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.