Mustang Sally
It was time for the annual Christmas party of the Foothills Writing Group, formerly known as the Beanery Writers Group. Our octogenarian cheerleader, originator of the party, and usual hostess of the party Mustang Sally, has been dealing some ongoing health issues and is also caught up in the process of moving. Several times in the last year because of her health problems has moved closer to her family. Her original home and location for our previous get-togethers is presently rented and was unavailable.
To continue the annual Christmas affair, another writer, Claudette, graciously offered to hold the gathering in her home, but because we are all getting older, we have moved the meal time from an evening social to noon until four p.m. avoiding the drive home at night, especially now with those horrid blue-white headlights.
It was a covered dish affair, with a semi-assigned menu for each to bring. I brought a cheese, cracker, and venison log tray and mixed nuts for pre-meal snacking as the lamb, cauliflower, salad, and other delectable items were unwrapped and last minute preparations were made.
The open rooms and seating arrangements made it easy to circulate, talk, and eat. Many times we have a short reading to share, but not so this year. We were all engrossed in chatting and reminiscing, finding more common threads of our lives. Two other men were there, husbands of other writers. They were of the same generation as me and we shared war stories of the Vietnam era. Although I was able to care for some of the injured, my assignment as a naval corpsman was in the United States.
As the feasting and fellowship drew to a close, I played Santa passing out some candy treats. I guess I was elected because I was dressed in red from my Santa hat head to my feet. Sally distributed copies of her recently reprinted book sharing the adventures of her bicycling tour around the world and thus her nickname Mustang Sally, which is the title of her tales. It’s never too late to share your life and  never too early to wish one and all a Merry Christmas.

Toying With Nostalgia

When my three grandchildren left my house after a visit, I found that they'd been playing with two stuffed animals. My mother Sybil Miner Beck often held those animals on her lap as the ravages of her Alzheimer’s disease became more and more noticeable. I returned them to their storage bins and began to recall their importance. One was a fuzzy white dog about twelve inches long and ten inches high. The other was an even fuzzier white cat with almost the same dimensions.
My mom was raised on a farm near Indian Head, Pennsylvania with seven brothers and sisters: Rachel, Cora, Violet, Dale, Ina, Cosey, and Ted. She used to share stories of her past life on the farm as she raised me, my brother Ken, and my sister Kathy Beck Basinger. These stories became fewer as she aged. Sometimes we would start a story and look to her to corroborate the facts and she would only respond, “If you say so.” Her past memories became locked away in the dim recesses of an uncooperative mind. It was sad watching this intelligent and witty woman disappear as Alzheimer’s claimed more and more of her faculties.
She loved to read, but Alzheimer’s stole that ability from her. Near the end of her life, she forgot how or why it was necessary for her to eat. Occasionally after much coaxing from our family, she would reluctantly take a bite and swallow it.
With that history out of the way, I will return to the reason I started to write this tale. While she still lived with my dad Edson Carl Beck someone gave her the dog and the cat. Some women cling to a doll to hold to care for as their mental capacity diminishes. My mom claimed the cat and dog instead. She would hold one or the other on her lap, stroke it, or just rest her hand on its back. I can’t remember when she got them, but they became her constant companions.
When she and then my father passed away, I inherited them and kept them with the toys for my grandchildren when they visited me. But as time passed the significance of what these two stuffed animals meant to my mom struck me. Now they have a new resting place on my bed playing hide and seek among the pillows.

 I’m So Disney…
Ever since Walt Disney began to make cartoon movies, they had some kind of magic involved in the plots. Sometimes it would be witches, sometimes dragons, or fairies. It really didn’t matter. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves was his first full-length colorized cartoon movie. It reveals a witch, a magic mirror, a sleeping potion, and a charming prince with magic lips. If you check the repertoire of the movies produced while Walt was still alive, magic of some sort was involved.
His amusement parks are based on the very same themes. I was stationed in Florida at the Naval Training Center in Orlando, Florida. I left the year before it actually opened and have never gone back. I was never impressed by the park and am less desirous to visit it today. It’s become a black hole for morals and money and has changed a lovely city into a magnet for tourists, pick-pockets, and predators.
I still have cousins who live there and have become accustomed to the change. They keep asking me to come down for a visit, but I’m afraid I’d be disappointed by the metamorphosis of my memory into a bustling metropolis. In my mind, I can’t reconcile the two images.
When I was stationed in Orlando, I enjoyed time with my aunt Helen Beck Stahl and my uncle Amos Jacob Stahl. Their home was on Mercado Avenue. Sometimes I’d visit my cousin Barbara Stahl Burcham or my cousin Anna Knost. They were pleasant times. I was only off duty every other weekend. If I went fishing with friends instead of visiting one of my relatives, they would get upset.
What I wanted to mention was the fact that many of Walt’s cartoons are being remade. I don’t know what they have added to the remakes, but the old PG classics now carry the rating of PG-13. I don’t plan to pay money to see what additions have turned the classics into movies that parents should be concerned that their children will see them. Have they changed the language or have they inserted suggestive sensual scenes? What have they done? Can’t the screenwriters come up with original ideas? Must they tamper with the original movies by adding inclusivity, wokeness, and gender confusion?
One CEO for Disney supports abortion. Does that make any sense? He seems to want to eliminate the children that are the base of their empire. I shake my head, because it makes no sense to me.

Retirement is Just an Illusion
I once welcomed retirement with open arms, but apparently not with open eyes. I’d often heard people say that once they retired, they were busier than ever. I sort of snickered at that not believing that it was true. Just so my readers know my posts may be sketchy or even absent through the end of next month. I looked at my calendar, counting and I had to remove my socks to count my events and I was still two toes short. Between now and the end of next month I have twenty-two projects penciled in. Several are multiple day projects. I should replace my front entrance with a revolving door. Sometimes it may be a dentist appointment or picking up a grandchild after school. It may include driving to my son’s house to feed and water his family’s livestock or to help pass out veteran’s baskets. I volunteered to dedicate a morning to pass out food baskets to veterans of Westmoreland County. It’s something I enjoy doing, but it also tugs at my heartstrings. I watch as I see these older veterans struggle to walk the few steps to sign in. We hurriedly load their vehicles with the boxes of foodstuffs, but I’m not sure whether they will have problems unloading things at home.
My activities may include volunteering for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania or driving the church van to pick up teens for Wednesday evening prayer services. One appointment that is a reprieve is the monthly luncheon with fellow Connellsville Senior High School classmates. It’s a time of getting together, sharing stories, and laughing.
One event I am looking forward to attending is the biennial Minerd-Minard-Miner-Minor Reunion. Our last reunion was cancelled or should I say postponed because of the Corona Virus scare. I hope and pray that the government doesn’t attempt to control any other problems that comes up. President Reagan once said, “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, ‘I’m from the government and here to help.’”
I was privileged to attend the last reunion before the forced shutdown of businesses and churches, forcing isolation, the mandates of mask wearing, and attempts to force everyone to be inoculated with an unproven vaccine that didn’t prevent the illness, but was given to “lessen” the effects of the disease while ignoring several other treatments.

 Tucking Away Another Day
Some people have been curious about what I do. I’ve been a widower for over twenty years; I choose to live alone. Some folk wonder why I don’t look for another significant person in my life. I will say that my wife was a saint and it would be difficult to find another, but then again, I’m not looking. I’ve gotten used to living by myself and I choose not to be a railroad conductor. I have a load of baggage of my own that I carry, and so would an older woman around my age. My kids have already warned me that if I found a young woman, she has to be older than my youngest child.
I have several women who are close friends. They are my best buddies. One gal and I often garden, can, and visit yard sales. Another friend I’ve shared trips and helped her when she needs a backup driver.
I’ve been retired for over ten years and I won’t say I’ve enjoyed every day. But there’s always something that needs done or something I can do. Often it’s little more than cooking and cleaning up after myself or writing my blog. It gives me time to read or write my next book. And I mustn’t forget my time with God: prayers, reading the Bible or writing and occasional poem.
Yesterday I had my morning walk. Returning home, I tossed a beef roast into a crockpot with onion, carrots, celery and potatoes to simmer until my evening meal. As I walked to my mailbox, I remembered I promised to visit her. Kathy Beck Basinger said that she had some recipes from my aunts. I decided to drive to her and take photos of them. She was reluctant to let them out of her hands.
I doffed my around-the-house Tee shirt and PJ bottoms and climbed into my blue jeans and a nicer looking shirt, then drove to her home in Indian Head, Pennsylvania.
Returning, I mowed most of my lawn. The back part stays soggy and I am apt to get it stuck in the swampy area like I did last week. I had to pull it out with a chain attached to my car.
I sat at my computer in the evening and transcribed the “photo” recipes to email them to the lady who is compiling the recipes for the family cookbook that will be unveiled at the Minerd-Minard-Miner-Minor Reunion this year.
Our Pastor called and asked that I draw a picture to promote an upcoming series on “Freedom from Addiction.” I have it finished and ready to share. It was time to say goodnight to another day.

Recipes
Just in time for this year’s biennial National Minerd-Minard-Miner-Minor Reunion, one of our members is collecting favorite recipes to create a family cookbook. I’ve sent the ones that my family has enjoyed, but I don’t have many from my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. She was a great cook, but I don’t recall seeing her ever writing down or using a recipe card like many people do today. Cooking meals seemed just a natural extension of her talents. Although she only had a fourth grade education, her common sense, creativity, and wisdom far exceeded those school house walls.
I’ve tried to recreate some of my favorite recipes for the food that she made and have failed miserably. My flavors have never equaled hers. I’m not sure if my recollections of the taste will ever match my skills or whether my ingredients aren’t as fresh or if my proportions of the ingredients are off.
One recipe that I really loved was her chicken salad. When the family gathered to cull the flock of chickens in the fall of the year she would toss several of the hens into a huge pot on her kitchen coal stove. While the chickens cooked she was also baking bread rolls. The aroma of the yeasty buns filled the kitchen. It was better than the smell of scalded wet feathers or the singed hairs of the birds as the aunts would clean them. It seemed my aunts were everywhere plucking the chickens, cutting them up, and placing them in plastic bags to be tucked into Grandma’s huge chest freezer.
Once the chickens were all packaged, Gram would chop the up the meat of the cooked chicken, add diced dill pickle, salt, and pepper. Slowly she would mix some of the rich, hot chicken broth to the chopped chicken until it became spreadable. The recipe should be so simple, yet it’s been so difficult for me to duplicate. Was her broth so much richer? Was it the brand of pickles she used? Was it the ratio of salt and pepper? Or is it that my memory is faulty? I just don’t know.
But there were two recipes my Gram made that I didn’t like. She would make hardtack candy and popcorn balls every year for Christmas. The flavor of hardtack I hated was cloves and the popcorn balls were made with pink syrup and butternuts. To me the cloves and the butternuts had a very unusual and strong taste. Sorry Gram.

 Remembering Versus Imagination
I often alternate the stories of my recollections and expressing my ideas of fantasy when I write. I try to keep them separate but occasionally my real life occurrences manage to wander over to be woven into the plot of a story or two. One example was a trip driving through the northeastern states of America, the provinces of southeastern Canada, and a voyage on a ship named the “Northern Ranger.” The voyage traveled the length of the Newfoundland/ Labrador coast. It became the basis for a tale I wrote for the Greensburg Writers Group. The members were to write a tale to include their favorite sleuth and his/her muse. The compilation of stories were included in the book was to have amateur detectives getting involved solving a crime while on vacation. My sleuth was Luigi Garibaldi, a professional gambler attempting to escape the wrath of a cuckolded casino owner. While aboard the ship he reluctantly became involved as a witness of a smuggling ring and a murder.
My several day voyage on the Northern Ranger gave me insight to the activities of the shipboard routine and the knowledge of the many small towns, fishing villages, and ports where the ship stopped to load and to unload its cargo. I described the scenery that I saw so well that a fellow writer said I should write travel brochures. I still haven’t figured out whether she was paying me a compliment or not.
In the books of the Tommy Two-Shoes series my trips to West Virginia and the ride on the trains there became an integral part of several chapters of these mysteries. Again the experience added flavor and helped to shape the direction of the story.
In my book titled “Addie” my familiarity of the local terrain of the hillsides of Confluence, Pennsylvania and land between to Mt. Pleasant was essential for the plot. I am barely old enough to remember the things of the 1940’s. But I used things of that time period to keep the historicity of the era correct although the plot is fictional. It’s often necessary to do research to keep my fictional writings believable. Readers like the plot to have a foot in reality. Places, food, weapons must have details that are correct. An example of one small detail I researched in the book “Addie” was, when was wax paper invented? Or was the topography and details of the terrain from Confluence to Connellsville and Mt. Pleasant correct.

Birds
Thinking back to my Grandparents Ray and Rebecca Rugg Miner’s farm, I can remember the birds that I would see there. My favorite was the Baltimore orioles that would build its hanging basket nest from a lower branch in one of the huge hemlock trees. The trees guarded the entrance to the front porch of their two story farm house. The limbs almost intertwined over the red brick walkway that sloped down from their red-dog and dirt driveway to the porch. I was able to sit on one of the green painted Adirondack chairs and watch as the parents flew back and forth to feed their babies. Soft squeaks greeted the parents when they landed and slipped down inside.
The other birds that had a home at the front porch were the house wrens. Gram had built a square box with a very small hole to accommodate these little songsters. They would often stop and sit on Gram’s porch-box before giving a flit of its trail and flying up to the nest. Many times they would start singing somewhere in the snowball bush before actually appearing on the porch.
If I sat on the porch nearing sundown at the deepening of the twilight, a whippoorwill would land on a fencepost at the edge of Granddad’s field and would share a few melodies before it disappeared for the night.
I never really cared to hear the raucous calls of blackbirds who would visit the farm as soon as the ears of corn and the heads of oats would start to ripen. I have seen photos of the devastation that blackbirds can cause, but I guess Granddad’s fields were too small to entice a large number of them.
With a voice a little less raucous was the red-winged blackbird. They seemed to be a solitary bird. I can remember seeing only one at a time visiting the fencerow. It would perch on a fencepost and its high-pitched trill of a song would echo several times before it flew off. I never saw the nest.
I imagine there were robins and sparrows, but I can’t see them in my mind’s eye at my grandparents’ home. An occasional crow would fly by, but I can’t remember them coming close to the house. I can remember seeing barn swallow nests in the thick beams of the lower level of the barn, but I can barely remember seeing them swoop in and out.

 Sounding Fourth
When I stand quietly and if I’m still
I hear freedom’s volley at Bunker Hill.
A new nation rises with growing pains;
Loss of life traded for liberty’s gains.
Brave men unite to cast off tyranny.
Breaking chains so that they might become free.
Thirteen colonies put it to the test
Sharing ideals, choosing only the best.
A Declaration of Independence
Steps they took were radical and immense.
Their challenge to authority meant war.
They wondered if freedom might long endure.
Leaving behind businesses, homes, and farms
Brave patriots heeded the call to arms.
Risking all they had: wealth, health, and life
They joined the battle fray, hardship, and strife.
Fighting to establish each blood-stained right
God-given freedoms ordained to shine bright.
Today let us honor those who were slain
Without honor, how will freedom remain?

My Adventures Between the Covers
I’ve been reading stories written by Louis L’Amour. I’ve always enjoyed his tales of daring-do. I started by reading his Western cowboy tales. I thought I’d collected and read them all until I found a collection of stories that I hadn’t read. Most of them seem to be written about seafaring tales during the era of II World War. These adventures deal with espionage and the hero Jim Ponga sailing on a tramp steamer named Semaramis. His travels take him through the Indian Ocean, Borneo, Australia, and the Philippines. These enemies were greedy men, German spies, and Japanese military. His friends and crew members were from all nationalities: Russian, Chinese, and natives from the South Seas. Each crew member had a special quality. One member was a powerful burly man and several were good on the anti-aircraft guns aboard the ship or great seafaring men. One younger guy was great in the jungle, good at tracking etc. Somehow Jim was able to also defuse the German plots in South America. The Nazis had designed problems to divide the United States military so they couldn’t concentrate on the war efforts in Europe and Japan.
In each story Jim was always in a fist-to-cuff brawl where he was hit on the head, knocked unconscious, and tied up. Each time he managed to free himself and escape while killing a multitude of his enemies. Returning to his ship, he was able to destroy many of the enemies, their planes, their ships, fuel depots, and even a submarine or two.
About halfway through this book Lois L’Amour switches to another hero. The new hero emerges as Turk Madden. Turk’s magic carpet ride is an experimental amphibian Grumman plane that had been designed for war. But because it was only an experimental model, it was never put into production. The settings for this character and his airplane were again in the Far East and sometimes his flights took him along the coastline of Russia in an attempt to thwart the Japanese aggression. His companions varied more. Different names of men that change from story to story.
One thing that doesn’t vary is the introduction of a slim heroine. Sometimes the woman is a damsel in distress. At other times she becomes an integral member of the adventure team. She might be helpless or she may offer intelligent information of the local topography or customs. One other thing that remains constant is the woman has often been duped by one of the villains and becomes a hostage to be rescued by Turk. At the end of each tale, the woman is left alone with the hero.

 Surprising Recollection
Last evening and later last night another church member and I drove the church van to collect some teenaged youth to another night of our revival services, It meant extra time out of each driver and chaperone’s week, but getting the youth services to hear God’s Word being taught is well worth it. The weather wasn’t all that wonderful and last night’s driver thinks that operating a vehicle van in the rain and dark is not his cup of tea. We made it back to the church just in time for the start of service. I barely made to shuck my hat and jacket back stage to join and take part in our choir. (Yes I sing.)
Last evening’s message was exceptional. As the evangelist spoke, our assistant pastor signed the service. He has been teaching sign language to a large group from our local area. As we sang and the message was preached, he signed the entire service to his students who stayed after class and wished to attend. Afterward we had a dessert fellowship. And what a spread of food there was. It covered several tables with all kinds of desserts.
Later, the driver and I gathered the riders to deliver them safely back to their homes. We dropped them off at their homes safely. As we returned to the church the weather got ugly. It started to rain more heavily and it mixed with snow. Closer to the church fog decided to complicate the trip. We made it back safely despite the wandering deer appearing out of the darkness and fog. They kept us alert.
It reminded me of a time nearly fifty years ago; when I was going home from the 3-11 shift at the Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg. I was driving my 1966 Galaxie 500 XL. I was tired and could barely keep my eyes open. I had the windows rolled down to let in the cold air. The radio was blasting “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” yet I was still struggling to stay awake. As I topped a small hill a huge owl swooped down. It barely missed hitting the hood of the car. I suddenly noticed its wingspan was as wide as my car when it almost collided with my windshield, wings outstretched. I was no longer tired or sleepy. The sudden appearance of the owl and a near collision with the scary music playing in the background was all the stimulation I needed.

 MRI
MRI, Magnetic Resonance Imaging is a painless test, but often necessary test to gain insight of injury or disease entity in our bodies. Its probing reach extends deep into the areas to be examined, often seeing the minutest of details not able to be seen on general x-rays or even revealed by a cat scan. A cat scan gives a more intimate picture of the human body, but an MRI reaches much deeper, revealing heretofore unnoticed concerns and problems.
For those who have had an MRI done, this will be old hat, but to others, let me describe the procedure. Because of the intense magnetic pull of the machine nearly all metals, identifications with a magnetic strip, and credit cards must be left outside of the chamber. Credit cards and identifications will be stripped of information and metals will be pulled against the machine. Entering the room, a person sees a huge donut shaped machine that sits astride a narrow conveyor belt cot. The technicians cause the person to lie down on the cot and wrap a binder around the person. Much of it is to be sure the person doesn’t roll off and onto the floor. It may also have something to do with preventing the person from escaping. (Not really).
If you’ve seen the movie, “The Man in the Iron Mask” you will understand what happens next. A technician may place a box-like helmet over the patient’s head and tell the client not to move during the entire test. Now comes the fun part. The magnet begins to whirl inside of the donut creating grunts, growls, swooshing, and throbbing sounds. Sometimes an overloud harsh buzzing and thrumming sounds roars in the patient’s ears. The procedure takes between 30 minutes and 45 minutes.
In yesterday’s sermon it was mentioned that the Word of God penetrates deeply. In the book of Hebrews, chapter 4:12 it reads, “For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any twoedged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.”
An MRI is unable to view the seam where soul and spirit exist in the body nor can it discern the thoughts and intents of the heart. The MRI may be able to view the joints and marrow, but God’s Word probes even deeper. All things are naked in His sight.