s woodstove heated house would be uneventful as I jogged up the Everest of her back porch steps.

It Sounded Like a Good Idea
My aunt Violet Miner Bottomly’s washing machine stopped working. It was an older model. She thought it was time to buy a newer model. My uncle Charles Bottomly was as frugal as he was handy. Good with plumbing, electrical, and mechanical, he decided he could repair it himself. So when Violet mentioned that the washer wasn’t working and she wanted a new one, Charles said, “Let me see if I can fix it.” He tore it apart finding the problem and figured a way to repair it. He wanted a break for a cup of coffee before starting. Violet thought quickly. She knew if she took a part or two, she knew Charles would figure that out. Instead, she added a few parts. Charles returned to the task of repairing the washer, but when he was unable to solve the puzzle of the extra pieces, he relented and Violet got her new washing machine.
One of my relatives shared this story with me. A woman in a neighboring town became tired of her shag carpet. It had been in style, but no longer. The wood trimmed Americana print sofas and shag carpeting were long gone. She wanted to replace her worn shaggy carpet with designer low pile rugs. When the husband said, “No, we can’t afford it,” the woman pouted. She was tired of seeing the furry long yarn living room carpeting. She began to fret. Sick of vacuuming and seeing it, she decided she would handle it herself, but how? She struck upon the idea, “If my husband can mow the grass when it gets long…” While her husband was at work, she struggled to drag the lawn mower into the house and place it in the middle of that detested shag carpeting. She’d seen her husband start the gasoline powered engine and knew that she could repeat the process. She did. When the engine roared to life, she wasn’t deterred by the blue exhaust fumes, and engaged the blade. The blade began to spin. It grabbed the long yarn shag instead of manicuring it. The carpet wadded up as it twisted around the shaft of the mower and stalled the engine. Try as she might, she couldn’t loosen the mower’s grip. Neither could her husband who had to cut swathes of carpet to free his mower. The lady got her new carpet.

Just Walking
I was a bit concerned when my triglycerides were elevated to almost 4 times the high normal, especially when my primary care physician had been telling me that I needed to get it under better control. Since then I’ve been walking almost every day as part of my exercise plan. On most days, even when it is cold, I twist my own arm, bundle up, and walk. If it’s raining, snowing, or the wind is blowing hard, I’ll stay at home. I don’t believe that I should make myself so miserable that I refuse to walk at all.
The inspiration that weans me from the warmth of my house is that I look for and photograph scenes I feel are remarkable or beautiful in some artistic way. I look for things that an artist might attempt to either sketch or to paint. I am often rewarded by scenes that I share on Facebook taking my friends along on my walks AND they are able to stay warm inside if they choose. I vary the time of day to see things with new lighting. The varying light causes different shadows or sunlight that reveals different details. There are things of beauty that can I see even on cold, damp, gray days. I walk several different pathways to vary what I see and entice me to continue walking.
Recently my dietician has joined the crowd of people concerned about my health. He’s trying to modify my cholesterol by having me control my diet, rest, and exercise. My diet is undergoing a slight changes AND he’s pushing for me to the exercise as well. I don’t think he recognizes how much exercise I do. Every day I stack at least one load of firewood onto a flatbed wheelbarrow and wheel it into my basement. Then during a 24 hour period, I am going up and down two flights of stairs to tend the furnace every four hour to feed the wood burner.
I’m sure that some people will ask, “Why not take medication to lower it?” Because every drug I’ve tried has caused distress with me with some side effect or another, even the newest one. Most of the older medications cause abdominal cramping. The newest medication doesn’t cause the cramping, but it causes multiple other problems. (PS, and that med costs an arm and a leg.)
So if you follow me on Facebook, you can travel the local trails and roadways too…weather permitting.

 There Are Days
There are days like yesterday when I feel like throwing a tantrum and say, “I don’t wanna…” The feeling of writing something for my blogspot is almost giving me fits. I almost want to throw myself onto the floor, kick my heels, and scream, “No, no, no more!” Sometimes it is sheer laziness on my part and other times I have no idea of what subject to write about.
Over the past several weeks I’ve been writing and reviewing articles for Down Memory Lane, the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society as well as writing for my blog Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I also post in the National Minerd-Minard-Miner-Minor Website and Reunion on Thursdays. The pace often stretches me thin. I guess I’m a bit egotistic because I believe someone may miss reading my thoughts. (I almost said read my mind and I’m sure no one wants to go there. Oooh scary.)
I’m also plugging away a bit at a time to write another book. It’s completely different from all of my others. My first four books were “cozy mysteries” about a retired homicide detective from Pittsburgh, Tommy (two Shoes) Miner. The fifth book explored the biblical story regarding the capture of the city of Jericho. It is fiction but I tried to keep it historically correct. The question I probed was how did Rahab, a harlot meet, fall in love and marry a Jewish enemy, Salmon? There union produced an son that was in the lineage of David and Jesus.
The sixth book was a love story about a woman who understood nothing about love until she began to care for an orphan. The novel was set in the 1940’s. The locations were entirely local and if someone has lived in this area and reads Addie, they should recognize and feel as if they had once walked the same paths.
The seventh book is called Hannah’s Messiah and shares Addie’s granddaughter Hannah dealing with the recession and the death of her grandmother. I wrote it after several people wanted to hear more about Addie, her marriage, and about Ronnie. Ronnie was the orphan that Addie adopted and was the father of Hannah.
The book I am attempting to complete now is a story of a trapper and his mongrel dog. It shares their hardship, an unexpected friendship with a Native American, and their adventures in the wilderness. The struggle of the trio during times of blizzards and extreme dangers force them to draw close for survival and friendship.

There Was No Such Thing as Child Labor Laws
At our home between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania we got our water from a hillside spring. The water was always cold, clear, and sweet tasting. The water was flowed by gravity through a galvanized pipe from the springhouse down a long slope and into our home. Eventually, the pipe became corroded and needed replaced. The ditch had to be reopened to replace the pipe. The ditch needed to be deeper than eighteen inched to prevent the water in the pipe from freezing. The opening was about one thousand yards.
Our dad, Carl Beck would dig when he got home from work and he would assign about five yards each day for my brother Ken and I to dig while he was at work. Ken and I took turns. It wasn’t too bad. I would use the mattock and he would spade out the loosened dirt and rocks, but Ken would get tired and he’d do something to make me upset. I would chase him to retaliate, but he’d run to our mom, Sybil Miner Beck and she would send me back to work and keep him in the house to separate us.
I headed back to work in the ditch and as I glanced back’ Ken was shooting me a big smile. I ended up digging most of the ditch myself. One day we found a huge rock in the way. We tried to dig it loose, but couldn’t. It lay across the entire width of the ditch. We dug on both sides but it extended far to both sides. We dug the dirt from the top, then dug more of the dirt from under the rock. Unable to move it, we left it in place.
When Dad came home he was not pleased to see that we hadn’t dug the assigned length of ditch. He saw the rock and was upset that we hadn’t dug it out, until he tried to remove it himself and couldn’t. Dad used a heavy sledge hammer and a pry bar to shift or break it into smaller pieces, but couldn’t get to break. The size of the rock was more than the size of a kitchen table top and was nearly two feet thick. We eventually removed the dirt from under it, then passed the new plastic pipe beneath it finally deciding it was better to leave the rock in place to return the flow of water to our house.

Edson Thomas Beck
I was named after both of my grandfathers; Thomas after my grandfather Edson Thomas Beck and my middle name after my grandfather Raymond Miner. That’s no big deal. Many other people have been named after their grandparents. Both of my grandfathers were Christian men of integrity, but they were almost complete opposite poles otherwise.
My grandfather Ray Miner was short and stocky in build while my grandfather Beck was lean and tall. Grandfather Miner ran a small farm during the daylight hours while mining coal at night to support his wife Rebecca Rugg Miner and their eight kids. He was generous almost to a fault.
Grandfather Beck farmed as a lad, but was a lumberman in his early twenties. He sold insurance, did taxes, “kept the books” and payroll for several large companies. Although he was blind in one eye for over 21 years, he was considered a squire and wrote wills and deeds handling the legal affairs of the “country folk” of the area. He was a frugal man, keeping long ledgers of what he earned and spent. He even kept a log of dates, weather, and what he did that day. It was sort of a tell-all diary of facts. He was a lay speaker often filling in for pastors. He constructed a red Insulbrick church called Mount Hope near the summit on Route 31 from Jones Mills to Somerset, Pennsylvania. He would reuse a teabag until he decided to only drink hot water. He kept his memory and wits intact until he died.
My grandfather Miner shared the vegetables from his garden, crops from the field, and meat from his animals with his children and grandchildren. He was a gentle man. His farm animals followed him like pets. He chewed tobacco as a habit left over from working in the mines. That habit that kept miners from swallowing coal dust. He was an active man until “hardening of the arteries” stole his mind, but allowed him to live in the past. Grandma Becky had a difficult time keeping him from going outside to do barn chores long after he no longer had animals of a barn.
My grandfather Beck never used tobacco or drank alcohol.. He was a very strict Pentecostal member. Grandfather Miner didn’t drink alcohol, but was just as devout but quiet Christian and donated a piece of his farm to the Indian Head Church of God along Route 711. The brick structure now resides on that section. Both were good men, but very much the opposite.

Halt, Stop, Abort, End, Terminate, Cut Short
All these words have a similar meaning. Some vary slightly, but all describe something that is no longer continuing. Our Pastor’s sermon yesterday was centered on just that, the cessation of life. He delved into the crime of premeditated killing of another human being sharing on the reasons that it is wrong. Humans were created differently from all the other creatures in the animal kingdom. Animals were created to be subjugated by mankind, while humans were created in the image of God, then God breathed life into mankind. He not only created the body of man, but breathed the spirit of life into him and gave him a soul. God didn’t do that with animals, fish, or birds.
Throughout the Old Testament God shares that He knew each human while it was being formed in secret in the woman’s womb. He said in Psalms 139:10-16, “If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. 12Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee. 13For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother's womb. 14I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well. 15My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. 16Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them.” God knew us even as an embryo, at the very act of conception, at the fertilization of the woman’s egg by the father’s sperm.
Our Pastor defined the premeditated taking of another human’s life as murder. It is so sad that Americans have lost the shock of a person being murdered. Every day people kill a coworker, a wife, a husband, a child, a neighbor, or a stranger. A statistic listed that in 2015, New York had 320 murders, but even more inexcusable there was the fact that four times as many abortions of 21 gestational weeks children or more during the same time period. People can deny that Abortion is a premeditated taking of a life, but women with their doctor agree to stop the life a human being. The reason for the conception doesn’t alter the God’s truth about the taking of a human’s life.

 Under Where?
While working as a nursing supervisor at H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, I had many strange occurrences, BUTT this one was unique. The uniforms for nurses were changing over the years and the fabric became Rayon and nylon. The uniforms became thinner and the fashion of women’s underwear became infused with bright colors and designs as well. The two just didn’t mix well.
A problem arose for management. They put into affect a rule that nurses could no longer wear flowered or brightly patterned underwear which was visible beneath the white uniforms. Those who did were reminded in none too friendly terms that it was against the rules. They were reprimanded and advised not to do it again.
This policy continued as many uniforms evolved into scrubs. Colored scrubs often disguised the underwear beneath the cloth, but the white ones were a little like Shahade’s veil, muting the colors and patterns rather than covering them. There was again a push to enforce the old established policy. Most nurses adhered to the policy, but on occasion in a rush to dress, someone would forget and needed to be reminded.
All was well until a male nurse was hired. For several months, through the orientation process and his initial assignment on a med/surg ward, there were no voiced concerns. Then one evening I was approached by several nurses with a complaint. He wasn’t violating the brightly hued or design of the underwear policy. He just wasn’t wearing any underwear. They wanted me to remind him of the policy and tell him he needed to wear underwear beneath his white scrubs.
I waited for him to come out to the nursing station to be sure. His scrub top was long enough that it hid all of the complaints, but when he bent over to reach for something, it was obvious that he wasn’t wearing any drawers. More than a silhouette of his bottom was visible. The length of his top covered his family jewels, so that didn’t present anything obscene.
I was in a quandary. He wasn’t violating the visible underwear policy because he wasn’t wearing underwear. I wasn’t sure what I needed to do, but I took the chicken’s way out. I told the complaining nurses that I couldn’t enforce the policy, because he wasn’t violating the underwear policy. They needed to share their complaint with their unit manager who worked the daylight shift. She could approach the upper echelon of administrators for a final ruling.
I never heard whether the nurses passed the complaint along or what decision management made, but shortly after that, the young man moved to another hospital. That was the bottom line and I don’t know if they addressed the problem or not.

Snow Games
With all of the snow falling recently, I usually have to remove it one shovelful at a time from my drive and walkway. Snow wasn’t so bad when I was a kid. I appreciated it for what it was; something different for me to enjoy. I’m not sure if the youth of today still play the same games and find pleasure in the snow activities that I did. Most of the games were played during recess in school. My home was a mile away from any other kids my age. The neighbor boys were older and the only activity that we shared was sledding.
Some outdoor games were played either at my grandparent’s Ray and Becky Rugg Miner’s house when cousins gathered or at school. At  Gram’s house we didn’t have sleds to ride although there were several hills that would have made great places to go sledding. It was restricted to snowball fights, building snowmen, or making forts.
Fox and geese was a game we played when several kids gathered. We’d stamp down a large maze of trails within an even larger circle. At the center was the safe space, a trampled down area usually about three or four feet in diameter. One kid was designated the fox while all others were geese. The “geese” had to remain on the predetermined trails. It was the responsibility of the fox to catch a goose before it escaped to the safe center. A goose couldn’t stay in the center for long and the fox couldn’t tag a goose while safe in the base, but if a goose was caught on the trails, the roles would be reversed and the goose would automatically become the fox.
Another activity was creating snow angels. I’m sure most of us have made a snow angel at one time. Falling backward into the snow, the kid would drag its arms up and down while spreading and closing its legs to form a “winged” angel impression in the snow. The real challenge was to get up from the angel without marring its shape.
Some winter games I remember we played were inside games at my grandma Becky’s. It was more likely when we stayed at her home when the power was out. We would carry water for her, while her coal furnace and kitchen woodstove kept us warm.
Board games of Pollyanna or Parcheesi were played by the light of an oil lamp. Grandma Miner liked to play dominoes most anytime, especially Muggins where she secretly taught us math skills counting the domino dots. We even played an occasional game of checkers or the card game of war. 

The J of W Letter
I guess the elevated cost of gasoline has caused the Jehovah’s Witnesses to start a letter writing campaign and dispense with the unannounced personal visits for now. I received a letter saying or resident, so I responded with the following letter of my own. I got no response, so I’m not sure if they are unable or unwilling to reply.
Since my daughter no longer lives at this address, I must assume because your envelope included “resident” it must be addressed to me. I am glad to know that you are concerned about your neighbors as am I, and that is why I am responding to your letter. I too have found joy and peace even though the world around me is in turmoil. It’s because I have hope for an eternal tomorrow through Jesus Christ my Lord. His death on the cross has paid my sin debt.
I’d like to have answers from your church leaders. How can Jesus be just “a god” when the Scripture clearly states in John 1030-31 that He and the Father are one in the same person. John 4:9 says by seeing Jesus that they saw the Father. In 1 John 5:7 the Bible says that all three members are One. Jesus has the power to take away sin (John 1:29). Jesus was called the Word of God in John 1:1, the verse says that the Word WAS God.
In the past the Witness leaders prophesied that the catching away of saints would occur in 1874, 1914, 1925, and in 1975. So either these men were false prophets, having been proved false. They have also said that only 144,000 dedicated followers will be able to enter heaven. Surely there have been many more faithful and dedicated followers to the Witnesses. Who will judge those followers and what will happen to those who haven’t reached that work-based level? Ephesians 2:8-9 states, “For by grace are ye saved through faith, and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works lest any man should boast.”
Very plainly the Bible teaches there is an actual Heaven and there is a Hell. Jesus mentions Hell much more often than He does Heaven.
Galatians 1:8,9 “But though we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed.”
Finally, how can you teach anything from the Bible that is taken out of context and shared under false pretenses? Revelations 22:18-19 says, “Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it, that ye may keep the commandments of the LORD your God.”
I would be glad to hear back from you with answers from your leaders.

I.R.S. and Taxes
My father’s father, Edison Beck held many jobs in his life. He was a justice of the peace, a farmer, an accountant, and a tax consultant. He ran a lumber mill. He was a squire, did surveying, and was a lay speaker.  A tall slender man, he was active even when he was crowned with sliver white hair. My granddad kept the books, did payroll, and did taxes for two multi-million dollar companies until he was in his early eighties. His penmanship was superb. I am still envious of it.
Most of his clientele were average everyday rural people who looked to him for help with taxes, deeds, and legal matters. His clients were small time farmers, small business owners, and regular citizens who’d bring their information to him in much-handled envelopes, shoe boxes, or brown paper bags. Stacks of receipts wrapped with twine or wrapped in rubber bands for him to sort through. They came to him because they were simple plain people who were easily intimidated by the government and regulations. They trusted him with their finances and that he could sort their jumble of papers and aptly ply the numbers to the maze of government paperwork. Eventually he gave them the answer for which they anxiously awaited. Would they have to pay money to Uncle Sam or had they overpaid and would they get money back?
When the taxes were readied he would have them sign their returns and even placed a stamp on each envelope. The only thing that his clients would have to do would be to stick the finished returns into the mail.
I can remember my granddad sharing one story about a farmer coming in with his wife to get their taxes done. They sat on the opposite of his desk. He watched as the farmer would take receipts one at a time from a box and show his wife describing each receipt., then asking, “Isn’t that right?” before handing it to my grandfather. My granddad was an extremely patient man, but he was slowly reaching his limit. It came to a head when the farmer produced a receipt, showed his wife, but instead of asking her, he asked my Grandfather, “A commode seat, is deductible?”
Keeping his voice steady he replied, “Not unless the cows use it.” Granddad tactfully said, “Let me have the box. I can see what is deductible or not.” Reluctantly, the farmer handed the box to my granddad.
Another tax story revolves around another farmer Ken who was a friend of our family. He kept his tax receipts inside of five metal milk cans. Each year of receipts were stored in the sealed cans with the date painted on the lids. On the sixth year, her would dump and burn the old receipts and store the new ones in the now empty can, changing the date on the lid.
An I.R.S. agent came to his farm to audit him. He led the agent to the milk house and lowered a fold down desk where he stored his receipts. The desk was for the agent to work. Ken moved the five cans close knocking the lids open with a brass hammer and moving the cans within the agent’s reach before saying, “There are my receipts.”
The agent leaned over and peered inside. Looking up, he said to Ken, “I can’t audit your account this way. You’ll have to get an accountant to put them in order for me.” expecting Ken to bow at his feet like other people he intimidated with audits.
Ken said, “The law says that I only have to supply my receipts for you. It doesn’t say how.” Ken turned and walked away, leaving the agent to his task. Ken said it looked like the agent went through the first few inches in a couple milk cans before packing up and leaving his farm.

 Wearing Designer’s Genes
Whether humans like to admit it or not, we are created by an all-knowing being. The Creator of the universe formed it shaping all that is within it. If we follow the trail back to what scientists say is the “Big Bang Theory” their conclusions still make no sense. Where did the initial ball of gas come from and what caused a spark for it to explode? And how does gas become matter?
If we look at the entire blueprint of the cosmos, the earth, its plants, animals, gravity, the water cycle, the mixture of our atmosphere, and the complexity of human beings, it takes a far greater leap of faith to believe it all came nothing into being by mere happenstance than a belief of a Creator. There has to be a Master Designer to have everything follow those precise laws and stay in balance.
God the Creator tells of his design for humans in Psalm 139:13-18 by describing in detail that he knew each one of us as we were conceived and grew in our mother’s womb. He tells us plainly that we are not just a blob of flesh until our birth. He has set a specific blueprint for each one of us, deformities and all. It was predetermined and designed for a specific purpose. Verse 16 says that he saw my substance, yet being unperfect; and in his book all my members were written, when as yet we had none of them.
Initially, Genesis 1:27 this Creator tells us that he created male and female. That fact is repeated in Matthew 19:4, 5 saying he created from the beginning, male and female. It is repeated in Mark 10:6. There is no confusion about “gender” rendered. What was once considered a mental aberration “gender dysphoria” some now consider it normal. God didn’t cause confusion; he stated it from the very beginning. He further emphasizes it in Deuteronomy 29: 5 by saying men shouldn’t wear women’s apparel and vice versa.
Just because some people have changed their view on these aberrations, God hasn’t. Mankind has continued to water down God’s Word with hundreds of translations of the Bible and sidled ever closer to the world and its view on what is moral and right. What man has made legal is often considered sin. The creation is trying to supersede the will of the Creator. That is what caused Lucifer to fall.
I pray each day that this great and all powerful God continues to bless America and for man to have a change of heart. I pray for revival and a return to God before he decides to judge our nation like he has so many other civilizations in history.

 My grandmother’s garden was located on the sloping ground opposite of the privy and between her house and the barn. At the farthest edge of the turkey wire fort, was one of my favorite spots. It would lure me down the length of her large Garden of Eden and into a forbidden zone, by a savory siren’s call. It held an oasis of seven rhubarb plants that spread their wide, verdant leafy fronds, shading the gangly stalks as they grew from slender shoots until they became small trees. My mouth began to water just thinking about the wonderfully sour taste of its stringy yet tender flesh. Raids on the tasty plants were forbidden by Grandma, but I was always drawn to snitch one of the slender stems whenever we visited.
My second favorite spot was among the maze of the many tomato plants, whose thick rambling vines spread across a mat of yellow straw. Nestled in the pale green jungle were the treasured ruby jewels. Those succulent and luscious red gems called my name. I responded by trespassing into their growing field, selecting one of the fiery orbs. I would cradle it my hand, finally deciding to pluck it from the vine. Brushing against the vine’s raggedly velvet leaves, they would release a spicy and pungent aroma. In the palm of my hand, the sun-warmed fruit would transfer its solar power through my skin to the nerve endings, sending signals to my brain. The radiated energy caused me to quiver in anticipation of its fresh, acidy flavor being placed on my tongue.
I pressed the smooth-skinned love-apple to my lips. The warmth of its kiss penetrated my receptors of pleasure and I opened my mouth to have my first taste. I closed my eyes as the sensuous feeling of my teeth penetrating the tender flesh and then the heated juices coursing down my chin to wash across my bare chest. Bite after bite, I consumed the wonderfully savory fruit. The thought of eating another sun-warmed, garden-fresh tomato is a memory inducing experience.
The rest of the garden was a battlefield between the crops and the weeds that would try to invade. They were eliminated by a short handled, much worn hoe. Grandma would chop between the rows of beans, peppers, and beets. She would encourage the army of cabbage, peppers, and lettuce plants that marched down the garden in rows, keeping the no-man’s land open between them and the dark green, Indian-like feather headdresses of the onions that rose in tall rows.