In My Dreams
I rarely remember my dreams. For the past two days I heve remembered them. I know there are those who “interpret” dreams like Joseph did as a boy and while he was jailed in Egypt, but Im not one of them. I don’t own a book of dreams that tells someone what the detaills of a dream means. There are others who believe that a dream is just warped replay of things that have occurred over the past few days like a marred reception on a television where wires get crossed. I don’t know if either are correct, I just know what I have dreamed.
When I woke this morning, the impression that remained was the American slowy furling and unfurling. There was a gentle breeze stirring it. The flag was partially hidden behind a sign. A soft light illuminated the flag, but not the sign hanging in front of the flag. The sign remained blaack. The backdrop was a foggy haze without distinguishing features. It wasn’t a scary dream, just a curious one.
The other dream that I remembered from the past week was a dream where I became lost inside a mall like structure with halls and walls almost like a maze, As I wandered, I couldn’t recall getting there and couldn’t remember the way to leave the building. I had no idea why I was there; I only remember my frustration as to how I got there and had no idea how to escape.
But there is more. I am outside without any knowledge how I got there. I only have a vague memory of pushing out through a double glass door into the cold and snowy parking lot. None of the cars in the area are familiar to me and I continue my attempt to leave the area. Although the lot is coveered in snow, the cars are not. The cars are free of snow and I can see the sea of vehicles as I meander through the maze of steel bodies searching for mine.
My dreams always seem bizarre, unlike my Gram Rebecca Rugg Miner. She would tell us stories about her dreams that came true. The simplest to believe was the dream of the snake in her flower garden. She recognized the situation from her dream and killed the snake.
The most illogical was her dream of a car driving down their farm lane. She was looking out her bedroom window. Looking down, it seemed that the driver had no head. It came true. A car drove by, the porch light was on and the shadow cast put the driver’s head in shadow and he lookes as though he was headless.

 Shanks Mare
Shank’s mare is one of those idioms that my dad Carl Beck and the older generation used. A person using their legs to propel themselves instead of riding a horse, buggy, or car when travelling would say they were walking or going by shank’s mare. I’d been avoiding my daily walks, blaming the cold windy weather or the rainy days, but much of it was because I’m a couch potato and too often just too lazy. I think much of my recent feelings of tiredness and sluggishness was because I haven’t been taking my daily walks.
I started yesterday by going to my local polling center to vote in the primary electtions. I saw that Nicki Haley was on the ballot with Donald Trump. I was surprised to see her name still on the ballot. My next stop was to the gas station for a fill-up. No surprise there, the price for gasoline will continue to rise until the United States drills ardently for its own oil, completes the pipeline, and stops trying to force those ill-imagined electrical vehicles on the public. The high cost of the EV, its limited mileage, and the lack of charging stations is an attempt to control the public. It’s to force people to live in cities and limit Americans’ mobility. If the government can force American citicens to use electricity to heat their homes, cook their food, and drive vehicles, they can cut the power to anyone and control every part of their lives.
Next I stopped at the bank to withdraw a few bucks before heading to Wal-mart. I always meet someone at Wal-mart who I’ve worked with and today was no exception. But many times I will talk with complete strangers. I live alone and it is nice to talk with someone, even a stranger.
Back home after the groceries were unloaded and put away, I decided that it was too nice to stay indoors and felt the need to spend some time in the sunshine. It was just a shorter walk, but it was a beginning. I believe that I walked about an eighth of a mile. I managed to take a few photographs of blossoming trees, the road I walked on, and a few ragged cattails with lush green grass background.
I rescued my neighbor girl’s ball that had blown across the road and into a ditch. It had been forgotten. Sometimes the wind where I live can be fierce. I’m sure that it blew the ball from the neighbor’s yard into the ditch.
So I am starting to “ride” shank’s mare again and my legs actually feel good with no cramping yet. Giddy-up.

 Just What You’re Looking For
Unusual incidents somehow connect with others in my past. In February I purchased a reclining chair to replace a recliner that a spring had broken. Of course the broken spring occurred about two months after the “year warrenty” ran out. I ordered a replacement spring on line. It was the correct length, but not the proper strength. The chair works, but not very well. There are several bolts in the chair that loosen and must br tightened. It is a comfortable chair, so despite all its faults, I kept it and still use it.
Back to the February chair. After the problem with the first chair, I purchased the extended warrenty. Last week I moved the February chair to vacuum around and under it and what to mu wandering eyes appeared but a black single bolt. The head of the bolt had a star shaped opening for a specialized screwdriver. I upturned the February chair to try to find where the bolt came from. I was unable to find a spot in the tangle of metal parts beneath the seat where the bolt had escaped.
I called the furniture company and explained my situation. Because it was so recently purchased and it was still under warrenty, they set an appointment for a technician to come to my home to service it. The appointment day came and so did the technician. We upturned the chair and he knelt behind it, peering into the metal skeleton beneath. We both searched and could see nothing. As a matter of fact, there were no other bolts with the same star shaped heads anywhere in the chair. It seemed to be a strange bolt from some other piece of furniture.
I will share another odd incident that my dad, Carl Beck shared about one of his relatives. She had purchased a brand new 1956 Ford.I can’t remember the model, but soon after she began driving it, she heard a rattle. The rattle irritated her. A brand new car shouldn’t have a rattle. It seemed to be in the doorpost just behind her head. After several trips to the dealership and several times the mechanics insisting that there should be nothing thee to rattle, they finally removed the panel. Inside was a Coke bottle and inside the bottle was a note that read, “I’ll bet you had a hard time finding this one.” I’m wondering if the extra bolt in my chair was tossed in at the fatory without a note.

 Traditions
It became a tradition for our family to go to our grandparents Miner’s house for a meal on New Year’s Day. It wasn’t the traditional New Year’s Eve foods of pork and sauerkraut; it was something a lot less traditional. My Dad Carl Beck would buy a couple of cans of oysters and a gallon of vanilla ice cream. He’d also buy the little wafer-like oyster crackers.
Granddad Raymond Miner had a small farm with cows providing fresh butter, cream, and milk. He made lard from the pigs he butchered and Grandma Rebecca Rugg Miner canned apples and would bake two apple pies. Her crusts were nice and light from the lard that she used and the apples were seasoned just right for the filling.
As soon as we walked inside my glasses would steam up, assaulted by the cinnamon-spicy aroma of the pies and the warmth of the coal cook stove in her kitchen. There would be the scent of percolated coffee adding richness to the festivities. The ice cream would go into the freezer and the oysters would go into a large pot with creamy farm milk, home-churned butter and salt and pepper. Nothing else was needed to make a rich light soup. All we had to do was to wait and waiting was hard for us kids. The pleasantly warm smells made our stomachs growl.
Grandma would get up occasionally to stir the pot. We would all watch in anticipation for her to nod that the meal was ready and were disappointed when she returned and sat back down. When it would seem I could wait no longer, Grandma would say, “Let’s eat.” There was no need for a second call when the oyster broth was cooked and ready to be served.
Grandma would use a large ladle and lift out steaming broth and a few of the meaty oysters into bowls; smaller ones for us kids, and larger ones for the adults. When the savory soup was placed in front of me I would take a deep sniff, wanting to just have a taste of it, but I knew that all had to be served and grace needed said, the crackers would be passed around to spill into our bowls.
I always wanted to lift the bowl and drink it right down, but I would take one spoonful at a time makimg it last as long as I could. I knew the soup was steaming hot and it would have scalded my throat. Grandma would continue to ladle the soup until the pot was empty.
The adults would sip coffee and talk. Kids would squirm in our chairs wishing the apple pie and ice cream was already in front of us. But as children, we couldn’t ask and had to wait to be served.
Eventually Grandma would rise and fetch the pies. My mom would get the ice cream. Our eyes sparkled in anticipation. Apple pie and ice cream was never a common occurrence. Grandma placed a large wedge on a saucer and Mom would scoop a heaping mound of the ice cream on top of the pie.
We drooled until everybody was served and then dove in with gusto. Barely a crumb was left on the plate when we were through. Tummies full and appetite sated we cleared the table to play dominoes or Parcheesi. Some sadness would creep in. We’d have to wait another full year for the oyster stew and apple pie.

 Into the Darkness
I remember reading stories of pioneers who would find themselves returning to their family after traveling all day, coming home after darkness had fallen. The weary traveller had reached the limit of their endurance completely surrounded by darkness. Often they were burdened by needed supplies. The longer the person trudged along, the harder the person strained their eyes, searching for the light that was always left burning in the cabin window by fellow family members. It was a lighthouse that drew the sailor into a safe port. It was like a beacon that brightly welcomed the traveller home.
When our church group camped at the Great Sand Dunes of Colorado there was no light from any nearby city or town. The darkness was black velvet with stars seemingly so close we could knock them down with a stick. We were not able to enjoy its beauty for long before we were beset by a tremendous storm accompanied by a fabulous display of lightning so close and bright I was sure the bottom of the tents would tingle.
An incident that happened last night; it got me thinking of how welcome a light can be. Being more frugal than ever, I’ve recently been turning off some of my night lights scattered throughout my house. During the daylight hours I’ve been turning them off; wasteful to allow them to burn energy that I have to pay for. It’s especially necessary for me when I am going to be away for several hours.
Yesterday I shut off my living room light and forgot to turn it back on before going upstairs. The low wattage light illuminates my stairs well enough that I am not travelling in darkness. Last evening I had to slowly edge my way down the stairs. It was a path I’d traversed thousands of times before, but not in the dark. Needless to say the stair rail became my best friend. Each step was a step into the unknown.
I sometimes put things on the stairs so that I am reminded to carry them upstairs with me. Being forgetful, I was unsure if I’d left anything on the steps and timidly probed with my barefoot before placing my weight on the next step. It was that dark.
I usually leave a kitchen light on, a living room light, and my office light on. I also keep a low wattage light on in my bedroom since I whacked my shins on the bottom of my bedframe. I also keep a “dollar store” night light in my bathroom. As I age, I find that my night vision needs all the help it can get.

If You Are Offended
I’ll start out by saying “I’m sorry” if I don’t identify your gender correctly or call you by a pronoun or a “gender” that you believe you are not. If you believe that you are anoother gender other than the one that God has assigned you at birth, well excuse me. I don’t have the time or the inclination to join you in your fantasy world of make-believe. Your confusion has nothing to do with my reality; I have enough trouble keeping my everyday tasks and ideas straight. If you purposely want someone to “know” what your self-identifying gender is, please wear a name tag with your preferred gender and pronouns that are listed boldly for all to see or don’t expect me and others to play a game of charades. And if you’re confused about what you want to be when you grow up…GROW UP, but before you choose a career and before you select a college major, be sure your choice can support you and be sure the amount of money you spend and time you invest can be repaid. Don’t expect me to pay for it. I enlisted in the United States Navy for four years to help pay for my nursing degree. You can too.
Many times as I worked as a nurse, I would be approached by a very young looking man with an older looking woman who would appear at the emergency department to be treated. Or an older man with a much younger woman would present themselves to be treated. Often it was necessary to question one or the oother as to what the problem that they had to initiate a chart especially when one of them was already taken back inside for necessary treatment.
I quickly learned not to make the assumptions of thinking that the younger person was a son, daughter, brother, or sister or the older-looking person was the mother, father, or wife. It often caused embarrassment on my part and would upset the person that was inadvertantly misidentified.
I quickly learned to ask the question, “How is “so-and-so” related to you?” The open-ended question solicited an answer, shifting the responsibility to identify the person with the correct answer.

 Deluge
The rain has been falling down in sheets. The constant roar of the drops on my roof seems to drown out any thoughts to write about other than the drumming of the water pouring from the heavens. It is a definite challenge to make any thoughts rise above the sound of the deluge. As I look back at stories that were told to me by my family, I can remember a powerful deluge and a flood in the area. The flood occurred in Melcroft, Pennsylvania in the year 1943. I was just talking with a ninety-nine year old about it. I couldn’t remember what year the flood occurred, but he did. This older gentleman is a member of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. This remarkable man has all of his mental facilities and has a wonderful sense of recollection.
The reason I recall the story of the flood is because my Aunt Estella Beck Strawderman and her Daughter Shirley were caught up by the flood that occurred in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. They were washed away by the high water and tossed into a tree. Estella and Shirley managed to cling to the branches until they were seen and rescued.
After the flood, my Grandfather Edson Thomas Beck tore down the family farmhouse and built two smaller homes on the banks of Indian Creek in the town of Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The homes were constructed from reclaimed lumber taken from the old farmhouse.
Behind my parents Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s house there was a small stream, runoff water from our natural spring. In the springtime melting snow caused it to overflow its banksand flood the lower flat part of the yard. Debris of trash from Route 711 would wash down and fill the stream. My dad would shovel the gravel, broken bottles, and other orts to reopen the channel. As kids we played in the stream, but had to be careful of broken glass or sharp pieces of metal.
Several years ago, another torrential rain event caused flooding in the Mount Pleasant and Connellsville areas of Pennsylvania. Many streams rose rapidly, doing much damage locally.
Because Pittsburgh is a confluence of three rivers, the snow and ice melt downs or intense rain storms in the southwestern Pennsylvania mountainside will cause flooding at the Point where the Monongehela, Allegheny, and Ohio Rivers conjoin.

 Delicate
Today the word delicate crossed my mind. I wondered if it was a word that was mentioned in the Bible. When I looked it up, I found that the word delicate is mentioned several times in Jeremiah, Deuteronomy, Isaiah, and in the book of Micah. The meanings there were interpreted as dainty or luxurious. Often the meaning of the word delicate was paired with the idea of something being tender. Parallel meanings that I thought of immediately were dainty or easily damaged. Another thought that scurried through my brain at almost the same time was the fabric settings on my washing machine and my clothes dryer.
Delicate is not a word that’s used very much anymore. At one time adults, especially parents used the idea of delicate when they were choosing language being spoken while they were in the presence of children. The morals of that time caused them to be cautious and eliminate these harsh or vulgar words when children were in the room. Adults didn’t feel the language was appropriaate for the child’s delicate or tender ears to hear. The child’s brain wasn’t mature enough to be exposed to undrestand the meanings of the fowl utterings of a “drunken sailor.”
Slowly the language of the gutter infiltrated society. Twenty years ago the street language being used today would not have been uttered nor tolerated, especially if it was said in front of a “lady.” It was uncouth and uncaceptable. Today the taboo of curse words has expanded so that women are just as guilty of weilding those worda and breaching that wall of protection. The language of women now will often rival the roughness of their male counterparts.
This corrupt verbiage has infiltrated our homes. Parents will laugh when their children pick up the disrespectful attitudes and the gutter talk. Too often these words are spoken by the parents. They no longer seem to care about the “delicate ears” of their children. Television, movies, and modern day music seems to have no filter and children are exposed to these indelicate words from all sides.
The words and ideas from which we once sheltered children are now being foisted on them at a much younger age. Adults are forcing ideas of “gender” and sex on these young people who have no wisdom, experience, or understanding of what they are being asked.
Maybe instead of allowing our children to be confused by this worldly pressure, we should return to treating our children as delicate and precious things and not allow the evils of today to crush, ruin, and damage them.

 Waterproofing Ourselves
As our Pastor shared that too many churches have gotten away from preaching the Word of God and away from the teaching of biblical truth, my mind made a connection. Recently I paid the premium on the waterproofing company insurancce for my basement. Before they came and made the necessary repairs, I would get water into my basement ankle deep with every heavy rain. Their repairs eliminated that problem and I was happy.
Many “churches” have strayed from preaching the truths found in the pages of the Bible and seem more interested in entertaining the congregation. Some have chosen different versions of the Bible that eliminate passages of the text. Some pastors will tell a moral story and never open or quote the Scripture. Some pastors will introduce traditions, placing them on par with the actual Word of God. These ideas reminded me of the need to waterproof ourselves and stop the seepage of the world from entering our churches and our lives.
When the dampness from the seepaage enters our basements, molds and mildew will groww and cover the walls introducing illnesses, making us sick, just as sin will pollute and make our souls sick. The dampness is unhealthy. So is the stain leftt by the introduction of sin in the world coming into the sanctuary and into our souls.
The laborers who waterproofed my home opened drainage ditches around my basement to divert the excess water away from my basement; just as God provides protection when His instructions are carried out to divert the world. Weak, bulging walls must be strengthened and cracks in the foundation must be secured and leaks plugged. Next those workers made catch basins adding pumps to remove the invading flow of water from the outside.
A heavy coating of sealant on the insside walls and on the outside prevents water from sneaking inside. The armor of God does much the same thing to prevent ourselves and our churches from being saturated by the world. Be alert for the wiles of the world in your life and in your church. Do not allow the deluge of “worldly wisdom” overwhelm you. Seek the truth of the Word of God. Be ye transformed and don’t be conformed to the world. (Romans 12:2-3)

 Cutting Corners
When I was in the United States Navy as a corpsman, I developed a deeper interest in model railroading. After my shift was done; I didn’t have a lot to keep my active mind busy. HO gage was small enough for me to keep with my belongings and I began to build trackside accessories. An Exacto knife, a thin piece of wood, and Elmer’s glue was all I needed. My first project was to fashion two tunnel portals, shaped like old tunnel adits where they built wooden walls to prevent debris from falling down onto the tracks. My next project was a trestle bridge seven inches high and eighteen inches long. I had to study a photo to make it look real. Then I built a water tank like those supplying water to the steam engines. It had an arm that could be lowered and raised back into place. With the use of some tongue blades I constructed a train station with benches, a teller window, and windows. A platform stretched along one side with a freight room attached. It was definitely a labor to complete. Getting them home on an airplane is another story entirely. I still have them stored somewhere in my attic.
I made a small jewelry box for a friend. It was a rectangle about six inches by four inches and three inches deep. The corners were hand-carved dovetails. It also had a fitted lid with a carved a bunch of grapes to decorate the top. During this time I was carving miniatures. One I can remember was of an elephant that was about ¾ of an inch high. Another was a small frog with a crown on its head. Most of my carvings were limited by the amount and type wood I had on hand.
The last project I carved happened much later. I got the idea to carve a figure of Jesus Christ with His arms stretched out. I thought once it was completed, I’d use metal pins and attach the image onto a cross made of separate pieces of wood. It was coming along quite well. The soft pine shaped easily. The arms and cupped hands were nearly finished. The legs protruding from the loincloth were done. The chest and abdomen were well shaped. Christ’s hair and thorns were very realistic. The face was being shaped, but hadn’t yet emerged from the beard as of yet. Somehow one arm of the soft pine broke off. At first I was devastated, but God reminded me that I shouldn’t be making graven images and the entire project ended up in the trash. It was never finished.

 As It Was in the Time of Noah
All through the night I could hear the rain on my house roof. Sometimes it had aalmost ceased, while at other times it was a downpour. I couldn’t help but think of the times of Noah and the flood. We still will joke after a deluge about someone again building an ark as Noah did, but Noah, the ark, and the flood wasn’t a joke. It was a time of judgement. It was a time when God’s wrath came down from heaven and bubbled forth from beneath the earth. It was a time when God saw the sin and depredation that mankind ad created for themselves, turning to sin, and embracing it.
In the Bible book of Matthew it goes on to say that in the time of Noah the people were eating, drinking, marrying, and giving in marriage. It wasn’t the common things that angered God, but it was the people were ignoring Him, their Creator. There was no time for Him.
In Genesis the Bible explains that in the time of Noah the eartth was corrupt. Mankind had perverted the perfect world that He created and filled it with violence. Mankind had followed its desire for the flesh; proud of their sins and were flaunting it in their everyday life.
God watched as the wickedness of mankind became more and more accepted and promoted. It came to the point that every evil imagination possible filled man’s heart and sought to fill it with wicked sinful thoughts and deeds continually.
Only Noah found grace in the eyes of God and God gave Noah the design for the ark. He shared a way that Noah and his family might escape God’s wrath and be saved from the coming destruction. Noah and his family built the ark, all the while Noah shared the LORD’s prediction of the upcoming time of destruction and telling those around him to repent while there was still time. No one was listening. Once Noah and his family were inside the ark, God Himself closed the door, sealing them safely inside away from the flood judgement of God.
Each day we see wickedness being touted as acceptible and sinfulness is being pushed forward proudly as normal. Those who would condemn it as sin are denigrated as intolerant and somehow wicked themselves. Is it again coming closer again to a time of Noah?

 In the Midst
I have several conflicting ideas for plots and have been strugglig to separate them and continue with some rational lines of thought. Some I have been struggling with for a few years and onthers are more recent. For those who know that I have written several books about a retired homicide detective from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, I have two plots I am struggling with. One plot is complicated like a bowl of spaghetti and I can’t untangle it. The other is more written for Tommy Minerd’s wife Cora and I need more study on self defense for women before I get too deep into it.
There is another plot character named Luigi Garibaldi, a gambler on the run from a cuckolded casino boss. I used him to complete a story in a book with several other writers as a money raiser. This story was loosely based on a missionary trip driving from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania through the northeast into Canada and the trip by ship from Newfoundland and up the coast of Labrador. The book-in-the- making uses Luigi as the center character finding out about a shceme of two brothers who are collecting roadkill and pets to sell in their butcher shop and restaurant. Another story in the works with him that is almost finished is about stolen religious items: a Torah, an Iconic Mother and Christ Child painting, an early printing of a Bible, and two Native American ceremonial masks.
I also have a book that I’ve written and need to polish it. The plot centers is the same story of the Good Samaritan in the Bible, but being told by the person who was beaten and left for dead. The twist is that the thief hanging on the cross beside Jesus was the robber who assaulted him. The plot weaves around meeting Jesus and seeing Jesus forgive the thief that had left him for dead.
I have several short nostalgic stories that tell poignant fictional tales of yesteryear that I want to put together in an album. Some are make-a-person-feel-good stories while several of the others tug at the reader’s heartstrings.I may need several more to bind enough to make a thin book.
The latest attempt I am writing is about a fictional trapper named Curtis and a big brute of a dog named Maude. It relays their adventures in the mountain wilderness and their struggles to survive the harsh winter weather. In a way it is like the book Robinson Caruso in that Curtis finds a Native American near death and helps him back to health to become a helpmate and friend.
I wonder how many if any I will be able to finish.

 The Beauty of Solomon’s Temple
I’ve been reading the passages of First Kings where Solomon has listed the LORD’s design for building the temple in Jerusalem, Israel. His father David had already gathered much of the material necessary for its construction, but the task of following God’s blueprint fell onto thte Solomon’s shoulders. Solomon gathered the cedars from Lebanon for the beams, pilllars, and doors of the ssanctuary. Many of those beams, pillars, and doors were covered in gold. The presious stones and the stones for the walls and floors were shaped and fashioned off site tto remove the noise and dust from the temple.
The text lists the actual dimensions for the several porches and courts. There are verses that describe the pillars of brass and capiters for the pillars. He had artisans to make a “sea of molten brass” with knops compasing the sea cast in two rows. Its brim was wrought like lilies and it stood on the backs of twelve brass oxen. On and on in multiple passages the text describes the wonders that the craftsmen wrought. It must have been something to see. At one time Solomon’s Temple was considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It had to be an impressive sight because it drew kings, queens, and visitors from surrounding areas to come to Solomon’s court.
The Temple was designed as a place for the LORD to reside when He came to earth. I can’t help think that even though the temple as wondrous as, it was could not compare to the glorious realm of heaven that God designed and created with His imagination and hands.
I can see in my mind’s eye God looking at Solomon’s temple like an earthly father seeing a preschooler’s first drawings with crayons. The father may have no idea wht the child has drawn, but he is thrilled that his child has used its time and talents to make something for him with its limited skill.
I can feel that the LORD inspected the workmanship with the eye of a Father seeing something that His child had dedicated and offered to Him as a gift; the Father viewing the gift with the eyes of love for His child. The child’s gift of love is what impressed the Father even though it did not have the quality of something that God could have created. Our gifts of love, although inadequate is what our heavenly Father sees.

 A Store of Store Stories
I’ve mentioned before in my blog the stores of Gabriel’s and Gabriel Brothers. I saw television advertisements saying that they remodeled and renamed their stores. We locals have always shortened the name and lovingly called the store Gabe’s. That is now their new name, emblazoned across their bright blue remodeled store fronts.
Thoughts of that story jogged memories of my daughter Amanda and she reminded me of other Gabe’s stories. My mother-in-law, Retha Morrison was shopping with our family. We had a minivan and ferrying three adults and three children was not a problem. It was a cold winter day. Retha was wearing slacks and black, just above the ankle winter boots. She found a dress that she liked and tried it on. When she came out of the dressing room and asked, “Well, what do you think?” I immediately responded, “You have chicken legs.”
The pale skin of her thin ankles and full calved legs were intensified as they stuck out from beneath the dark colored dress and rose above the black boots. They did indeed look like chicken legs. When Retha looked in the mirror, she had to agree.
Shopping with kids can be exacerbating. This day at Gabe’s was no different. The kids were hiding in the racks of clothing, doing a slow game of hide and seek. It was the parents’ job to keep track of them so they didn’t get lost or weren’t abducted. A rack of stiff darkly dyed jeans was a perfect place for my son Andrew to disappear. It wasn’t long until he reappeared holding out his fist. He said, “Look what I found.”
Opening his hand he showed his treasure. He’d found about $1.50 in quarters. They’d been in one of the pockets of a pair of jeans. Their darkened color told us that the coins had been in the pants while they were being dyed. Needless to say, it caused his two sisters to join him in an unsuccessful treasure hunt.
Gabe’s new stores are a far cry from the store’s humble beginning in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. It was a true “mom and pop” business. The original store waas created by the joining of two houses by a coverd walkway for their display area. Floor space was limited and bargain hunting became a true hunting expedition.

Her Beauty
She stepped onto the streetcar. Her long tresses cascaded over her small shoulders in shimmering chestnut waves. The brightness of her smile immediately filled the entire coach with sunshine. I was pleased that her smile seemed to be directed at me. With amazing grace, she dropped her money into the change box and sauntered down the aisle. She stopped.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
I glanced around. The streetcar was nearly empty and yet she chose the seat beside me.
“N-n-n-o-o,” I managed to stammer.
She slid into the seat. Her delicate scent filled my nostrils. The hem of her skirt moved. I could see the seam of her stocking as it hugged the curve of her calf.
 “I’m on my way home,” she shared coyly glancing at me.
I felt a lump in my throat and couldn’t speak. She was so beautiful.
“My husband isn’t home at present,” she murmured and placed her slender hand on my thigh.
My breath caught in my throat. My brain began to spin as her heady perfume captured me and the full meaning of her suggestion slowly sank in.
She slid her hand up and down my thigh stirring the warm feeling in my loins into a hot flame.
She leand close, her shoulder pressed tightly aginst mine. The rumble of the streetcar as it traveled over the iron tracks matched the roaring in my ears. I was lost in time. The bell sounded as the streetcar came to a stop. Taking my hand she led me down the aisle and off the coach. I held a discarded newspaper in front of me to avoid embarrassment.
We climbed the stairs to the second floor apartment. She unlocked the door and we stepped just inside. She closed the door and locked it behind her. Pulling me close, she whispered in my ear, “What can I get you for supper, dear?”
“Whatever you want, but tomorrow it’s my turn to pick you up on the trolley.”

Just an amusing short story I wrote some time ago and thought I'd share.

Succombing to Terrible Temptaion
I’ve shared before that I am taking part of an experimental drug for Eli Lilly. The medication or a placebo is given to the participants in this study that is to help people with type II diabetes. At one time I was prescribed Ozempic injectable by an endocrinologist. Ozempic caused me to have either nausea or severe heartburn symptoms twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I wasn’t able tolerate it even at half strength dosage. When I called the endoncrinologist’s office, I was told, “But the doctor really wants you to take it.” There seemed to be no compassion or any other advice, so I stopped taking it.
This new medication I’m able to take it by mouth. I knew it would work in a similar way as the injectible medications, so I expected I might have some nausea or heartburn. I wasn’’t disappointed. I did have the symptom of heartburn, but it was so much less and it was tolerable. I continued to take it.
The difficulty of participating in the study is that I have to keep information in several journals and placing the results in a cell phone for storage. Initially, it was a bit overwhelming. Once I got used to the questions aand the places to enter my results, the task seemed less intimidating.
I also am keeping a journal for my dietician. I’m trying to eat healthier and keep a detailed log of what I eat. I am doing my best to integrate the two lists. It still requires two ledgers. I borrow information from one and enter the statistics in the others.
One of my favorite snacks was pepperoncini peppers. I hadn’t eaten them in a while. Seeing them in a store, mI was tempted and bought a jar.When I got home, I ate a few. It was foolish of me. I knew I had a low grade heartburn, but I was unable to resist. The result, I had just shoveled coal onto the fire. It felt as though I had swallowed a blowtorch and for three days I ate a bland diet and swallowed one antacid after another to keep the blast furnace under control. Monday my boiling stomach cauldron had settled to a low simmer. I still continued the bland diet with smaller portions of food, but I was feeling more comfortable. Tuesday I started a slightly expanded diet without fanning the flames. I pray that I don’t stoke the furnace again. Does anyone want a pertial jar of pepperoncini peppers?

 On Labrador Bay
A red boat adrift on a foggy day
Alone and floating in a still wide bay
Water and sky blended a misty gray.
The beauty of Labrador on display
The only color drawing vagrant eye
In monochromatic ocean and sky.
The swoop and dive of screeching seagulls fly
Now locked in memories of days gone by.
My brain has stored these thoughts to fill each page
They are safely locked somewhere in that cage
Present themselves, like actors on a stage.
The scenes are lost and blur as I age.
From the fantail of a docked cargo ship
Light explodes as sun reaches water’s lip
Colors of Labrador Bay amazes
When sun sets, lights dance each ripple blazes.
Sparkling copper and gold treasures appear
Now far away, those memories draw near.

 Elevators of My Youth
In the rear lobby of the gray bank building, a glass encased marquee listed the room numbers for the professionals who had offices above. My mother Sybil Miner Beck located the floor and room number of the doctor we sought. We walked across the white and gray marble floor to stand outside the elevator at one side of the lobby. The frosted globe chandeliers hanging from the plaster fluted ceiling cast its light onto the door. The car wasn’t at the lobby level. And I could see the metal bars of an accordion gate through the thick, diamond-shaped chicken wire impregnated glass window.
I glanced at my mom. She nodded and I pressed the black button with the ivory colored up arrow near the top of a shiny brass plate. Somewhere above in the blackened shaft a bell sounded. “Br-rin-ng.” Above us, the rumble of something heavy being shut followed by the squeak and rattle of something else being closed. Elevators had an operator who controlled the car taking riders to the requested floor. The noise continued to grow in the shaft. I heard the snap of a spark, then the thrum of an electric motor starting. Soon, it was replaced with the whoosh of the car as it descended.
Through the small window I could see thick dirt and grease coated electric cables loop into view, then droop lower as a pale light in the shaft grew stronger. The humming of the motor and the clicking of the elevator car intensified as it dropped into the lobby. A soft swoosh pushed the smell of ozone out of the shaft and into the air around us.
Slowly the heavy platform of the car appeared in the window and slid by the glass. Its hum became louder as it neared its stop. I heard a gentle jiggle of the car leveling with the lobby floor.
A smooth mahogany colored hand reached across the lighted window to unlatch the accordion metal safety gate and scissor it to one side. The hand reappeared. The rasp of metal elevator door slid open with a heavy rumble.
As I stepped inside, I saw the operator. She was a middle aged black woman who smiled as we entered. Her smile revealed a set of dazzling white teeth enhanced by her dark skin. She wore a white button down blouse, white socks, a black skirt, and black tie-on shoes.
“What floor, please?” she asked.
My mom gave her the floor that we wanted. The woman smiled again as she reached for the metal handle and levered the car door closed. The operator shut the accordion gate before settling onto the polished wooden seat.
Grasping the handle of the dial on the green painted metal wall at her side, she pushed it forward and the elevator car slowly rose in the dark shaft. There was a small bump then I felt the vibrations of the motor through the hard soles of my dress shoes. Several floors passed by the window, showing a large white painted numbers on the thick concrete floors. The numbers designated the level of the building.
I saw the numbers 2, then 3, and then 4 come into view. The operator twisted the dial and the elevator slowed as the floor we needed approached. With a small adjustment that made the car jiggle, she stopped the car. With a practiced tug, the accordion gate opened, then she opened the outer door by tugging a long metal handle.
As we moved toward the door, she gave us a dazzling smile and said, “Have a good day.”
“Thank you,” I replied exiting the elevator.

 Who Was That Masked Man
Do you remember watching the old black and white television sets with Howdy Doody, Ma & Pa Kettle, Hopalong Cassidy, The Cisco Kid, and Roy Rogers. There were many others, including cartoons of Tom Terrific and his wonder dog, Mighty Manfred, Felix the Cat, and Our Gang. Laurel and Hardy as well as the different cartoons of the Merry Melodies. The one television program I am specifically speaking is the Lone Ranger with his faithful sidekick Tonto. They would ride into town on their horses, Tonto on his paint and the Lone Ranger on his white stallion. They were coming to right the wrong that was running rampant.
The distinguishing factor that made the Lone Ranger so memorable was that he wore a mask…not like the ones today that covered the mouth, making speaking little more than mumbles, but his covered his face from the nose upwards. Even as a kid, I wondered how the small mask over the eyes kept folks from recognizing him, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the program.
Recently masks are worn over the mouth and nose, effectively disguising the person beneath it. One day I stopped at a local stoe for a loaf of bread and lettuce for a salad. I was greeted by a guy with a beard. I managed to catch sight of it before it disappeared beneath the paper shield. He recognized me because I’d just left the store and removed the mask as soon as the door closed behind me. He greeted me with’ “How have you been?” I replied that I was doing well. He nodded and walked into the store. The voice was familiar, but I still don’t know who was talking to me.
Too often when passing masked people in Wal-Mart I was able to recognize them from their hairstyle or their eyes, but not too often. It’s like I was living in a world of anonymity.
Perhaps that’s what our government wanted. If we can’t recognize each other, how can we assemble and stand firm against their dictatorial practices. The right to assemble is a Constitutional right, but with whom can you assemble?
One assembly I am most thankful was attending church services three times each week. Getting out of the house was a true blessing and being with friends and church family. Our choir was on break for the month of January. I was glad when we ressumed to get ready for our Easter program. I don’t claim to have an excellent singing voice, but the Scripture sayd to make a joyful noise, and I guess I’m able to do that.

Back in the Saddle Again
My birthday was a very busy day with a churcch breakfast. There was a wide variety of food that was more than I could eat even with a small ssample of each. I carefully selected some that I could taste without getting overly full. I barely able to eat what I’d selected and all of it was delicious.
Later I rode with my daughter Anna to a musical that my grnddaughter Celine was in. It was a crazy hip hop type musical withan emphasis on good and bad peer pressure and the possible consequences of each. With that tucked away, my family whisked me away to the Texas Roadhouse. It was a wonderful day. The two servers were wonderful. The more mature gal was vivacious and filled with politeness and good humor. She and a younger server took care of our party of ten. That in itself was remarkable because this was the first time that the younger gal had faced such a large group and the other server was very helpful to meet our party’s needs and to guide the younger gal along.
If anyone has eaten at the Texas Roadhouse for theitr birthday, you probably know what happens next. The servers dragged a sawhorse topped with a Western saddle for the birthday patron to sit on for photos while they loudly announce the name and age of the rider.
This event caused me to think back to my Grandfather Ray Miner’s farm. He had horses. One was a black stallion and the other was an older work horse named Pet. Occassionally Granddad would hoist me onto her broad back and allow me to ride. I can remember that Pet had white coat grizzled with gray. There was no need for a saddle. Pet was a gentle mare.
I can remember riding the ponies at Idlewild Park. There were young people that helped kids off and onto the ponies’ backs and onto the saddles. The workers would lead the ponies along a fenced-in trail with the bridles, not allowing the kids to take control.
The next saddle memory I’ll saddle you with is one that occurred while attending a church camp in Colorado. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I were to ride horses to a campfire for a chuckwagon breakfast. Cindy had very short legs and couldn’t put her feet into the stirrups correctly. She became scared, pulling back on the reins. Festus, the mule that she was riding promptly sat down dumping Cindy to the ground. Cindy rode a jeep to the breakfast and had a sore bottom for months.

 Keeping Secrets
An unusual incident that occurred in my days of student training, I have kept it a secret for all these years. It happened while I was in my obstetrics rotation. One of the doctors decided to do a saddle block on a young woman in labor. The other student nurse who was with me was in her early forties while I was twenty-three.
The doctor eased a long, thin metal tube into place, inside the woman’s vaginal canal, it’s end touching the tip of her cervix. Next, he picked up a syringe with a long needle attached to the tip. The needle was at least ten inches in length. As he inserted needle into the tube, it made the rasping, grating sound of metal on metal.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The sound was too much for the nurse standing beside me and caused her to faint. Fortunately, she was standing between me and a nearby wall. As her knees began to buckle, I leaned my weight, hardly moving at all, against her, pressing her tightly against the wall and keeping her upright.
When in nurses’ training, there was little that as more embarrassing than for a student nurse to faint. It was a bane to a student’s name to have “passed out’. It’s not a black mark against your training, but you can be certain you will be teased about it for a long, long time.
I turned my attention back to the procedure at hand and watched as the doctor completed the block. He had just removed the needle and the metal tube, when I felt a stirring of the weight on my shoulder. The wilted nursing student began to rouse. She shook her head, once, twice and then reclaimed her weight. As she straightened up, I leaned away from her as she stood back onto her feet.
A few seconds later, she leaned close to me and whispered into my ear, “Thank you.” It was a secret that I’ve kept for years.

 Make a Joyful Noise
Last evening I attended a musical event in Mt Pleasant, Pennsylvania. It was titled “Music in Our Schools Month Concert. The Junior High Choir, the Senior High Viking Choir, and the school’s Symphonic Band put on a wonderful program filled with singing and instrumental music. The Junior High Choir sang three selections, the Senior Viking Choir sang three compositions, the Symphonic Band performed three pieces, and finally the choirs and band presented a combined composition as a finale. It was a wonderful evening.
My granddaughter Hannah Yoder was one of the participants in the Junior High Choir. I was able to spend some quality time with her parents and another daughter listening to a variety of music. The chosen pieces covered a wide selection of tempo and compositions. The stage and raised dais was filled with eager young faces which were made more prominent by the members’ ebony clothing. The band director’s selections ran the gambit from a lullaby to a semi-macabre tune where the precussion and winds balanced each other in a give and take of talent. The difficult pieces chosen were played with practiced skill and finesse. The choir members sang just as beautifully, presenting a similar depth of pieces from soft and tender music to several tunes having more lively and upbeat tempos.
All in all it was a wonderful evening. After the performance, I thanked the band director and the choir director for helping me celebrate my upcoming birthday. That earned me a handshake, a smile, and a happy birthday wish.
I will be three quarter of a century old if I should I make it to the weekend. I will say that a “much younger me” never thought that I would see that I would ever reach that age. I marvel at God’s grace and mercy that He has allowed me to live this long. I look around at those friends and family who were much younger than me and have not been so blessed. God in His wisdom has decided to take them home.

 Fair Weather Friend
It was souch a beautiful Sunday. The sunshine and gentle breeze felt wonderful. It was such a pleasure not to have gotten soggy with rain or to be chilled by a strong wind. I was actually tempted to begin the daily walks I put on hold because of the skim of ice, thick snow, gale force winds, and the frigid temperatures. It was an actual pleasure to leave my house and to drive to church. I didn’t have to remove the black ice preventing cover for my windshield, nor was it required of me to scrape the frost from my car windows. There was no need for me to run the heater and remove the misty film on the inside of my windscreen with the defrost fan before I drove away.
The rains from the past few days had the outside of my car relatively clean and I though I was on top of the world. My spritis were furthered lifted as I walked to my car. Several of my purple crocuses had poked their heads out of the ground too line my walkway. The greetings from several birds filled the morning with their cheerful songs.
The small pools of rainwater had nearly disappeared and the soggy muddy spots in the grasss had nearly dried-up.It was a “no mud on my shoes” morning. That was always worth a smile. The only thing missing was the usual colorful sunrise. The lack of clouds didn’t reflect bach the vividly brilliant peacock hues that frequently greet me as the sun climbs out of bed to rise over the slopes of the Laurel Muntains to my east.The view was unrestricted by early morning fog.
The two church services were good. The morning sermon was from Proverbs comparing the wise son and the foolish son. The Pastor shared the blessings and the concerns of each. I picked up a neighbor for the Sunday evening service and drove him to and from church. The topic for the evening service waas from the book of Revelation explaining the last days of man, the Beast, the False Prophet, and Satan himself along with death and hell will be cast into the lake of fire.
Monday is to be another glorious day. I may decide to get some laundry done and out on the line while the weather is fair.

 Time Marches On
Well it’s here, the month of March.  I stand at it door. Even though my birthday is in March it iis a month that I am always fearful to see it approach. So many untoward things have happened in the month of March. Some of which I’d just as soon forget. With each event the anniversary is bittersweet and forgetting it would forget the ending of something important in my life. Although painful, forgetting isn’t an option.
My wife Cindy Morrison Beck passed away on March 25, 2003, twenty-one years ago. She was nearly consumed with ovarian cancer that spread throughout her entire body. It seems just a short time ago she was on a respirator on a hospital bed, in a battle for her life. When I say it was a blessing that she died, people think I am callous and uncaring, but if you have ever held the hand of a person dying with a painful form of cancer, you can understand, Cindy had no pain throughout her struggle. I consider it a blessing from God to have taken her home and freeing her from this disease.
On the third anniversary of Cindy’s death, my mom Sybil Miner Beck passed away on exactly the same day. My family was still reeling from the death of Cindy and then her mom Retha Johnson Morrison who passed away in between. It was an extremely difficult time. My mom had been suffering from the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. Her mind was slowly stolen away by this insidious disease. My mom and all five of her sisters were stricken with this disease. Her sister Violet Miner Bottomley died while talking on the phone to my mom. That event deepened the progression of the disease.
After a series of events that directed my doctor to probe deeper into my health concerns, I underwent a triple bypass surgery three years ago. I was fortunate enough to have the surgery before I had a heart attack and unfortunate enough to be in the hospital during my birthday. Happy birthday to me.
Well March is here. I wonder what the month has in store for me this year?

 This That and the Other
I’m thinking about several things that seem to recently gather around blessings, some for me and some for others. The older I get, the more I understand the phrase, “You can’t outgive God.” I’ve been noticing that since I have been trying to share blessings that God has given to me, I’ve seen that the things God’s given me are going farther to help others and myself.
Let me illustrate by saying that things that we might consider a problem isn’t always so. The chimney to my woodburner has been unusable all winter. At first I thought that was unfortunate, but the wood and coal that I’d purchased last fall has laid untouched. Recently one of my friends told me that he’s had difficulty affording wood and coal for his furnace. I told him there’s no reason for you to be cold, when I have a stack of wood that I’m not using. Please come and take all that you need. God knew ahead of time and allowed me to purchase some wood and coal ahead of time.
God knew that I would have no use for the wood and that my friend would need it. More than that, God gave me the finances to pay the fuel oil that I’d need and that was a double blessing. I haven’t struggled to haul the wood inside during the cold weather months, I haven’t had to haul out the ashes, and the need for me to go up and down several flights of stairs was lessened. The fewer trips decreased the wear and tear on my painful knees.
I believe I’ve shared before that I’m part of an experimental medication study for my diabetes. I tell folks that I am selling myself, preferring to be teased about being a gigilo rather than a human guinea pig. Through the routine office visits, vital signs, and blood samples they monitour my progress. I keep an extensive personal log for them to follow my progress. I’m paid a stipend for my participation. That’s why I say I’m selling myself. The payments help keep money in reserve to pay taxes, insurance, dental bills, and the fuel oil. Hy is it that bills all seem to hit in cluster like the plagues of Egypt. Another blessing I’m getting from the experimental study group is that the company also pays for my insulin and that’s one less monthly cost coming out of my pocket.

A Hair’s Breadth
How much time do we spend thinking about hair… quite a bit actually? When we wake we shower and look in the mirror then we comb or brush it into place. If our hair is thinning or too long, we worry and make plans to have it cut or sometimes think about having hair replaced if its thinning and expanding into baldness. Some men, tired of it all, shave their heads, but even then they aren’t free from hair. Every few days some of the hair begins to sprout and the razor comes out again.
Speaking about a razor, men have to deal with facial hair as well as some women. (Yes women, even you, and don’t say no.) Again, the mirror helps men to trim, shape, or completely scrape off those coarse bristles. Full beards are the exception. Women use the mirror and a pair of tweezers to pluck random growths when they emerge.
Women chase away unwanted hairs on legs, armpits, and private areas using razors, waxes, or depilatories. They subject themselves to pain, scraping, and irritation to look smooth and sleek. Now, men other than the body builders who normally remove body hair to highlight their muscles are following suit, stripping their bodies of the “unnecessary” fur.
The thing that made me think about hair was my childhood neighbor. He was an older man and harrumphed in his throat quite a bit. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he would sit on the front porch and watch the yard as we ran and played. Tired, we often sat on his porch steps and talked yo him. I was fascinated with the crop of hair that protruded from his ears. A thick thatch of coarse hair, like flowers in a vase, stuck out from his ears. I didn’t understand how he could still hear with such a forest growing there. I always said to myself, “I won’t allow mine to get that thick,” and now have a problem, frequently having to trim or pluck before my ear canal fills.
Manufacturers have made all kinds of potions and treatments to get rid of hair, clean and volumize hair, for dry hair or to grow hair. It depends on the person’s need. There are also products to curl, straighten, or to color hair. If you have graying hair, even beards, the products try to make you look young again adding color where color has fled in its old age. They make combs and brushes of all shapes and sizes for your convenience or needs. They play on our vanities and make products to entice and seduce people into trying to buy back our youth.

 

 You’re Out
    Years ago, my son Andrew and my nephew Kenny played instructional baseball for two years. Mostly they just enjoyed playing. One reason all the boys liked to play was one pitcher was a cute young blonde girl. She was a great pitcher as well.
The boys on the team thought they were hot stuff. The team was the Pirates.Because the city of Pittsburgh was close and the city’s professional team is the Pirates. Their team’s uniforms were in the Pirates’ colors; white uniforms with black and gold trim.
    The ball fields sported aqua-blue port-a-potties, but otherwise, the ball fields were well maintained. I’m not sure who mowed and raked the fields, but they did a great job.
    My brother Ken and I helped the coaches at practices with batting, pitching, and throwing with the team. We also supported them by cheering and rooting.
    One day Kenny disappeared. We didn’t notice it until it was time for our team to take the field. We began to look for him. A red-hair topped head popped out of the port-a-potty when we finally noticed him. He had gone inside and used the outhouse only to find that there was no paper in the dispenser. He didn’t know what to do. His only hope was to catch someone’s attention to have them find some tissue.
    My brother Ken searched his car until he found some left-over paper napkins from a fast food restaurant. Kenny’s dignity was preserved and the ball practice went on.
    Occasionaly my brother and I would be pressed into service as umpires to officiate a game. My brother was chosen more often than I, because he was more assertive and more knowledgeable about the rules of the game than me. That was alright with me. I would get so involved in watching the game and I would come close to missing whether the runners were safe or out or hit balls were foul or fair. It was difficult for me to concentrate on those things.
    It was instructional baseball. They guys were learning the basics of the game; it became more and more difficult for my brother to watch some coaches being so hard on their young charges. It really irritated Ken when some coaches were overly rough with the young players. These kids weren’t professionals. They were only just learning the game. It was necessary for coaches to point out mistakes, but not to curse and swear at the boys. The rough treatment actually made my brother angry.
    The next game he was called on to officiate, Ken let the coaches know how he felt. Before the start of the first inning, he called the coaches together and explained his guidelines. “I’m warning you guys twice about cursing, swearing, or being rough with your players and then I’ll throw you out of the game. Consider this your first. Alright, let’s play ball.”

 Dippin’ Knowing the Difference
Dippin’ has several different connotations. Back in history when a charlatan or cad riled up the community they would heat up black, sticky tar and dip the person in it coat the cad in the tar then liberally cover him in feathers. If the crowd was in sensed enough, they would tie the person onto a rail and run him out of town.
History also tells us that farmers and sheepherders would wash the sheep before shearing and dip them in a solution that would kill parasites keeping the flock safe from disease for the coming season. That was the annual sheep dip. The flock would be free of the heavy fleece and free from parasites.
When outhouses were the norm and people lived in larger areas of farms and homesteads, when the privy hole became filled to capacity, the homesteader and farmer would dig another pit close by, move the shanty, and start another repository for their waste products. Later as towns and cities were formed, there was no room to move the outhouses and an occupation grew up emptying the putrid pits to make them usable again. These men were called “honey dippers.” With shovels, buckets, and boots they climbed down inside, hauling away the sewage. Today, men come in a large tanker truck and use a hose to empty septic tanks when they become full.
Also back in the past, men and women used tobacco ground up into a powder. They would sniff this tobacco for the nicotine and to sneeze. Snuff has maintained its popularity, but the tobacco is ground more coarsely and is tucked into the mouth between cheeks and gums. This was called dippin’ snuff. Sometimes the more “elite” will buy snuff that is sewn into small packets, but the results are still the same. That’s their vice, but I do dislike seeing streaks of brown tobacco juice trailing down their chin and staining whiskers. One thing I’, grateful is that most women who chew or dip snuff is that they don’t have beards.
More recently dippin’ sauces have become popular, while a person who gets caught double dippin’ is frowned upon, whether the person has a chip in their hand or whether they are attempting to receive benefits several times from an agency from the same dosor.

 There’s Snow Way
After a pleasant touch of several warm days and the astute assurance from Punxsutawney Phil, I was hoping that the worst of the cold and snow winter weather was being seen in the rearview mirror, it was not to be so. Saturday I woke to six inches of fluffy snow that was being pushed by a very brisk wind. The chilly temperature of twenty-eight degrees with a chill factor of ten degrees Fahrenheit didn’t thrill me. It’s not my cup of tea.
As is my usual habit to clean out my driveway or I couldn’t rest. The habit to have ab open drive started when I had kids in the house and was never sure when an emergency might arise. Donning my snow boots and heavy winter coat, I braved the elements. Grabbing my trusty snow shovel, I cleared the sidewalk to my driveway then shoveled along one side of my car to the end of my drive. I attacked the plowed collection of snowplowed drift piled at the end of my drive by the salt trucks. Other than the jumble at the end of my drive, the snow was fluffy. I knew that drifts would grow higher if I tossed the snow on my side of the road, so I carried each shovelful across the road to dump in an empty field.
Because of the cold, I divided the clearing of my drive into three sections. The first was directly behind my car, slightly wider than my vehicle then went in for a cup of hot tea and to warm my fingers. The next attack was the space beside my car to allow someone to barely pull off the road if they chose to visit. My third assault was to extend that space so someone could actually park their vehicle, even if they drove a pickup truck. I’m praying that the snowplows don’t block me in for church Sunday morning and undo all I’ve done.
I don’t particularly like the cold and snow, but if the wind dies down and the temperature warms a bit, I may break out a pair of cross country skis that I picked up several years ago. I tried them a few times until the ski boots literally fell apart. Recently I was able to buy another pair at a thrift shop. What can I say? I’m frugal. My kids call me cheap, but after paying all of my bills I usually have a bit of money at the end of the month to buy groceries.

 Some Days It Happens
What has my mind wandering down this path? Thoughts have been dribbling in over the past several days as I’ve gotten deeper and deeper into the study program for an experimental diabetes medication. I’ve mentioned before the exhaustive information gathering of my medical history that was required, wanting to know almost every aspect of my surgeries, medical problems, and the length of time that I’ve been taking my each of my present medications. That was a difficult accomplishment.
For the study, it’s necessary for me to maintain a log of my blood sugar measures, my weight, my diet, and what times I eat. Although I’ve not been asked to do so, I’ve included any changes in my health and any symptoms that I might be experiencing. Yesterday I had indigestion, last night I have a headache. I’m not blaming the medication, but it may help me to recognize whether I am having a problem with the medication.
Over the past week I had to delay or postpone some aspects of the studies guidelines because of some mistakes that I made. One day I fell asleep and forgot to take my insulin. Another day I poured my pills, but went downstairs and had to take my meds much later in the day. Each of my mistakes would affect the outcome of my record keeping and alter my blood sugar readings.
I shared my forgetfulness to explain the following. I took my first dose of the new medicine several days ago. The capsules were in a white, square plastic bottle with a label and my patient number on the outside. When I came home from picking up my medication, I placed the bottle on my kitchen counter. The very next day when I went to fetch it to take my next capsule, it wasn’t there. Because of my occasional forgetfulness, I thought I’d misplaced it and began to search for the “missing” bottle. After making several tours of my house, upstairs and downstairs, I started to panic. If I can’t find the meds, will I need to call the study to get more? Will they have more? What am I going to do?
I knew the medication didn’t just walk off, so I began to pray to God for help and made another tour of my house. I was still in bedtime attire wearing a T shirt and pajama pants. I decided to climb into my jeans from the day before and…there protruding from the pocket of my jeans was the bottle of meds. Apparently I’d decided the day before to carry the medication upstairs sticking the bottle in my jeans. What a relief.

 Who Knew I’d Need to Remember
I was examined and cross-examined for three days. Two of those days were for my participation in a new medication program for a drug manufacturer as a trial for a new diabetic medication. I had multiple vials of blood taken, a urine sample, and several electrocardiograms. My eyes were examined and bought new glasses. The cost of exam was paid by the medication trial.
The hardest thing for me was the recollection of dates for my past medical history. Who knew I’d be asked after so many years when my first symptoms of my diabetes began? I was expected to recall the date I had a Pilonidal cyst removed or had my carpal tunnel surgeries done. How long ago was I diagnosed with bone spurs in my neck or the deformity of my arthritic little finger? That wasn’t torturous enough, but they wanted to know dates when I started taking my different medications. I could only try to make educated guesses.
My other stressful questioning happened yesterday when I responded to a letter I received in the mail. It was from the PACE program trying to line up seniors with available programs. When I called, I thought it would be a short conversation and they would say that I made too much money. The Veteran’s Affairs once reached out to me with intentions of assisting me after I retired. During the questioning they said I made too much money to qualify for any veteran programs. I thought the telephone call to PACE would be the same; however it was not to be. The gracious lady who answered my call began a litany of questions that lasted for nearly two hours. One set of questions was how I heated my house. Did I own or rent? Did I need weatherization for my house? What was the cost of heating my home? Did I need electricity to heat my house?
Multiple questions were centered on, did I share my home with anyone. Was there anyone who received grants? Was anyone pregnant in my home? Were any felons in my house? I kept saying I was a widower and the sole occupant, but that didn’t discourage her from asking. I wasn’t barbecued, but I felt I was thoroughly grilled before hanging up.
In finishing she said I may qualify for financial assistance in several areas. Soon I’ll receive a plethora of paperwork, asking the same questions, and requiring proof of my taxes, fuel bills, medical bills, etc. I do believe Pandora’s Box has been opened.
President Reagan said it best, “The nine most hated words to hear are, ‘I’m from the government. I’m here to help you.’”

 Leaving the Door Open
As we were growing up, how many times did your mom yell at you for leaving the door to your house open? It was mostly, “Were you born in a barn?” Or it may have been “Shut the door and don’t let the flies in.” I can remember my mom moving through the house waving a dish cloth in both hands while calling to us kids, “Open the door.” She was rounding up the flies that had managed to get inside and was shooing them back outside.
That doesn’t happen very often today because we have fitted screens on the outside of our windows and not the ones that propped the window open and was spread to fill the window casing side to side to allow the outside breeze to cool the house. And for those people who have air conditioning, it would be even rarer for flies to invade the house.
I heard a phrase on the radio that sent my thoughts racing down this pathway. It was basically an observation about Leftists and Leftist politicians. He said that they will try doors to promote their agenda and if they find that there is no resistance, they will enter, take over that room, and try to open more doors. When they can push their ideas into accomplishments, they will continue to keep on pushing. It is the embodiment of the old adage “give a person an inch and they’ll take a yard.”
This is exactly what Satan does. He will push temptations into our paths. He will constantly try the doorknobs of our soul and if we don’t resist, he will try to find more ways to draw us into other sins or draw us deeper into the sin which we’ve yielded once. It will be a constant and daily battle once Satan has discovered a chink in our armor or found an unguarded door. Satan has one advantage; he studies and knows our weaknesses. But those who have accepted Christ as their Savior have already won the battle. God the Father has placed the Holy Spirit inside of us and when Satan attacks, Satan can only gain entrance if we bypass the Holy Spirit’s protection to invite Satan in.
Christ has already won the victory. We only need to stand strong when Satan tried to turn the doorknob. Keep the door locked.

 It’s All History
I’m not an in depth historian nor am I a genealogist, I do enjoy uncovering bits and pieces from the past. Local history is often fascinating and isn’t taught in schools or passed down in oral tales from one generation to another. So many times I find tidbits as I volunteer at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. Our organization is dedicated to preserving local artifacts, news articles, marriage certificates, and death notices. It is a rewarding endeavor of love of the people, the history, and the area of the Laurel Highlands. It is our attempt to preserve for future generations the rich history of the land, the dedication of the people, and the contributions to agriculture, industry, and to transportation.
We also have an area dedicated to the brave military men and women who sacrificed much from the Revolutionary War, French and Indian War, Civil War, WW I and WWII, and information on the Korean and Vietnam Wars. The Society is frequently called by folk trying to find information on people, places, and events that occurred and we do our best to research for the answers.
The Historical Society has become a repository for old photographs: tintypes, sepia, and even a few colored pictures. There is a section dedicated to school photos and local sports teams. Other photographs cover a wide range of subjects from military scenes and people, to places, businesses, and animals. Articles on display include a stone pestle, chains with froe, and iron tools. Everyday items like the Gold Dust Twins cleanser, sugar sacks, and an ornate casket handle. Right now, we have nostalgic calendar covers in one display case. There is a section reserved for military memorabilia, photographs, and uniforms with a musket with bayonet.
The Society has census listings going back to the 1600s, deeds, and information from local cemeteries and those interred there. There are multiple volumes of ledgers listing obituaries, family histories, diaries, and mercantile receipts and exchanges.
Visitors and new members are always welcome to visit and or to donate local items that are no longer wanted. We will make copies of your photographs to add to our knowledge of our history. Hours are 11:00 am to 3 pm every Wednesday and Saturday 10:00 am to 2 pm. The Society is located at 1698 State Route 711, Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Stop by and visit.

Another Step Forward
I am moving along with each progressive step of the process for my volunteering for diabetic medication study program. My appointment to have an eye examination by their ophthalmologist is now behind me. This older physician gave me an extremely thorough exam. He didn’t use the newer high fangled instruments that the Wal-Mart eye center uses, but he did all of the testing himself there were no techs to man the older machinery in his office that I recalled from my youth.
I’ve worn glasses since second grade. My glasses I was wearing were the cause of me needing sutures by old Doc Norton in his Melcroft office. A swinging bat during a recess softball game popped the lens out of the frames and cut my eyebrow. It created a flap that hung down over my eye. My mom Sybil Miner Beck borrowed a car to pick me up at school and drive to Melcroft. I can still remember the “hospital” smell of the exam room and the sting of the disinfectant as he cleaned the wound. He told me that I was lucky; the scar would be hidden in the hair of my eyebrow, if you can call being hit in the face with a baseball bat.
One thing that I appreciated about this doctor was that he took the time to explain each test he preformed, why he was doing the test, and explaining each finding and what it meant to my vision. He was congenial and shared things about my family and his. He is a doctor that takes the time to be human and I really liked that.
Although I recently had an eye examination, I acquiesced to having another eye examination because it was one of the requirements of the study and…the study covered the cost. Everything this doctor shared with me made sense, and although I was told by the Wal-Mart examiner there was no need for a change in lenses, this doctor explained why one of my eyes was seeing through a lens that was too strong and the other eye was straining because the lens was too weak. We shall see when my new glasses come in.
I didn’t think that I could wear contact lenses, but he said I could wear soft lenses, even with my astigmatism. I’d been wearing graduated lenses for years. He said if I wanted I could wear lenses that dealt with my nearsightedness only and could remove my glasses for reading and close work. I know that he told the truth. I often remove my glasses when I am reading.

 Oh Poo
Several years ago, I was driving in Mount Pleasant with Anna Beck Prinkey my daughter. We stopped at a traffic light and saw a car coming in the opposite direction. It stopped at the light. When I looked I thought I could see the silhouette of the driver with sun glinting off the surface of the sunglasses she was wearing. The inside of the car remained dark and only the glasses stood out.
I turned to Anna and shared my thoughts with her, saying “All I can see of the driver is the sunglasses. It looks like his eyes are glowing.”
Anna replied, “Yeah, but I can see the silhouette too, but her eyes do look like they are glowing.”
When the stoplight turned green and the car started to pull forward the angle of the sun on the windshield and silhouette of the woman disappeared and the so did her glasses. What appeared was totally unexpected.
On the windshield was bird crap. Two splotches of white poop were positioned exactly in front of the driver’s face. It looked like the mirrored lenses of a pair of sunglasses.
I think the thing that amazed me most was the poop was directly in front of her face and that she could see around it to drive.
Another story that includes bird poop involved my dad. He’d been outside working, probably washing his car or mowing the grass. He decided to come back inside after he had finished. He came into the house upset. A bird had flown over while he was walking up the hill and dropped a load on my dad. Not only did the bird poop in Dad’s hair, but managed to put some inside of his ear. The poop was white, runny, and plenteous. He headed directly to the bathroom and scrubbed himself until it was all gone.
Like the old adage, “Aren’t you glad cows don’t fly?”
Since we are talking about poop, I’ll tell a hunting story. Ken, me, and our dad were hunting in our usual place near Somerset, Pennsylvania. We’d taken Dad there for years. Dad walked to “his spot” and saw hunter’s orange in his area. He changed direction and sat nearby. The orange was in eyesight. all day long. Dad sat and watched for a deer. Dad didn’t see the orange move all morning. When he left the area, he walked closer so he could see the “hunter.” What he saw was something was just a hunter’s hat. The hunter had apparently taken a dump and used the hat to clean his bottom and left the hat behind. Dad hadn’t gone to his spot because of a phantom hunter.

 The Scent of a Woman (Fictional Story)
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 me had subsided, becoming less intense and less frequent. It wasn’t that I loved her less; it was that the hurt I felt I couldn’t continue without me going insane. Time slowly blunted the sharp edge of my grief to the point I could almost take a breath without missing her. My heart would occasionally make a few beats without the feeling of crushing pain. It became slightly easier to climb out of bed each morning. I was awake, feeling less tired from my restless, image-filled slumber.
There were still photographs of her on the wall, bureau, and other areas of our home. They served as a reminder of what a gracious and loving person she was. Seeing her face was sometimes painful, but it also gave comfort to me. It made me feel that she was somehow still near.
It was work that kept me lucid. Every day, I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and drove to my job. The work routine had always been set apart from my life with her. The separateness of it allowed me to continue to function in at least some part of my life. I didn’t say live, but I managed to exist 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 bills, paychecks, old check books, financial statements, and other odds and ends. The first cardboard box I chose wasn’t large. It seemed no time at all; I’d reached the bottom. There was a trash bag at my side, filled with the discards. I returned important papers that I still thought needed to be saved. When I returned the box there was another carton tucked to the 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. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulled the carton close. “What it could be?”
I slipped my fingers beneath the tightly folded flaps, lifting the overlapping tabs that secured the top of the box. Tugging steadily, they finally separated with a soft pop. Anxious to see what was inside, I leaned over it. Tears quickly welled up in my eyes. The box was filled with clothing that Rose had at one time saved. Although they were washed and clean, her scent remained. As I opened the box the sachet floated free.
Pandora’s Box had been violated. There was no way for me to return it to the way it was before it had been accidentally breached. Old wounds were revived. The intense pain was still there. It had been buried deep, but now it was reopened. Memories escaped in a rush of love.