Grave Tidings

 Grave Tidings

As expressive as the grave
and as stoic as a tomb,
eye sockets deep as a cave
cadaverous, gaunt and spare
seeking someone I assume
as he silently stands there.

Once in his youth he had smiled.
Once in his life he had joy,
but then he had been a child.
Life then he could understand
when he was only a boy
his world was held in his hand.

His clothing, dark and threadbare
his hat is tattered and worn.
A face mapped with lines of care,
he kneels at the black head stone
it is the right time to mourn.
Now he’s totally alone.

Alone, a terrible word.
Barren, abandoned, bereft
drawn to the place she’s stored.
Now that the life’s time is spent.
Tears for the ones who are left
when life has folded its tent.

Learning English

 Learning English
I am always surprised to see the number of people who live in other countries and visit my blog. It’s amazing to think that I started writing and posting so my children will have insight into my life and to the stories of my ancesters should they want to know about them. I know that I am saddened at the number of times I didn’t listen to my parents sharing stories of their family. I was just a stupid child and by not etching those memories into my mind are now lost forever. I very much regret the lost opportunities that I squandered because I was too busy and distracted by other fleeting things.
It was easy for me to learn the American English language. It was my parents' and grandparents’ native tongue. I’ve heard it from my infancy to the present date. I was taught it in school; how to spell it, how to write it, and how to speak it. English was necessary for me to go to college and in my career as a nurse. As I aged and slang words became part of the English language, I was there to add it. I’m not up to date on the computer slang or the newest generation’s jargon, but for the most part I can understand what is going on around me.
My punctuation is sometimes incorrect, but most often my spelling and my grammar is correct. I’ve told some of my readers who are from other areas and countries of the world, “if they want to learn American English, then become a reader of my blog. I don’t charge money to tutor those wishing to learn English and it will help them learn syntax, grammer, and word usage.
My writing and thoughts are spread over many subjects from things that happened in the past to things that are happening now. I began writing this blog to pass on memories of my grandparents, parents, and me on to my children. I wanted those memories to be available for my progeny, friends, and readers.
I want to thank those who read what I write. It is mutually beneficial. I make no money from these posts, but I covet readers. Those who read get entertained, they might delve into my warped mind, and those where English is not their mother tongue will get practice using everyday American English.
You are welcome to share this blog with others who might find it beneficial to learn English. The more readers I have, the happier I am. So make an old man ecstatic. Thank you for sharing my posts.

Slip SLidin' Away

 Slip Slidin’ Away
Sliding boards were fixtures in the playgrounds of my youth. Schools and parks had sliding boards, see saws, swings, “monkey bars,” and the “roundabouts’ or merry-go-rounds. These weren’t the rubber covered, plastic playground items like the playrrounds today. These were monsterous, man-made objects with metal-pipe bones, rusty-chain sinews, sawdust blood, and concrete pads for feet. There were no safety rails for climbing up to the top of the eight foor tall or taller metal sliding boards. The exposed metal sun baked in the midday sun waiting to roast any bare flesh that dared to use it.
If someone would jump off the seesaw, the other end would plummet hitting the ground so hard teeth would clatter shut. The “monkey-bar,” jungle gym rose from the playground like a skeleton of a naked high-rise apartment building. Often the rungs were wet with dew or rain allowing fingers to lose their grip and kids drop onto the hard earth below or riccochet off another iron pipe. Fingers would often be pinched in the rusty chains of the swing, tempting fate with the possibility of incurring the disease of lock-jaw or tetanus. And I havent mentioned the merry-go-round yet. There was nothing merry about that spinning disc of death. That spinning saucer was a risk everytime a kid climbed aboard when there was another “friend” there. That friewnd would do their best to spin the thing as fast as possible hoping that someone would fly off to their death or become dizzy and vomit. Aw yes, the wonderful playgrounds of my childhood. They were definitely not OSHA approved.
My first slidingboard memory was one on the playground in Sheridan, Illinois at the park of my Uncle Fred and Aunt Cora Miner Hyatt’s home. That metal monster seemed to be at least ten feet tall, but it did have metal handrails to assist the climber to the top. The flat metal slide would clutch at bare legs and arms, giving brush-burns to any unwary child.
There were other slides that I lubricated with sheets of waxed paper. The waxed paper minimized the drag and sped up the descent. The last slide I rode was the double humped metal camel at Mammoth Park, Pennsylvania. This beast was about one hundred feet long with a man-made bump near the middle. The steep descent would cause the rider to often lift into the air as he or she hurtled down the metal chute. The rider would shoot off the end of the slide into a muddy landing that could injure legs, arms, or butts. This amusement wasn’t for the fainthearted, but for youthful daredevils.

Prayers to Repair the Tears in the Fabric of the United States

 Prayers to Repair the Tears in the Fabric of the United States
There has been a lot of mud slinging and outright lies being hurled about one particular Presidential candidate and I am praying that cooler heads will prevail and the flames of discontent and disappointment will not be fanned by malcontents in Hollywood and in the media. Much of the derisiveness has been caused by the Left leaning populous. The assault on others that express their concern for the United States have been threatened and assaulted, in restaurants, in the streets, and there have been attempts to silence their freedom of speech the constant cry of “that offends me” has filled our eears, our work places and everyday life.
I pray this constant of assaults on the garenteed freedoms clearly defined in the Constitution of the United States will be silenced. I pray the wounds and sores caused by the constant friction between the Libeals and Conservatives can be heals. I pray that the tears in the fabric of unity can be repaired and that the ability to coexist can be instituted.
This election campaign has been ugly with the word s Nazi, dictator, and the name of Hitler have been often carelessly used. The saddest thing is the horrors that were once attrached to those terms has been cheapened and has lost the actual facts of history. The abject brutality of those terms is being lost in the battle of words. The potency of the real Holocaust is being diluted and forgotten.
It is hard to overlook the freguent use of those terms when the people who were once admired for their reporting of facts are now being told to recite and share the ideations of their owners in television, radio, and other media. In Russia the state controlled newspaper Pravda is mostly propoganda. Pravda means Truth and the Russian people often ask is it Truth or is it the truth?
Please join me in prayer that the rift caused by this election can be repaired and heal our great nation. Let the rancor that has been instigated by the misinformation be resolved and that the love of families and friends might be restored.

Saving the Innocent

 Saving the Innocent
Friday I attended the annual Veteran’s program at Mt. Carmel Church and Christian School. Each year since 1999 the teachers and students have prepared songs and recitations that share the ideals of our courageous men and women who have sacrificed themselves in past wars. These men and women gave their lives to keep the United States and much of the rest of the world free from tyranny.
This year was another remarkable celebration to remember those who gallantly gave their lives in an attempt to keep our freedom alive in the United States. These young men and women who participated in this program will hopefully recall this time that they honored and respected the valiant soldiers and sailors of Americas past conflicts and those who died to keep them safe.
Filling the pews in front of me were rows of children wearing clothing of reds, whites, and blues. These young, innocent faces would turn back searchimg for familiar people in the crowded pews of the audience of those who gathered to hear and see them recite. Parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles filled the rest of the auditorium. I met and spoke to a few who were not veterans or their spouses, but were there to join in the celebration of our brave men and women who were veterans.
As I sat there, I watched as the youngest children got restless as they gained their assigned seats. Many were searching for their parents. Their faces would light up when they recognized the people they sought. Their small hands would ezcitedly grasp the back of their pew with restless gestures, waiting for the ceremonies to begin. Innocence poured from their angelic faces.
I thought of the perverse people in the world who dared to siphon off that innocence and abuse the children. It angered me to believe that there are pedophile Draculas who would intentionally suck out the carefree time of childhood by trying to instill their perverted ways on these beautiful reflections of God. Too many adults wish to see these babes indoctrinated into the evils of the world. Leave these children alone. As parents and for those who love our children, we must become veterans in the war of morals and fight to preserve their innocence for as long as possible.

Aw Nuts

 Aw Nuts
There are many memories that I have about nuts. My Uncle Ted miner would collect walnuts and hickory nuts in the autumn and dry them in the attic my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner’s large farmhouse. When winter came, he would haul them to the basement, crack them with a hammer on a section of railroad rail and fill a five gallon bucket. He would carry them to the television room and pick out the nut meats. He would sell the nuts to women in the community of Indian Head, Pennsylvania for use in baking the Christmas cookies. He didn’t sell the butternuts. Grandma used them in her candied popcorn.
Another memory of nuts was the nuts sold in the department stores. Murphy’s and McCrory’s had a nut display just inside of their doors. The nuts incluned shelled peanuts, Spanish Peanuts, and cashews. The display rotated and was warmed aand illuminated by a spotliht. The aroma of the roasting nuts was like a siren song, and even though my parents, Carl and Sybil Miner Beck rarely bought them, it was nice to inhale the deliscious smell. Occcasionally someone would buy some and the salesperson would use a metal scoop to lift the chosen nuts, pour them into a white bag, and weigh the contents on a balancing scale.
I don’t bake cookies for Christmas, but instead have made different kinds of nut brittle. I have made peanut brittle, walnut brittle, cashew brittle, almond brittle, and pecan brittle. I make small boxes of the different candy to give as gifts. I no longer make the almond brittle. I think the almond nut flavor gets lost in the brittle. I’ve eaten some spiced and candied nuts and enjoyed their flavor. I may have to check out some of those recipes before Christmas.
My favorite cake is the carrot cake with the sour cream frosting and the cake batter filled with walnuts. I am a bit odd because I don’t like to have raisins in the cake. There is something about the texture of the raisins squishing as I chew. Isn’t that just nuts?
Aw Nuts
There are many memories that I have about nuts. My Uncle Ted miner would collect walnuts and hickory nuts in the autumn and dry them in the attic my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner’s large farmhouse. When winter came, he would haul them to the basement, crack them with a hammer on a section of railroad rail and fill a five gallon bucket. He would carry them to the television room and pick out the nut meats. He would sell the nuts to women in the community of Indian Head, Pennsylvania for use in baking the Christmas cookies. He didn’t sell the butternuts. Grandma used them in her candied popcorn.
Another memory of nuts was the nuts sold in the department stores. Murphy’s and McCrory’s had a nut display just inside of their doors. The nuts incluned shelled peanuts, Spanish Peanuts, and cashews. The display rotated and was warmed aand illuminated by a spotliht. The aroma of the roasting nuts was like a siren song, and even though my parents, Carl and Sybil Miner Beck rarely bought them, it was nice to inhale the deliscious smell. Occcasionally someone would buy some and the salesperson would use a metal scoop to lift the chosen nuts, pour them into a white bag, and weigh the contents on a balancing scale.
I don’t bake cookies for Christmas, but instead have made different kinds of nut brittle. I have made peanut brittle, walnut brittle, cashew brittle, almond brittle, and pecan brittle. I make small boxes of the different candy to give as gifts. I no longer make the almond brittle. I think the almond nut flavor gets lost in the brittle. I’ve eaten some spiced and candied nuts and enjoyed their flavor. I may have to check out some of those recipes before Christmas.
My favorite cake is the carrot cake with the sour cream frosting and the cake batter filled with walnuts. I am a bit odd because I don’t like to have raisins in the cake. There is something about the texture of the raisins squishing as I chew. Isn’t that just nuts?

The Hidden Miracle of Microchimerism

 The Hidden Miracle of Miocrochimerism
I found out about an event that occurs when a woman becomes pregnant. I haven’t done a lot of reading on the subject, but it’s an impressive fact. When a woman becomes pregnant and the child begins to form inside of her womb, some of the mother’s DNA crosses over the placental barrier and the infant’s DNA crosses into the mother’s bloodstream to become a permanent part of the mother’s make-up.
This fact came from a study that doctor’s made with women who had heart problems. The doctor’s initial thoughts were that the baby’s DNA was attacking the cells of the mother’s heart. They were in a quandry of what to do. But as they continued to study the phenomenon, they discovered that the infant’s DNA was actually rushing to its mother’s heart to try to heal the injury. The thought was so impressive that I had to step back. I had to think about this preservation miracle. It’s an amazing aspect of a woman’s pregnancy. The conclusion was hidden when the physicians evaluated the women by the fact that some of the women hadn’t written in their history that they were pregnant. On farther questioning, some of the women had an ectopic pregnancy, had a miscarriage, or had an abortion that hadn’t been reported to the doctors.
Those facts were astounding. It caused my mind to go into overdrive. Women who terminated their pregnancy decidin to abort a child that same child was now trying to heal and save the life of the woman who’d earlier casually aborted them. It was tragicaly ironic.
Margaret Sanger set into motion Planned Parenthood with the express purpose of destroying black children. She wanted to create an institution to carry out racial genocide. Think of the millions of innocent infants that have been terminated by this cruel and heartless woman and those who follow in her footsteps. Innocent blood remains on their hands. It saddens me to think of the mothers who are alive today even after they have chosen to kill their unborn children. I feel sad for the women who have no remorse destroying a life and actually take pride in the fact that they chose to abort a baby instead of allowing that unborn soul to live.

Blogging

 Blogging
I began to blog quite a few years ago mostly to share my life experiences and family stories of my relatives that were told to me of my parents, grandparents, and other kinfolk. I wanted to keep the past alive for my children and grandchildren because I didn’t listen closely to my relatives when they shared their stories and much to my dismay, many have been lost. Most of my stories will never be recovered unless someone shares a story with me or says something that jogs my memory.
Many of my blogs are about things that have happened to me. Some are the thoughts that I have about some subject or my take on what is happening. I try to share stories of my childhood, my school days, my time in the United Statres Navy, my college days, and my time working as a registered nurse. I share stories about other nurses, patients, and even doctors.
When I started writing my blog, I wrote a story every day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. It began to wear on me. I would struggle to think of new themes, new ideas, or remembering fresh stories. It became such a chore that I almost stopped writing altogether. I retreated and began to post Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. My word count was 350 to 450 words per post. That limit was tolerable although there are still days I struggle.
I was talking to an acquaintance about my blog and gave him a business card. He just returned from Japan. As I talked with him, I brought the conversation to my blog. I asked him if he thought that some of his Japanese acquaintances could use my blog to improve their English. He asid that they did fairly well with their English, but thought that they might improve and learn some slang and how English was sritten to improve their skills. Being the person who wanted to increase my readership, I asked if he could mention my blog to them. He said that he would. We will see if my number count increases.
All in al to date I have made 2025 posts. The readership fluctuates, some days only a few, while other days the number is quite large. There is one part of my screen that lists the number of readers and what country they are from. Hopefully I will see some readers from Japan.

If You Build It They Will Come

 If You Build It They Will Come
My daughters Amanda Yoder and Anna Prinkey are using a wooden pallet, pieces of cardboard, and furring strips to construct a fake privy. Amanda volunteered to create a replica of an outhouse for her daughter Hannah’s school. The school needed one for the Halloween float and for a school play. My basement has been the design area, laboratory, and construction site for the portable potty. Screws and staples attach the wood and cardboard. Spray paint and magic markers are being used to simulate the weathered wood of the outside toilet. I almost got a high from the fumes, but I guess it is better than if the latrine was in use and stinking. The project is about eighty percent done with only the way for the toilet door to be securely closed. A fold in a long cardboard piece made the door’s hinge. Surgery using a box-cutter made the half-moon design and v-shaped notch ventillation spot at the top of the door. I’m not sure how Amanda is planning to transport this monstrous seven foot tall privy to the school. Maybe she can convince her brother-in-law James Prinkey to haul it in his truck, if not, you may see a Subaru driving along the highway with an outhouse being sticking out of the rear end.
Before indoor plumbing came into vogue, the outdoor privy was a home’s necessity. The wooden building was constructed to give privacy to the user. The slender shed was built to cover a deep hole in the ground and for the safety of the user. Every home had one, city dweller or out in the country. If the privy was in the city where there was no land to excavate a new hole or if it constructed of more permanent material, the cess pool would have to be emptied by “honey-dippers.” Honey-dippers were men who would for a fee, empty the waste products and dispose of it.
Spinder, flies, bees, and other insects found the outhouse a perfect place to set up residency, which made the trip to the toilet scary. The stink even masked by lime was unpleasant. Weather was another factor to consider, the heat of the summer increased the smell and activity of the insects and the winter chill on bare flesh could end up with frostbitten bottoms. Toilet paper was non-existent and corn cobs or catalogs were put into another use.
There may be one more evening of work at the construction site before the travelling toilet makes its maiden voyage to Mount Pleasant, Pennsylvania.

Autumn's Amazing Palette

 Autumn’s Amazing Palette
Every time I go outside, I am amazed at the bright colors and hues that have graced the trees around my home. This year, the transformation has been extended because of the cold snaps interspersed with periods of warmth and sunshine. Oaks, maples, aspen, beech, willows, wild cherry, and apple trees form nature’s quilt to cover slopes of western Pennsylvania.
The hills that were so very recently colored in a wide variety of greens, have tossed off that lush verdant cloak and donned a Joseph’s-coat-of-many-colors, but more flamboyantly. Each tree is covered in leaves of various shapes that have been assigned to that tree. The shapes shimmered and shone in the summer sun where shadows chased each other when the breezes stroked them. Their summer attire was beautiful, but it covered the rich hues that are inherent in each leaf.
In autumn, the green slowly recedes and the hidden becomes revealed in aall its majesty. Ever so slowly the colors blend. One hue fades and the other strengthens. Each leaf takes its time revealing one color after another. The breeze shifts the foliage’s position to change the entire presentation of the tree. The changing position in the shade and sunshine almost appear as the scales on a snake.
Is it any wonder that we are amazed with the world that God has created? It is an ever changing panorama of His intelligence and creativity. When we look around, it is surprising that God can create such a difference using the same ingredients: air, clouds, soil, rocks, and plants. They vary from deserts, mountains, jungles, seashores. The beauty is remarkable and yet so different
When our church group travelled out West, we’d comment on the beauty of the rocks, sand, and cacti. There would be locals who asked, “Where are you from?” We’d say Pennsylvania and more often than not, they’d say, “Trees. That would be so beautiful.”
We don’t take the time to really enjoy the land around us, but I believe that the colors of autumn can cause us to enjoy what God has given us.

Front Porch Sitting
There was a time not so long ago that when friends visited and the weather was nice, they sat on the front porch and talked. Often there was a bench-shaped swing that hung at the ends of long chains that were attached to the ceiling to support the swing. There were chairs of all sorts and in usable condition; many were mismatched. It was a shaded, cool area to gather, visit, renew friendships, talk and relax.
I remember my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner’s front porch. Her front porch was large with cinderblock half walls and tall pillars. It was tucked beneath two large evergreen trees. The cement block sides were topped with green wooden flower boxes filled with red geraniums. Two, painted green Adirondack chairs and a settee adorned the porch. Gram stored rolled up rugs on the settee in the winter. It made a warn nest to curl up inside, bundled in a rug cocoon when the inside of her home got too warm or noisey.
In many of past memories the front porch became a gathering place. It could have been the front porch a friend, a relative or even our own home. Many of us sat on the front porch to help to peel the husks off ears of corn, to shell peas, or to snap green beans, getting them ready to freeze or for canning. Doing the work outside only made sense. It kept the messiness outside where it would be easier to remove with just a broom.
 The work was a reason for people of all ages to sit, keep their hands busy, and yet it had the benefit of having time to talk and share their thoughts and memories. Too often we don’t take the time anymore to sit and talk. So many people have lost their families past history and closeness gained by that time together.
People don’t use the phrase of, “C’mon up and set a spell” anymore. We are too caught up in the hustle of daily living, if we can call the business of the rat race earning a living. Neighbors are no longer neighbors. They are strangers that just happen to live next door to where we live. We may know their names and wave to them on occasion when they are outside, but they haven’t become the friendly neighbors that neighbors once were.

What Makes an Ornament an Heirloom?

 What Makes an Ornament an Heirloom?
Each Christmas as I place my collection of Christmas ornaments on the tree, I think of the various ornaments that my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner would hang on her large fresh cut pine tree. My grandmother had beautiful ornaments of hand-strung beads. The beads were of various sizes and colors, shaped by wire into birdhouses, crosses, and stars. The glass balls would click softly as they were placed on the tree. She had snowflakes made of brightly colored thicker aluminum sheets that rustled as they were hung on the branch tips. There were hand-blown glass balls; some frosted, some mirrored, and some of see-through glass that nestled in the bare niches of the tree. Although I don’t have any of my grandmother’s treasures, I can see the images of that bright kaleidoscope in my mind’s eye.
I have ornaments that are my heirlooms and will be passed along to my children. Some will probably be given to my grandchildren. These are the ornaments that my children and grandchildren have made, such as photos and handmade decorations with their faces or writing that peek back from the branches of my tree. Hopefully these heirlooms will be added to their memory and be cherished to them as they are to me.
When my kids were growing up, my wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I bought each child a new Christmas ornament. As they grew older and were able to handle them safely, they became responsible to hang, remove, and store them. Their ornaments were kept separate and stored from year to year. When they married, those decorations went with them to their new home. They carried a bit of the Christmas tradition with them and started a Christmas tradition there.
So, what makes an ornament an heirloom? Is it the item’s condition of preservation? Is it the length of time that it has existed? Is it an heirloom because of the craftsmanship or from what it’s been made? I believe it’s something more fragile than glass or even paper. It’s the memories that were created and still cling to the ornament. May your Christmas be filled with heirlooms, Merry Christmas.

When the Lost is Found

 When the Lost Is Found
Can you remember the intense feeling of relief when you finally find something that you’ve misplaced; your wallet, your keys, your checkbook, or your glasses? Can you recall the feeling of that huge weight being lifted off your shoulders? A wave of comfort floods your being when that all consuming worry has been removed and is no longer a pressing concern.
In Luke 15:8-10 a woman lost a valuable silver coin. She was distressed and she lit a candle, swept every room, and searched every corner of her house. She couldn’t rest. When she found it, she was so elated that she called her friends and neighbors saying, “Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost.”
In the same chapter a shepherd noticed that one of his hundred sheep was missing. He left the flock and diligently searched for the lost one. He returned to his trail, looking for signs where the sheep wandered away. When he found the lamb, he laid it across his shoulders, rejoicing that the lost sheep had been found. The shepherd went home and called his friends and neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.”
In a similar vein, there’s the story of the prodigal son. Luke shares the parable of a second-born son who approached his father asking for his share of his expected inheritance. He was bold enouugh to ask for his share of the wealth that his father earned before the father died. The father didn’t deny the son’s request, but gave it to him.
Immediately the young man left his home and fled to a far away country. He began to spend his inheritance on riotous living. He began to live a carefree life with wanton spending of the inheritance. The word wanton has a meaning of senseless lewdness. He bought “friends” to help him spend his money on extravagant spending for food and drink. His capricious lifestyle soon left him penniless and his “friends” deserted him when he was in need.
The young man found a job tending pigs. It got to the point he was eating what he was feeding to the hogs. Coming to his senses, he went home to his father. Instead of tunrning the son away, he greeted the boy with open arms. The father said, “For this my son who was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.” The father made a feast and rejoiced for he who was lost is now found. The Bible says there is rejoicing in heaven when a lost soul accepts Christ as Saviour.

Beasts in the Buckwheat Patch

 Beasts in the Buckwheat Patch
Friday and Saturday I volunteered at the annual Buckwheat and Sausage Festival for the Ohiopyle Fire Department just like I have form ofer fifty years. The differfence this year was that my son Andrew Beck joined me. He picked me up and we rode together. We were able to talk and I shared the history of the places that we passed. It was dark and foggy and sometimes couldn’t seethe spots.
We found a place to park and joined the other volunteers inside of the firehall. Soon we had the griddles heating and more men arrived. It was chilly outside, but soon everyone was in tee shirts. Eventually we had to open the garage doors to cool the room down. It doesn’t take long for twelve 32X18 inch grills to warm a truck bay. When the doors opened, we could see our breath, but the cool air felt good.
Andrew said that he had to slam on his brakes to avoid a deer. On Saturday morning I had to do the same to avoid three deer as they emerged from the darkness and into my headlights. The crowd of diners started out as a rush but lulled into a trickle. We fried and took breaks. Leaning over the waist-high grills causes lower back pain. People weren’t created to stand in that position. Smokey the Bear visited and mingled with the customers. For the most part, even the children enjoyed Smokey’s visit. When the expected crowds thinned, Andrew and I got to come home about three pm. I was glad we’d sprnt the day together and talked.
Saturday as I drove to Ohiopyle, I couldn’t help but notice the fantastic clouds and sunrise. It was impressive and I wish someone would have been with me to take photos to share. There were already a few men were there and we started to heat the griddles. Let the games begin. Wrapped in an apron, the chore of flipping sausage patties went into full operation.
In the early afternoon, a second beaast appeared. It was a large gentleman who donned a Sasquatch costume and worked the crowd, selling photos of himself and customers for $2.00. It was another vendor to add to the others who sold their wares from tents.
I was glad to get home and shower the grease from my body and hair. The wonderful blessing each year is that from the lard, my hands get as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

Adjusting

Adjusting
All of us need to adjust sometimes in our lives, whether it happens with folks as newlyweds, with new parents at the birth of a child, or the grief with the death of a parent, sibling, spouse, or God forbid the death of a child. These are major adjustments that we must make in order to continue living. But we must make hundreds of minor adjustments each day; from what to make for breakfast when there’s no milk for our cereal to what to wear when the clothing we wanted is in the laundry waiting to be washed.
During each day we readjust our clothing to fit more comfortably, adjust our seatbelts when we intend to drive our cars, or adjust the channel on the television set changing to the program we want to watch. I’m still adjusting to an experimental medication for a trial study with my diabetes. I’ve tolerated it farlywell. I’ve found several of the side effects are present and discomforting but no severe reactions yet. I’ll continue with the medication until the trail is over in November.
Because the medication is working almost too well, my PCP is worried that my blood sugar is too low, so I’ve halved some of my daily medications and try to adjust my insulin to parallel what I’ve eaten for supper. She would lke my morning fasting blood sugar to be nearer to 100 and sometimes I’ll drop down into the 70’s.
Before I started the experimental drug, if my blood sugar would drop anywhere 100, I would know it and often feel faint. I am careful and always have some candy near at hand.
Later today I plan to go to Ohiopyle to fry sausage for the Sausage and Buckwheat festival. I have volunteered to work there for fifty years, except when health issues have interferred.

Hey Bud What's Happening

 Hey Bud What’s Happening
Yesterday was another Connellsville Area Senior Highschool monthly get-together. It was a time of laughter and some tears. About eight peoplegathered to have lunch, tease, and talk. The topics may range from memories to what is happenng now. With all of us getiing older, the issue of our health and complaints of knee pain, back pain, and general aches will come up, but rather than to dwell on those things we make jokes and change the subject.
I shared that we purchased a memorial brick for the Cameron Park in Connellsville, Pennsylvania for a class mate who has graduated to his heavenly reward. It wasn’t a pleasant thought of John no longer being able to share a meal with us.
Sharing the receipt I got in the mail for the purchase of the brick caused a few tears, even our wait-person Heather was missing him and teased us about John’s now absent humor. Just before we finished eating, two younger, good-looking men entered and sat a table away from where we were gathered. Our loud teasing flowed over to them. We heard their conversation, which caused our interaction with them. It was their first time at Bud Murphy’s and as they perused the menu, we made suggestions, but jokingly “warned” them about Heather the wait-person.
As I said, the young men were handsome and one of our class ladies tried out her “cougar skin” and teased them, saying she needed a better view. I think she was still wound up about finding a dead battery in her car yesterday. I commented that at least the battery for her pacemaker wasn’t dead. It is a wonderful relief from the stress and strain to be with friends and let our hair down. (For those who still have hair and for others who have occasional “bad hair” days)
Before we left, I gave each of the men my business card. I am still writing in my blog and am trying to write another novel, so until I publish again, I pimp for readers of my old books and for those who read my blogspot.

Purity

 Purity
Not so long ago there was an advertisement for a certain laundry detergent. The magazine and television ads displayed a blue and white box with a photo of a mother holding a smiling infant in her arms. Its slogan proclaimed that Ivory Snow flakes were ninty-nine and forty-four percent pure. It was the soap to which mothers turned to safely clean their infant’s diapers and clothing. Ivory Snow wasn’t harsh for the baby’s skin, but really cleaned the soiled diapers for the infant’s tender bottom.
Today we hear gold and silver being advertised for sale either in coins, ingots, or jewelry with guarentees fof their percentage of purity. So mnay products are being labeled as pure: cooking oils, spices, salt, and we musn’t forget water. The advertisements for bottled waters are described as coming from fresh mountain streams, filtered mountain springs, unpolluted water from distant unspoiled lakes, or from exotic, far away islands.
Purity is prized by God. Moral purity is God’s standard. What God has defined as sin is still a sin no matter what mankind now says. Words that were not so long ago were considered crude and not fit to be said in normal conversations now flow out of even babies. The words are the crux of many of the popular songs and have gained entrance into television and movies. Wholesome movies with interesting plots have been replaced by salacious perversions of entertainment.
Music videos are just another way for musical hacks to sell their perversions to the younger generations. The advertisements and half time shows pander to sins and perversions. The everyday television advertisements all seem to try to use double entendre or perverted leanings to sell their products.
The perveyors of perversions are indoctrinating children by instilling false views on gender to children who are still learning to read. They are filling libraries with verbal pornography. They are contorting children’s thoughts into ideas that were considered a mental illness a decade ago. What was once a hidden sin is now openy and pridefully flaunted as normal.
The book of Philippians says to think on these things, truth, honesty, things that are just, pure, lovely, and of good report and virtue. The peace of God shall keep hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

What Are You Looking For

 What are You Looking For
With so much turmoil in the world today, people are looking for something secure, something safe, something that satisfies, but if they are looking for those things in the physical world, they will be sadly disappointed. If they are relying on health, see how quickly that has disappeared with the Covid 19 scare. If they are relying on finances, look how rapidly businesses were restricted or closed and jobs were lost. Knowledge and education, the schools were closed without warning. If people were trusting in the government, see how quickly they lost control to anarchists who looted and burned their cities. The very same government that refuses to take a stand against these criminals are trying to remove guaranteed Constitutional rights such as our freedom of speech (hate speech laws), the right to life (tax funded abortion clinics), the second amendment right to bear arms (government’s constant push to infringe with regulations on guns and ammunition), the assault on the first amendment of freedom of religion (not the false interpretation with freedom FROM religion, the assault on the biblical definition of marriage, of sex, of worshipping when and where we deem necessary). It has been proved over and over that anything worldly is built on shifting sand. It is only temporary, fleeting, and may crumble at any moment.True contentment, real joy, deep peace, genuine satisfaction, lasting delight cannot be found in these temporal things. Temporal things will be destroyed by rust, decay, and will continue to be worn away until they become useless and are cast aside.
God in His goodness has offered a gift, a generous gift. He offers this largesse of love to all who willingly accept it. It is the greatest gift ever given. God allowed His only begotten Son, Jesus to take on the form of a man, bear our sins, and die on the cross of Calvary. Jesus became the ransom for our sin debt that needed to be paid. Although He was sinless, He died to pay a debt he didn’t owe, that we accumulated, and a debt we couldn’t pay.
Through the death and resurrection, Jesus became the sacrificial offering that secured our joy, our peace, our security, and our home eternally. There will be no more tears, no more pain, no more disappointments, no fear, and no more death. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh to the Father, but by me.” John 14:6.
Salvation is a gift. We can do nothing to earn it. All we need to do is to believe that Jesus paid that price and to accept it. “For God loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” John 3:16

Mirror Mirror On the Wall

 Mirror Mirror on the Wall
While I was talking on the phone to a cousin, we reminded each other of a few of our memories in the past. Her parents, Melvin and Estella Strawderman lived in the house next door to my grandparents, Edson and Anna Beck. Their homes were located in the small town of Indian Head, Pennsylvania. My grandparents’ home was brown Insulbrick and the Shirley’s parent’s home was sided with red Insulbrick.
Both homes were constructed from a larger farm house that had been torn down. From the lumber rescued they were able to build two. Estella and Shirley were caught in a flood in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. They almost perished when that home was destroyed by the rush of water. Erecting the new houses was necessary.
In the house Granddad Beck built was a short hallway connecting the kitchen to the “parlor.” The parlor was a room that was only used when “company” came. I guess we were company, because that’s where we sat when visiting. The itchy maroon material of the sofa would scratch my legs and yet I was expected to sit quietly without fidgeting when visiting them.
One redeeming quality with the visit was a pair of matching ornate gold-gilded framed mirrors that hung on opposing walls of the short hallway. It was the only exciting thing about the visit to my grandparents’ home. Looking into one mirror, I was able see an endless parade of receding reflections of myself.
My grandparents Ray and Rebecca Miner owned a farm. Grandma Miner had the same itchy material covering her sofa, but in blue. I was glad that we weren’t required to sit on it. I could play elsewhere in the house. Here, I was ablr to roam more freely. Knickknacks and other immensely interesting drew me to check things out. Grandpa Miner was known to tussle with the grandkids…even in the parlor.
Their sitting room was supposedly off limits all kids, but entering the forbidden territory was tolerated if I was quiet and just looked around. Grandma had a large mirror that hung above the floor model wood case radio. The mirror had three connected sections. The center part was a normal silver reflecting mirror, while two blue beautiful etched mirrored panels flanked each side. I was in awe of the deep blue color and impressed that it reflected an image as well. On top of the radio sat a shiny black ceramic cat that peered into a globe shaped glass fish bowl. The bowl was always empty, but iIt glistened when sunlight shone on it. The sunshine danced on the cat’s ebony surface.

Everyday Patriots

Everyday Patriots
We run into everyday patriots everywhere. They surround us: when we shop, when we go out to eat, or when we go to church. These people are for the most part go about their business everyday without thought of the important ideals they uphold. From farmers to food service workers, from truckers to teachers, from healthcare workers to hairdressers; all contribute to the fabric of society. We literally bump into them as we go to work, come home from work, and when we vacation. We may meet them when we have problems. If we need someone to repair a leaky roof or a leaky faucet, we can find them. In times of disaster or extreme weather conditions, we have linesmen, we have those who drive the snow plow trucks, and we have the National Guards. If we need emergency care they come to us: firemen, police, ambulance drivers, and paramedics. These men and women work, earn money, pay taxes, and create a stable environment. They form a national entity, a form of government, a national language, and core values that hold a country together.
An everyday patriot may be the postman that faithfully delivers the mail, the person who delivers fresh bread to the grocery store, then person who provides the produce at a roadside stand, or stocks the snacks in our minimarts. They are the folks who grease the gears and keep the cogs engaged that suppliy our daily needs. They are the checkout cashiers. They are the men and women who fill the shelves. They may be the butchers, the bakers, and the candlestick makers. They could be our vehicle’s mechanics. They could be mothers, grandmothers, fathers, or grandfathers. They can be the people uoi meet on the streets walking their dogs.
These everyday patriots are not superheroes in bold costumes, they are everyday patriots. They work, vote, raise their families, and make a community. They can be neighbors, workmates, and even strangers who do some kind deed or show a courtesy. They do their best to create a better world and share it with others. So I say, hooray to our everyday patriots and heroes. May God continue to bless their daily efforts to keep America strong and independent.

Nobody Loves You Like...

Nobody Loves You Like…
The words “I love you” sometimes easily tumble out of our mouths, almost meaningless in today’s society, but they are words to be held precious when they are uttered with real meaning. Like when a parent holds a newborn close and softly whispers those words or when a child hugs a parent’s legs, looks up, and says, “I loves you, Mommy” or “I loves you Daddy.” How about when we’ve found the perfect match and our hearts sing those very same words until they spill out and we take the step to draw that person even closer to us. Sometimes we use these words when a friend becomes so very close and dear to us.
There is another being who loves us with a love that is nearly impossible to describe. It is the love of God. It has existed from eternity past to eternity future. God has shared his desire to adopt us into his family, to make us one of his own. Just like the Prodigal son, God says come home. I allowed my only begotten Son to die that you can have eternal life.
What was unusual about God’s love…he sought us out when we were undeserving of love and not looking for his love. Our Creator offered it to us. We are his creation. He shaped us out of the dust of the ground. This Almighty being now pays attention to us who are only specks of dirt.
His love is universal, offering it to the entire world. The Bible says, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. John 3:16, even though we were still steeped in our sin. Romans 5:8. The Bible also says, “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us…” 1 John 4:10.
It is a gift freely given. It is unearned and unmerited. Isaiah 64:6 says, “But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.” This is God’s view on what mankind can accomplish without him.
Hollywood and the laxness of our vocabulary has cheapened and diminished the power of words like awesome, glorious, and yes… even the word love.
 

Cowabunga Dude

 Cowabunga Dude
For those who are as old as I am or for those who are up to date on television history, you will remember the Howdy Doody Show. It was a kid’s program with a smiling freckle faced marionette named Howdy Doody and the emcee Buffalo Bob. Howdy was dressed in jeans and a gingham shirt while Bob had a fringed buckskin jacket. Later when television shows were colorized, we found out that Howdy had red hair and freckles.
Supporting characters we grew to love were the silent Clarabell the Clown, Chief Thunderthud, and Princess Summerfall Winterspring. One of the key words was Cowabubga to express surprise. There were other marionette and human characters as well as an audience of children.
This phrase word popped back into my vocabulary when Stephen the summer intern was helping to prepare for our church’s summer vacation Bible school. Once the theme for the skits and lessons were decided by our pastor, we began the task of rounding up and creating the props necessary to decorate the dais and classrooms. The theme was “on the farm,” with areas to represent silos, barns, farm market, and the interiors of farmhouses.
Sheep from past Christmas plays were extracted from storage, but our Pastor wanted life-sized cows to peer out of the baptistry. I was helping decorate elsewhere when I stumbled on Stephen and Pastor trying to create the cows. Their idea to use 2 x 4’s for the frame and heads of the cows seemed to be way too heavy and bulky. I saw several gallon-sized water jugs and noticed their shape of the bottoms was nearly the same shape as a cows nose, thus our “cows” took shape.
Since then I’ve teased Stephen with cow items like the candy Cow Tails, a cow greeting card, and Milk Duds. Last week I found a cow costume, full sized and adult. I couldn’t resist. It’s on its way the North Carolina where Stephen is completing his senior year at Ambassador Baptist College in Lattimore, North Carolina. Cowabunga dude, I hope you like it and that it brightens your day.

At the Point

At the Point
Have you ever arrived at a point in your life or a point in a task and you ask yourself, “What am I doing? Am I doing this task well enough, am I doing the job correctly, or has the task become so familiar that I can no longer tell the difference anymore?
Sometimes when I try to write the next pagees in a new book about a trapper and his dog, I am concerned about the writing. Not the plots, because the plots usually are good, but am I being too wordy as I explain and share my thoughts. Are they well enough for my readers to understand what I want them to see or am I sharing more than I need?
I try to share what my characters are thinking, what they are seeing, and their emotions. I want my readers to see things through my eyes. I want them to feel the same emotions that I am feeling. I want the story to seem real to them. I have friends who proof read. They help me to eliminate some of the extraneous thoughts, but occasionally, it will shallow the character and lessen the impact or the emotional connection with the character. Oh, well, my friends don’t always have the last say. I don’t mind when it streamlines the story by eliminating unnecessary rabbit trails and cuts out the tangents that occur when I write.
I have been collecting a number of stories. The themes in each are pieces of nostalgia with the plots cenetering about and around the time of the Christmas holidays. It is to be a series of short stories set in the 1940’s. Each tale shares the emotions of a lost husband or wife. The person who is left behind is drawn back to remember the lost loved one by an accidental scent, a song, a letter, a Christmas ornament, or a Christmas card.
I will continue to write these short stories hoping and praying that I can create something that is enjoyable with a touch nostalgia tossed in to prevent boredom. I pray that I can think of enough plots to actually put them together to complete a book even if it is like the holiday time magazine Ideals.
 

Autumn Chill

 Autumn Chill
The bright sunny days of summer have somehow slipped away. It’s yielded to slightly cooler days and even chillier nights. An extra blanket feels more comfortable when I allow my bedroom window to be cracked open in an otherwise stuffy room. I’ve decided to bring out the flannel sheets; washing and air drying them to remove the stale stored smell. I also need to wash my king sized, hand-sewn patchwork quilt. It’s in the tumbling block pattern. The material is recycled double knit fabric, yarn-knotted to a flannel sheet. Almost every diamond shaped piece has a family story attached to it. The blocks were at one time, someone’s skirt, pants, shirt or blouse. They are easily recognizable by the color or the print pattern. Each block reconnects to a page in my brain’s book of memories.
Apples hang on the trees in the back yard waiting to be picked. Those that are pecked by birds or have fallen to the ground will be tossed to the horses in the pasture behind my house. I really don’t want to make applesauce, apple butter, or apple schnitz this year. I offered them to my kids and had no takers. I may gather a few of the better ones, pare, slice, and freeze someor I may keep a few of the grimes golden to eat. The rest that fall or are damaged I’ll share with the bees or chop them up when I mow my lawn.
It seems each time I try to downsize, I end up storing something else. To those people who say a person can’t take belongings with them to the grave, I’m sure my kids will make room in my coffin. Just teasing, my kids are sorting through some things and getting rid of some of the clutter.
I have one room in my house I describe as decorated in early depression. There are old tools and enamel pots that hang on the walls. They’re too good to throw away, but no longer used for cooking or for work. I have several old photographs hanging to keep the room from looking like a hoarder’s hideaway. Because I’m thinking about getting a smaller house, I kept the Christmas decorations in that room rather than lugging them to the attic. The tub that has the artificial tree is huge and heavy.
The leaves are beginning to turn and it will soon be time to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department’s Sausage and Buckwheat Festival. This year it will be held October, 11, 12, and 13. I’m waiting for my call to join the ranks. I have volunteered for nearly fifty years, working my way up from dishwasher, to cake fryer, and finally to frying sausage.

Ashamed

 Ashamed
Recently, I have been very concerned and upset with the candidates running for the Presidency of the United States of America. I have clashed heads with my friends because I find one candidate more repulsive than the other. I have wasted time sharing my views that have been turned aside by the concerns of the world and not focused on prayer.
I know that God is in control and whether or not I like it, He will choose the next President of America. God has raised up rulers and removed them. He has raised up countries and has laid waste to them. Proverbs 8:15 says, “By me kings reign, and princes decree justice.”
In Daniel 2:21 the Bible says, “And he changeth the times and the seasons: he removeth kings, and setteth up kings: he giveth wisdom unto the wise, and knowledge to them that know understanding:”
Israel, God’s choosen people wanted a king like the pagan nations around them. God granted their wishes, gave them a king, and the Jews have struggled with the men God allowed to ascend the throne to rule over them. He sent them into captivity when the king turned the Jews’ hearts toward evil and away from worshipping Him.
All throughout the Word of God, the LORD shows the reasons for placing some rulers or keeping rulers in office. Sometimes it is to bless those who call on His name and sometimes it is to punish those who have Ignored Him. My time and energy has been focused on something that I in my own strength I can’t change. I have been ignoring my responsibility of praying for God’s will to be done and ignored sharing with my friends and neighbors, the need to have an intimate knowledge with the Lord Jesus Christ. I need to share God’s mission to show His love by sending His Son to earth to carry each of our sins to the cross and to bear the pain and agony of the punishment for the sins we’ve committed.
Let this be my message to you, if I am less vocal and seemingly less concerned with the outcome of the election, it will be true; it will be replaced with concern about and prayers for my friends.

Button, Button, Who Has the Button

 Button, Button, Who Has the Button
    Last night as I crawled into bed and was wondering what I should write about for my blog spot, my eyes fell on the old Ball canning jar filled with buttons, sitting on the top of my chest of drawers and it gave me an idea about some nostalgia that I could share. The jar itself is large, approximately one and a half quarts and the glass is aged, no longer completely clear. It is topped by a zinc lid. Stored inside is a myriad of buttons of different colors and shapes. Many are antiques, passed down in the family to the following generation. Some are new, either bought for a sewing project and never used, while others have been carefully removed from garments that were worn beyond use. Many of these tiny clothing fasteners were toys that kept many grandkids amused for hours, struggling to put them on a string in just the right order. Or when several children gathered, Grandmother Miner would start the game, “Button, button, button, who’s got the button?”
    My grandmother kept her buttons in a metal tin, like many still do, but I put mine in a jar to display their beauty. Like a kaleidoscope, if I get tired of a pattern or wish to see different buttons, I can rotate and shake the jar. Instantly the view has changed. Many of the colors are subdued, white, gray, black, or brown, but even those hues vary. Pops of color, reds, blues, clear rhinestones, polished brass, and silver play hide and seek. Some buttons have two holes pressed through their body while an equal number sport four holes. Then there are buttons that have no holes in their body, but are flat buttons that have a single hole attached and protruding from their backsides. There are a few from my naval uniforms, dark blue with the anchor design pressed into them.
    There is at least one furniture button covered in a coarse, brown nylon material from a couch my mom and dad had when I was a kid. Many of the buttons were old before I was born and many of the buttons bring back memories. Some are plain white or black, removed from shirts or pants. I’m sure that they have stories to tell, but common tales of work and play.
    I have tried to share my thoughts of the beauty I find in the simple, common things that so often we overlook. Instead of saving these memories of metal, plastic, wood, and even ivory, some simply toss them away, used, forgotten, and of no consequence.

Still Visiting Some Old Joints

 Still Visiting Some Old Joints
Aches and pains got me to seek information about the pain in my knees and lower back. After my initial visit to my dctor and voicing my increasing pain, she wrote a prescription for xrays and an echcardiogram. The reason for the echocrdiogram happened when she was listening to my chest. She heard my heart’s irregular rhythm and asked if I felt that. I said it is just a PAC. (Premature atrial contraction) I’ve had them most of my adult life and I’ve learned to ignore them unless there are several in a row. I wore a heart monitor ffor 30 days in the past to rule out atrial fibrillation or flutter. The ineffectual beating of the heart’s atrium (upper chambers) can cause blood clots and strokes which is not good for me or my circulatory system. The test results came back okay. She also scheduled for me to see two specialists for the pain in my knee and my lower back.
Tuesday I saw an orthopedist for the pain in my knee. After reviewing my x-rays, talking with me, and examining my knee he believes it is my old enemy arthritis. The x-rays revealed the bone spurs in my knee joint were growing larger. One of the options he recommended was total knee replacement, but the other was a less invasive option. I chose the latter. I am doing exercises and taking an anti-inflammatory drug.
Wednesday I spent at the Historical Society reviewing the proposed newsletter for mistakes before it goes to the printer and filing more obituaries. Filing obituaries isn’t fun, but it’s a necessary chore that we do. In the evening we drove the church van route and collected two relatively new boys. One was anxious about going with “strangers” but by the return trips we were friends.
Thursday was my appointment for my back pain. I’d always assigned the origin of my pain to a sciatic nerve impingement, but after the doctor reviewed my x-rays and examined me, he feels it is the same enemy arthritis. The area for this arthritis wasn’t in my spine, but in my pelvis at the sacroiliac joint. That joint is fused, but sometimes the arthritis in that joint causes pain. Although the pain was less when he examined me, it was because I’d started on the anti-inflammatory drug the day before.
So for now this old couch potato is to take the new medication and exercise.
Still Visiting Some Old Joints
Aches and pains got me to seek information about the pain in my knees and lower back. After my initial visit to my dctor and voicing my increasing pain, she wrote a prescription for xrays and an echcardiogram. The reason for the echocrdiogram happened when she was listening to my chest. She heard my heart’s irregular rhythm and asked if I felt that. I said it is just a PAC. (Premature atrial contraction) I’ve had them most of my adult life and I’ve learned to ignore them unless there are several in a row. I wore a heart monitor ffor 30 days in the past to rule out atrial fibrillation or flutter. The ineffectual beating of the heart’s atrium (upper chambers) can cause blood clots and strokes which is not good for me or my circulatory system. The test results came back okay. She also scheduled for me to see two specialists for the pain in my knee and my lower back.
Tuesday I saw an orthopedist for the pain in my knee. After reviewing my x-rays, talking with me, and examining my knee he believes it is my old enemy arthritis. The x-rays revealed the bone spurs in my knee joint were growing larger. One of the options he recommended was total knee replacement, but the other was a less invasive option. I chose the latter. I am doing exercises and taking an anti-inflammatory drug.
Wednesday I spent at the Historical Society reviewing the proposed newsletter for mistakes before it goes to the printer and filing more obituaries. Filing obituaries isn’t fun, but it’s a necessary chore that we do. In the evening we drove the church van route and collected two relatively new boys. One was anxious about going with “strangers” but by the return trips we were friends.
Thursday was my appointment for my back pain. I’d always assigned the origin of my pain to a sciatic nerve impingement, but after the doctor reviewed my x-rays and examined me, he feels it is the same enemy arthritis. The area for this arthritis wasn’t in my spine, but in my pelvis at the sacroiliac joint. That joint is fused, but sometimes the arthritis in that joint causes pain. Although the pain was less when he examined me, it was because I’d started on the anti-inflammatory drug the day before.
So for now this old couch potato is to take the new medication and exercise.

Semper Fi

 Semper Fi
Tuesday was an unusually sad day. The second Tuesday of each month is a day that we graduates of Connellsville Area Senior High School gather for a lunch, laugh, and talk about our past and present. We sometimes share our aches, pains, and medical conditions, but we gather to share our lives. We were once classmates, but now have become friends. While waiting for our food to be cooked and served we talk sharing jokes and many serious topics. This past Tuesday was especially difficult. There was one face that was missing at our table.
John Ohler Jr. passed away since our last get-together. His smiling boyish face was often a spark to our laughter and humor. Sometimes his humor was a little risque, but never mean. His white hair and white Fu-Manchu type mustache that extended below his chin belied the boyish good humor hidden behind his sparkling eyes.
At the center of our Tuesday table, one of our classmates set a placce for our U.S.Marine pal. A photo of him in his dress uniform, and other cards of respect as well as a candle decorated the spot where he usually sat and “his chair” remained empty during the meal. It was a solemn time but not completely somber because we shared stories of his antics. Even our regular wait-person told stories about him. It was almost as though his spirit still remained although he was physically missing.
Driving to and from our meeting I was reminded of John. I rarely see a Corvette on the road, but today I saw three newer Corvettes. John had recently purchased a new siny white Corvette and drove it to the last few CAHS lunch gatherings. He had some of our ladies of the luncheon go out and sit inside for photos, even giving a few gals a ride.
He was proud to be a senior of the Connellsville highschool graduates, but even prouder of being a soldier in the United States Marine Corps. He was an in-country warrior of the Vietnam Conflict. He would occasionally mention that he was in combat there, but never shared the horrors that he’d seen, only metioning in hints what he endured.
We missed today you old buddy…Semper Fi.

Youngish Pup Old Dog

 Youngish Pup Old Dog
It was my son Andrew Beck and his wife Renee’s anniversary. Don’t ask me how many, I can’t keep track of the exact date let alone know how may years. I do know it is in the 20 year range because my wife Cindy Morrison Beck died in March about 23 years ago and their wedding was in August of the same year. They wanted to delay their wedding, but Cindy wouldn’t have wanted it that way. They already had everything reserved and the plans were in place. Flying out to Arizonne and the wedding was a bit of a blur, but they havve been happily married and have two beautiful daughters.
When he was in school, he disliked reading. It took a girlfiend and my wife and I buying hotrod magazines to encourage him to read. The girlfriend pushed him to read his homework and the magazines needed him to read to tell him what the photos were all about.
His grandfathers and his uncles were more mechaniccally inclined that I am and his skills tended to follow after them. I was surprised that he went to Allegheny Community College. It was for plumbing. There he got his Masters Deegree in plumbing. I was surprised at the amoount of reading necessary for him to complete the courses. I would have been overwhelmed with the amount of formulas and math that is necessary to understand the hydraulics and flow of water.
His position when he lived in Amarillo, Texas and now here in Pennsylvania requires him to do a lot of reading. He does bids on installations and redoing large projscts. It is necessary for him to a massive amount of paperwork in ordering, codes, etc. He does quite well.
I have been doing the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and I sometimes struggle transferring photos that I find and attach them to the body of the newsletter. I never thought to ask him for help, but I have asked for assistance of his sisters for computer help. I mentioned my problem when he visited Thursday evening and he said let me look. I was amazed. He uses a program called SnipIt. It was just shy of a miracle and was able to make the transfers with ease. I am so happy that my youngish pup has taught this old dog a new skill.

The Scent of a Woman

 The Scent of a Woman
My wife Rose had been gone for almost a year. I was feeling lonely and nostalgic as the first anniversary of her death drew near. The nightly dreams where she visited had subsided and were becoming less intense and less frequent. It wasn’t that I loved her less; it was that the hurt I was feeling couldn’t continue without me going insane. Time slowly blunted my grief to the point I could take a breath without missing her. My heart would take a few beats without feeling the crushing pain. It eventually became easier to climb out of bed each morning. I was waking less tired from a restless, image-filled slumber.
There were still photographs of her on the walls, the bureau, and in other areas of our home. They served as a reminder of what a gracious and loving person she had been. Seeing her face was a comfort to me. It seemed that she was still near.
It was my work that kept me lucid. Every day, I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth and drove to my job. My work routine had been set apart from my life with her. The separateness of it allowed me to continue to function. I didn’t say live, but I managed to move through each twenty-four hour cycle.
With the dreaded first year marker approaching, I decided to sort through several boxes of old bills and assorted papers that we’d accumulated and stored. There were old paychecks, old check books, financial statements, and other odds and ends. The first cardboard box wasn’t large. It seemed like in no time I’d reached the bottom and filled a trash bag with the discards. I returned the important papers that I thought needed to be saved. When I returned the box, there was another carton tucked to one side of the closet. It was a taller and much lighter. There was no writing on the outside to indicate what was stored inside. I had no recollection of placing it there. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pulled the carton close. “What it could be?”
I slipped my fingers beneath the tightly folded flaps and lifted the overlapping tabs that closed the top of the box. I tugged until they finally separated with a soft pop. Anxious to see what was inside, I leaned over. Tears quickly welled up in my eyes. The box was filled with clothing that Rose had at one time stored. Although they were washed and clean, her scent remained intact and as I opened the carton, it floated free.
Pandora’s Box had been opened. There was no way for me to return it to the way it was before the vault had been breached. Old wounds were reopened. The pain and grief was still there; alive, buried inside of me but so was our love.

Christmas Pies

Christmas Pies  Between the holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas falls the deer hunting season in our state of Pennsylvania. The first day of buck hunting has been a holiday for school kids who want to join in the hunt. My mother-in-law always relied on someone in the family to harvest a deer so she could claim some of the fat, tallow, and bits of the venison to make the filling for her mince meat pies. She would bake the meat pies for the Christmas holiday meals. She would occasionally use beef products to make the filling for her pies if no venison was available, but that was something she would only do reluctantly.
Usually my brother or I would get either a buck or a doe or both. We frequently hunted together with our father and usually managed to bring down at least one deer and quite often more than one among the three of us. We didn’t allow any of the deer meat to go to waste. We would harvest as many deer as we had licenses. Our families liked the flavor of venison.
After we would spend hours in the outdoors hunting to find and kill a deer, we didn’t really want to turn our hard-earned prize over to a butcher who might or might not salvage all of the meat from the carcass for us. We had heard stories about unscrupulous butchers and were worried that all of the meat from our deer might not be returned or the meat might not be handled properly or we might not get back all the meat from the deer that we had turned in to the butcher. We also did not like that butchers used band saws to cut through the brittle deer bones, splintering them and leaving slivers of bone and grit in the meat.
When we were younger, we helped our uncles and our grandfather butcher several hogs and a young bull at granddad’s farm every year. We had learned the basic skills for cutting up meat and it was only a small step from that to actually butchering the deer for ourselves. Our father had a garage/ shed at the back of his property. We would skin the deer and allow it to hang inside to cool before quartering it. Eventually we would divide and slice the meat into the desired cuts.
If we found a stray hair we knew who to blame. Our cuts of meat may not have been as fancy or as perfect as those that a professional butcher. We would first cut around the bones and remove them before slicing the meat. All that was left for us to cut was meat.
My brother liked to divide his deer to make steaks, deer sausage, and cold pack the smaller non-descript pieces of venison. I liked to cut my deer into steaks, cold pack the smaller pieces, and make deer jerky. Usually I could save enough meat and fat from the rib cages to give my mother-in-law enough meat to make two or more mince meat pies.
Following a recipe that she had used for years she would mix the raisins, currants, apples, citrus products, and spices together. Once they had cooked, she would put the mixture into glass jars and store them in the refrigerator until the filling was needed for the making of her pies. It would be only one of the flavors of pie that she would bake for Christmas.

The Christmas Cactus

 The Christmas Cactus A large stainless steel bowl sat at the top of the stairs in my grandmother Rebecca Miner’s rambling old farmhouse. The bowl was the top chamber from an old milk and cream separator that Granddad had used on his farm. The raw milk was poured into the top bowl and a centrifuge would separate the milk from the cream as it flowed through the machine. The milk was to drink and cream churned to be butter.
The shiny metal bowl was nearly thirty inches in diameter and eighteen inches high and sat squarely in the center of a large Mission Oak desk, designed to look like a library table with open shelves on each side and wide drawer in the middle.
The steep wooden stairs with long curved handrail climbed the distance of twelve feet to disappear into the dark reaches of the second floor where Grandma kept the huge plant. The large stainless steel container was converted to be the planter for the old Christmas cactus. The plant had long ago filled the creamery pot and spilled over the full rounded sides, cascading in long green streams. It was an enormous thing, like a queen sitting on her throne to rule one end of the hallway.
The desk and plant were in the cool dark hallway. The window behind the desk and cactus was covered by a green, room-darkening shade Grandma kept it pulled nearly all the way down allowing a only small amount to light to slip through an eight inch space.
This monstrous plant had started its life as a snippet shortly after my grandparents’ wedding. Year after year it continued to grow and Grandma would transplant it into larger containers to match the growth of the cactus.
The only container I can remember as I visited Grandma’s farm house was the enormous stainless steel cream separator. The cactus developed thick, gnarled stems that paralleling the thickened and gnarling of my grandmother’s arthritic, feet, hands and fingers.
The flat-green, oval-shaped, ripple-edged leaves tumbled in thick perfusion over the edge of the steel separator and flowed down its sides in waves. The leaves nearly hid the container beneath its thick foliage.
Just before Christmas, that dark corner of the hallway would suddenly explode into color. The cactus would spill its blossoms in colorful waterfalls that floated on a sea of green. Each bloom looked like a series of colorful trumpets stuck one inside on another. The colors ran the gamut of hues from deep watermelon pink to a hot orange-red and even into a pale yellow. They looked like small fiery torches blazing in a dark green sky.
The expanse of colorful blossoms would only last several days. One by one they bloomed, showed the their beauty, then would slowly wilt and drop to the floor like a plague of dead insects with their colors fading to a ghostly white. They waited until Grandma would sweep them up and toss them into a trash grave.
When my grandmother could no longer take care of her large rambling farm house, she decided to have an auction to get rid of all the things that would not fit into a mobile home she had bought. I am not sure who bought the massive Christmas cactus, but I hope that it still fills another person’s home with its beauty at each Christmas season.

Nursing a Caring Profession

 Nursing a Caring Profession
An older gentleman was admitted to Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania to the intensive care unit overnight. When I came on shift as nursing Supervisor in the morning as the nursing supervisor, the nurses on duty in the unit told me that he was to have a fiftieth wedding anniversary party with his family that night. Instead of attending the party, he fell ill and woulld be unable to attend the planned event. He was gravely ill. As a matter of fact, his condition was very poor and the doctors said it would be a miracle if he left the hospital alive.
The wheels started to churn in my creative brain. I asked the staff to call the dietary department and request plastic martini looking glasses and a cake usually reserved for birthdays. I thought that we could have some celebration ready for the family when they came in to visit.
We made a “Happy 50th Anniversary” banner from computer paper and markers and we hung it above his bed. We borrowed a Polaroid camera from the security department and waited for the wife and grown children to come in. We broke the hospital’s rules and allowed the family to visit him all at oonce instead of two at a time. Besides waiving the two visitor rule we allowed the family to gather around the bed. They were impressed that we’d taken the time to make a banner, but could hardly hold back the tears when we brought the cake and ginger ale in glasses for their impromptu party. We snapped a few pictures of the family gathered around their father and husband resting in this bed. We finished the gesture of compassion and good will by giving them the photos. Even though the family was unable to attend their planned party, they were able to celebrate the anniversary and they had photos of that moment in time.
I wish I could say the man recovered and that he was able to rejoin his family, but it was not meant to be. He died several days later, but the family had memories of the anniversary and the pictures to keep.

Caring Costs So Little

 Caring Costs So Little
Just to let you know I care
I sought you to share your grief
‘Twas my desire to be there
Easing your sadness making it more brief
It’s not much to share your tears
Or lend strength to grieving heart
It takes time with a small part
As we travel through the years
There’s love behind the intent
With an embrace or small touch
Just a little time is spent
A small cost, but means so much
When you lighten someone’s load
Gentle bonds of friendship grow
The choice, no matter which road
Walked, there’s friends who care you know
Drying tears from a friend’s face
Comforting and holding hand
Calming when life’s storm clouds chase
Helps each other understand.
Cords of caring, soul to soul
Bind two closely together
Friendships deepen as years roll
Even in foulest weather
Friendships bloom in subtle way
With a smile or just a wave
Years quickly go, friends stay
And remember what you gave.

Huttendorf Heritage

 Huttendorf Heritage
I’ve never been to the country of Germany, but the roots of my family started in the soil of a town in the southern part that country. From those who researched my family’s history, my ancestors lived in the town of Huttendorf. They ran a butcher shop there. On a sign over the door of the shop was the head of a calf, they were so proud and it was so important to them that it was included in the family crest. The Kolb (Kalp) coat of arms was drawn by an heraldic artist. Documentation for the Kalp coat of arms can be found in Siebmacher’s Wappenbuch. In their language describing the Coat of Arms used the terms *Ein Kalbskopf, translated “The head of a calf.”
The last name was sometimes changed in the translation and Americanized to Culp and Kalp, while others retained the De Kolb or De Kalb spelling.
Their original name was Kalb. I was always told that there was a baron in the clan and found out that it was in gact Baron Johan Dekalb. He was born June 29, 1721. Johan was trained by the French military rising to the rank of brigadier-general. He was famous in America’s history. Baron De Kalb played a prominent role in the French and Indian War. He was sent by France as a spy to observe the temperment of the colonists toward the British. Two decades later, he accompanied Lafayette to support the American cause against Great Britain. In 1777 Johan entered the colonies at Charleston and made his was to Philadelphia. The Continental Congress made him Major-general.
In April 1780 De Lalbwas ordered to leave Morristown, New Jersey to the relief of Charleston, South Carolina, but the city fell to the British while he was marching south. At Deep River, North Carolinahe he joined Generel Horatio Gates. On August 14 they marched against the British at Camden. The British drove Gates from the field, but De Kalb remained in battle. His gorse was shot out from under him. Before he got up, he was shot three times and bayonnetted repeatedly.
He reportedly said to a British officer who volunteered to help the Baron, “I than you sir for your generous sympathy, but I die the death I always prayed for: the death of a soldier fighting for the rights of man.”

Aleo Lake Picnic

 Aleo Lake Picnic
It’s all over for another year. The Chestnut Ridge Historical Society Annual Picnic is lodged in the annals of time. As usual, this event was held at the beautiful and picturesque home of one of our members. I didn’t ask permission, so I won’t share her name, but thank you very much for graciously opening your home for us again this year.
Her refurbished barn makes a perfect place to set out our covered dish feast, protected for the hot sun and any stray raincloud. Every member of the society and their guests are always invited to attend. It’s a time for all to sit, talk, and eat; strengthening our friendships and our commitment to keep the local history of the Laurel Highlands safe for future generations. It’s a great time of relaxation and getting to know fellow members.
The vast array of foodstuff made it impossible to sample all of the different flavored dishes, but I made a great attempt. My blood sugar was up a bit the next morning even though I made a valiant attempt to make the samples small and avoided the richest desserts.
The weather was wonderfully sunny, but a giant fan kept us cool and I’m sure if there were any flies, they were blown into the next county. Sadly this year there was only one swan on the lake, but the entire grounds were manicured and in a wonderfuly beautiful conditionl.
I’ve been looking to downsize. I four bedroom house is becoming too burdensome for me. There are too many chores to keep up with for an old couch potato and climbing the stairs is becoming painful for my arthritic knees.
My grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner had deformities of her knees and feet from the rheumatic arthritis. Climbing the stairs in her large two-story farmhouse was always a slow and painful experience for her. Her fingers and hands also developed twisted knots from that disease, but she could really cook. I always enjoyed her meals she prepared on the old kitchen coal cook stove.

I Don’t Want Her You Can Have Her

 I Don’t want Her You can Have her
Several years after my wife died, Mindy’s common-law-husband passed away. Mindy was a tall, full-figured, slovenly woman. Because of her frequent visits to the hospital, she knew my wife had passed away. When she’d see me, she’d say, “I heard your wife died. I am so sorry!” and I was given the customary bone crushing hug.
So when I found out that her common-law-husband died, I extended my condolences to her just as she’d done to me. Tears came into her eyes and she said, “I know you understand what I’m feeling, Tom” and gave me one of her bone crushing hugs. She was the same dirty person dressed in her usual Banlon shirt and double knit pants, but she was going through hard times. It was a tender moment. I wouldn’t allow squeamish feelings of being hugged to intrude.
After that wherever she met me, I was greeted with the same hug. I started to keep a sharp eye out for her, running the other way long before she came within arm’s reach. Sometimes she’d catch sight of me and call out. I’d only wave and do a ninety degree turn down a hallway to escape.
This worked for several months until one night I was in the main lobby waiting for the elevator. When the doors popped open… there she was… standing in front of me in all of her glory. I couldn’t avoid her without seeming grossly offensive and rude. I cringed inside knowing that the inevitable hug was coming. And it did. We talked for a few seconds before I made the escape. She waved to me as I walked past and into the elevator.
Later that evening, I tried to put my pen in my shirt pocket. It snagged on something. It was a folded piece of paper. On the slip was Mindy’s telephone number. “How did she get it there without me feeling it?” I thought, “She had to be planning this for some time.”
This was just too much for me not to share with someone else. I walked to the medical records department to see Bill, a nurse with whom I worked in the emergency department. He’d transferred to medical records when he got “burned out” in the emergency room.
He looked a lot like me and some patients got us confused when we still both worked in the emergency department. Mindy was one who was confused us. She’d sometimes call me Bill or call Bill by my name. That was okay with me. Maybe he’d get blamed for something I’d done.
When I showed him the note he said, “She’s all yours buddy, I’m already married.”

Aches and Pains

 Aches and Pains
Occasionally when I wake in the middle of the night with the old man’s curse of having to use the restroom, my right shoulder will ache. I sleep with it out from under the blankets. It is a deep down ache: an ache that reaches from the muscle to the bone. It isn’t in the shoulder joint, but in the muscle itself.
It causes me to think of my mother Sybil Miner Beck. Often she would sit with her upper arm and shoulder wrapped in a sweater, even when the weather was warm. She said, “It’s my bursitis.” I don’t think that she was ever diagnosed by a physician; it was a self diagnosed disease.
I do know that the one malady my mom developed was an insidious one that she didn’t recognize and one that we didn’t realize and understand until it was too late. We had small inklings that the disease of Alzheimer’s was starting in her brain, but she put on such a good front that even her doctor didn’t believe us.
She talked and seemed to make sense, but the memories of her past slowly dried up and trickled through her fingers to blow away. The present and the past met. She no longer understood what had happened and also, not what was happening. The world swirled around her and she was locked inside the prison that Alzheimer’s had forged for her.
At first she complained that she couldn’t read with her glasses, when in reality, she forgot how to read. She once kept payroll for several companies, did taxes, was a treasurer for church, loving to work with numbers. She finally gave that up when each attempt became a struggle. That was heart wrenching to see. The recognition of family disappeared behind the veil of that disease. She couldn’t leave her house for more than an hour, without becoming distressed and restless.
Slowly she was lowered into that well of Alzheimer’s until nothing was recognizable. She threatened her husband and my dad Carl Beck with a large meat fork. She didn’t want to keep herself clean, even with his help. He could no longer handle the person that she’d become. It was a difficult decision for him, but decided to place her in a nearby personal care facility.
Eventually it seemed as though Alzheimer’s turned out the light on all of her senses. She refused to eat. It may have been that the illness subdued the very desire to eat, took away the basest of human drives, that of needing food and drink. What a cruel taskmaster Alzheimer’s is.

The Pink Pahther

 Pink Panther
When my older daughter Amanda Beck Yoder was very young she liked to watch the cartoon, “The Pink Panther.” One reason was the cartoon was mostly silent other than the background music and the action humor was enough to keep a child or an adult amused throughout the presentation. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I would occasionally buy a small toy for her. We found a Pink Panther stuffed animal and it was her favorite until she discovered baby dolls. Pink Pnather was relegated to a lesser place of honor on her bed for a few months.
What has brought the thoughts of the Pink Panther to mind is that I am sorting through shelves as I plan my future down-sizing. I am sorting through the shelves in my bathroom closet and one of the things that has claimed a resting space in the closet for years is a verigated pale purple blanket with various figures of the Pink Panther on it.
I “won” the blanket many years ago at a firemen’s fair. Saw it on a shelf in a drawing numbers to win a prize booth. The shelves were loaded with quite a few prizes, but I only had eyes for the blanket. I wanted it for Amanda. I put the “won” in quotation marks because I drew a prize winning number, but it wasn’t for the blanket. The prize that matched the number that I drew was something more expensive. I asked the fireman if I might switch the numbers and claim the blanket.
The fireman was a good friend of mine and because I was actually trading down in value, he readily agreed and I was able to get the blanket. The saddest thing about my deal was that about this time Amanda’s interest switched and she only used it a few times. She was going to give it away and I claimed it again. I know “Indian Giver,” but because I went out of my way to get the blanket, I wasn’t going to let go so easily. I don’t know if she will want it now since her passion for the Pink Panther has cooled or whether it will travel with me when I move. Knowing my kids, that blanket will probably line my coffin.

Aunt Helen Stahl

 Aunt Helen
Aunt Helen was a woman cut from the same cloth as her sister Estella, but not as extreme with her neatness. Helen had six children and for her to be as neat as Estella, she would need to stay awake twenty-four hours each day. Helen was very routine driven. She assigned work to follow a daily pattern. Each day she had a chore to do and a room to clean. Rooms she cleaned were not just a dust and mop, but were like spring cleaning of a room. For example, if she had Monday as her day to wash and dry clothes, she would clean a bedroom too. If she chose Tuesday to iron the wash, she would clean another bedroom. Wednesday could be her shopping day and another room got cleaned. Thursday may have been the bake day and clean the kitchen. Friday another chore and the living room and so on.
She painted each room a bright color; turquoise, coral, and flamingo pink. She got her passion for bright colors from her mom, Anna Kalp Beck. Grandma Beck’s kitchen had deep red linoleum tile floor, royal blue Congoleum half-way up the wall, the top half of the walls was painted a bright yellow, and the hand fashioned wall cupboards were pale mint green. The curtains at the windows were pale lavender. I know that it sounds horrible, but the longer a person sat in her kitchen, the more the mélange grew on the person.
Aunt Helen had the remarkable distinction of having been struck by lightning several times. She was standing on the damp concrete porches of her house. The lightning strikes were close. Electricity came up through the floor, through her bare feet, shocking her making her entire body to tingle.
Helen had a more square face and was shorter than her sister Estella. Estella was thin while Helen had a pudgy little belly. It was funny to watch her sometimes. When you would be talking to her, she would agree with you as you talked, saying, “Yes” frequently. Her response of yes was forceful and clipped which made her belly bounce.
Mom and Dad took her and her family along to Idlewild, an amusement park near Ligonier, Pennsylvania.  Helen no matter where she went was dressed to the nines; high heels, dress, pearls, and her ever present hand bag. We walked and rode everything in the park. Mom called Helen the next day to see how she liked the park. Helen told my mom that she had huge blisters on her feet from the high heeled shoes and walking on the pea-sized gravel that covered the walkways at the park.
Jokingly Mom said, “Well Helen, are you ready to go again today?”
Helen laughed and said, “Yes.” I can just imagine her with the phone to her ear and her pudgy belly bouncing in agreement.

Amos Jacob Stahl

 Amos Jacob Stahl
My Aunt Helen Beck Stahl’s husband was named Amos Jacob Stahl. He was a hairy, roly-poly short statured man. The people who knew him called him by his middle name Jake. He was a very stern man and when he got upset, his voice would raise several octaves to bellow into an almost soprano squeak. It seems incongruous that I would say bellow and squeak together to describe his voice, but he did it. He could stand on the side porch of their home and yell for the kids to come home.
Helen and Jake’s house was a medium-sized, stone-cased home built on the side of a hill that overlooked the town of Indian Head, Pennsylvania. Their kids would spread out playing with their friends. When it was time for the kids to come home, Jake would step out onto the porch and yell for them. No matter where the kids were, his voice was heard all over town and the kids would come running from where ever they were. The decibel level must have been surprisingly tremendous.
Jake made his living as a stone mason. His work was seasonal and it was hard to raise a large family with an interrupted way to make a salary. His work was limited to the amount of time that the weather conditions allowed. Rain, snow, ice; all limited his ability to earn money.
Eventually he made the decision to move his family south. He made the right decision. The town he decided to settle was Orlando, Florida. This was before the Disney Corporation decided to establish his kingdom of Disneyworld. His skills were needed as Orlando bloomed and blossomed.
His skills were exceptional; bricks, cinder blocks, and stones all were the foundation for his art. He could cut, dress, and face the stones he needed to display his skills.
One day when he and his crew were laying block for a basement, Jake noticed that some mortar had fallen out on the opposite side of the room. He lifted some mortar on the tip of his trowel and flicked it. The mortar hit the right spot and filled the gap.
He was a resourceful man. When we were younger and were visiting them at their home in Indian Head and eating. It was near the end of the meal and most of the food was gone. One of us wanted some more mashed potatoes. Instead, Jake took a slice of bread, spread some gravy on it, and cut it into bite sized pieces. Thus “gravy bites” became a part of my family’s vocabulary. Aunt Helen’s gravy was good even on bread.
He was a man who enjoyed his food. He loved to barbecue. His steaks were cut to order, not buying over the counter. He did the grilling himself. I was stationed at the Orlando Naval Training Center and would visit some weekends. He’d grill a huge platter of steaks for at least one meal. He also loved his R. C. Cola.
Jake’s car of choice was Oldsmobile. Every car that he ever owned was an Olds. He liked them because they had room for his belly under the wheel. His belly was still large enough that the front of his pants had wear marks where the wheel rubbed the pants.
The only other vehicle that he drove was his GMC pickup work-truck and I think he drove a GMC only because Oldsmobile did not make trucks.

Showers of Blessings

 Showers of Blessings
As I sit this morning thinking of what I should share, I hear the tain falling outside of my open window and think, “How blessed I am to have the rain falling gently after such long dry spell.” It is truly a blessing from God that He has sent several small showers over the past week or so. The showers were often short lived with no thunder or lightning. Where I live there was some accompanying winds, but no real storms. The rain outside is a real ground-soaker. It is a gentle rain and not too much too fast to cause runoff or flooding.
When I look back at long dry spells in my life, I am faced with the facts that I haven’t been spending the time needed in prayer and reading my Bible. I haven’t thanked God for the blessings that He has shared with me. I find I haven’t been truly grateful for the things in my life that He has already given me. As I share now, I am inside of my home and dry. How often have cold winds blown and I as snug and secure inside without thanking God. I have food in my cupboards and refrigerator. I need to decide what to eat at mealtime instead of wondering if I havve anything in the house to eat.
I have clothing to wear. The decision I need make is what articles of clean clothing I will choose to wear today and not clothing that is tattered and soiled. I have clean water to drink and can breathe fresh country air, not polluted by smoke, smog, or exhaust fumes. Am I thankful that I have a vehicle that I can drive and that I have money to buy fuel?
As I remember my family in prayer, am I wholey aware of how thankful I should be for my children and the grandchildren that God blessed my saintly wife and I to care for? I am reading the book of Job and the impact of losing his family is causing me to love my family even more. I am in relative good health, am I thanking God that He cares for me. Am I thankful the He sent His Son Jesus to bear the penalty of sin for me?
Am I grateful for the freedom to worship in a church of my choice and am I thankful for my Pastor and church family? Daily blessings whether large or small come to mind as in the hymn, “Count Your Blessings.” I need to be more aware of the blessings that surround me.

Where Was Moses

Where Was Moses
When I was growing up, my Dad Carl Beck would sometimes pose riddles to tease me. One was the riddle, “Where was Moses when the llights went out?” And the answer was “In the dark.” This riddle was brought to mind Sunday morning.
I arrived early as usual, unlocked the door, and went inside as I usually do for each service. Others began to arrivve and were speaking to our Paston in the vestibule. It was a normal Sunday morning where the men gathered and talked just inside of the door and the ladies waked up the stairs into the sanctuary, greeting others before settling their belongings onto a pew. They began to write prayer requests on slipe of paper to be added to the church bulletin. It is a way for the congregation to share the buurdens of others and lift their names to God. All was going as normal when the electricity went off and the church went dark until the emergency lighting camae on.
The emergencylighting doesn’t illuminate the entire sanctuary, but does light the side aisles to assist in parishiners seeing the way to the several egresses. Our Pastor decided to carry on with a shortened service, even in the darkness. There was no “live” service because the entire computer system and audio was out. There were no microphones, no electrical “organ,” and no overhead lights. Our choir director and pianist reverted to playing music on the piano, the music lit by a flashlight. The pulpit was liit by another battery powered lantern. I was asked to pray for the names on the prayer list. I’m sure aI was chosen because my voice is strong enough not to need the microphone. In other words, I am a loud mouth.
We were to partake of the Lord’s Supper, the elements were already prepared, but that part of the service was postponed. There was no reason to have folks wandering around in the dark. The electricity was off, but the power of God was still in the message and service.
A remarkable thing happened at the conclusion. I was standing and getting ready to leave when the lady behind me said, “It’s a silent testimony to the people driving by the church. Even though the electricity is off and the church is dark, the parking lot is still full.”