Disagreeing in an Agreeable Way
What has happened in America today? Are we reverting to a time in our past when someone who disagrees with your view on an issue calls for bloodshed in a duel? Is that confrontation so severe the ability to discuss a point of view no longer matters. Have we allowed change to physical violence to batter their opponent into conforming to their view? Have we lost the ability to argue our ideas, present our points, and to listen to another person’s thoughts on a matter still being willing to weigh what the other person has to say?
Have we regressed to the point when people with dissenting voices shout down an opposing point of view are being presented without giving the speaker a chance to lay out his reasoning? Anarchy and mob violence have replaced the person on a soapbox at a street corner preaching, sharing a different concept, or even sharing a new point of view. Whether the views expressed are reasonable or rational, the individual has the constitutionally guaranteed right to speak freely. What we have so recently labeled as hate or offensive speech was ignored and allowed to die without laws. Ideas that have no basis of truth, fail if not promoted or encouraged by media. In today’s society, a person sharing the absolute truth found in God’s Word the Bible, is ridiculed and labeled as intolerant. That person is branded as a hatemonger, narrow minded, a bigot, or racist even though the view isn’t against a nationality or skin color.
Galatians 4:16 says, “Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?” Today, the Liberal crowd has turned truth upside down and with a warped logic and distorted view of facts. In Isaiah 5:20 and 21, God’s Word says in the last days, “Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter! Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight.”
Tried and true morals are being cast aside, replaced with the “If-it-feels-good do it” perception of life. Jeremiah 17:9 says, “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it” Jeremiah 9:5,6, also says, “And they will deceive every one his neighbour, and will not speak the truth: they have taught their tongue to speak lies, and weary themselves to commit iniquity. Thine habitation is in the midst of deceit; through deceit they refuse to know me, saith the LORD.” In the last days…?

What Ever Happened to Quality
I took the time to repair some clothing. I mended two pair of underwear where the stitching of the seams started to separate. Old brands of underwear held together for many years of wearing and washing. Those old cotton briefs held together until the cotton panels developed holes because they actually wore out. Newer materials and designs just don’t seem to last and I haven’t even begun to talk about the inferior waistbands where the “gummy” stretch seems to disintegrate much too quickly.
What happened to the old cloth materials? Long johns were often made of wool, cotton, or flannel. All wore like iron and kept us warm, but I found the wool of my Navy blue uniforms was itchy as all get out and the wool chewed the hair off my legs as I wore them.
My Navy dungarees were made of cotton and they too wore quite well. The dungarees were the work uniform for sailors. It was necessary for the dungarees to stand up to the daily rigors of hard work and outlast the challenges in all kinds of weather and doing all sorts of dirty tasks.
The denim of today is a far cry from the original heavy dark blue material. Too often customers now want pants that look as if they are old and worn from working hard instead of having jeans that only look worn and faded. Today’s “fashion” jeans have slits and holes already placed into the legs by the manufacturers instead of intact denim jeans. To me, those cuts only hasten those holey pants to wear out more quickly.
When I was a kid, if we found clothing with holes while shopping at Gabriel’s, we‘d stick them back on the rack. Gabe’s was a seconds store and often its clothing was possibly thirds. Holes like that or worse could be found while searching for intact clothing. Holey and mis-sewn or mismatched clothing were cast aside.
Finally I’ll remind us of the double-knit horrors of my past. This material seemed like it would never wear out, but it was easily snagged on sharp objects. Double-knit shirts and polyester pants were the rage; wrinkled shirts and trousers, only a worry of the past. Ironing was a chore no more. The ease that the polyester threads accepted dyes made flowered patterns and garish plaids the “in thing.” Solid colors were almost something of the past as printed shirts and plaid bell-bottom pants came into fashion.
I imagine the “ripped” jean trend will eventually come to an end. I just pray the polyester bell-bottom plaid trousers NEVER make a return to be the “in thing.”

 Chasing Memories
Yesterday I had the privilege to attend a memorial service and the dedication of the Indian Head Bridge in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The span crosses the Indian Creek carrying traffic from Route 711 into the town of Indian Head. The bridge was built and rebuilt several times in its history. Today, the bridge was dedicated as a memorial in honor of my childhood friend, Sgt Earl Duane Barclay who was killed in Vietnam.
The concrete span was often the playground for me and my brother Kenneth Beck. My friend Earl Duane Barclay lived in Indian Head with his parents Evelyn and Bill Barclay with several siblings. Our friendship grew because of his visits to his grandparents Jesse and Carrie Hall. They were our neighbors. His nickname was “Weiner.” Because we lived several miles apart, many others were closer to him than I. But when he would visit, we would rough house, explore, build things, and generally find things to do.
With several ponds behind my parent’s place were several water-filled ditches that were filled with frogs, tadpoles, and crayfish. We’d hit those hunting grounds with glass jars and capture several jars full before we’d release them.
There was always used lumber around. We would add to or tear apart an old chicken coop, turning it into a clubhouse of sorts. The only thing we needed was our imagination and a hammer. Most of the boards already had nails in them. We’d pull them out and pound the rusted nails into straight reusable nails until we’d fill an empty tin can before we started our construction project.
I can’t remember if Weiner was there when we built the heaviest toboggan ever or if he was there when we created a weight lifting set from mine-cart wheels and an iron bar. He probably was there when his cousins and I built a cannon from a metal bed frame. Rock filled tin can ammunition and cherry bomb would blast the tin cans into the leafy tree foliage overhead. We’d play baseball in the vacant field across from Hall’s Arco then swim in Indian Creek after a hot game.
I know that he was with us one Halloween. Several of us hooligans were “Halloweening” in Indian Head. There was a stone house with a large picture window. A low hedge was next to the house under the window. His younger brother Bobby was there and we dared him to soap the window. The owners of the house were sitting next to the window. Bobby disappeared, the hedge started to move, and an arm rose from the bushes. Bobby began to soap the window and the people inside were following his arm’s every move.

Two Tuesdays
This is the second Tuesday of this month that I’ve been inundated with appointments. Tuesday last in the midst of the winter storm I had an eight-thirty dental appointment for a tooth repair of a large chip. Driving to Normalville, Pennsylvania was a daunting task on the snow covered roads. I was further discouraged by the falling snow and the prospect of driving to my next appointment down the often treacherous Springfield Pike. The hills and curves are always disconcerting in the fog or when the snow and ice coat the roads. I was early to the appointment. I watched the clock tick past my appointment time and still wasn’t escorted to the dental chair. The procedure didn’t take very long and I was soon in my car heading for my next appointment. It is a blind study for a new medication for diabetes.
I was early for my diabetic appointment, even though I drove slowly. My speed was always under 40, mostly 35 miles per hour and didn’t have any problems. It was my first visit and didn’t know what to expect. The appointment was mostly answering questions and filling out paperwork. The nurse did draw one tube of my blood for the project.
My next stop was to talk with my dietician. We reviewed the choices that I made for my daily menu. As we review my meals, he makes suggestions on how I can improve, but all in all he was happy with my selections.
This past Tuesday I had another round of tri-fecta of appointments. My first is the second visit to the diabetic study program. More history, vitals, and the necessary signing of permissions were the fare. I am still being evaluated as to whether or not I will be a good candidate. I know some subjects will be taking the new medication while others will be given a placebo. A placebo is basically a sugar pill or a capsule or an inert substance. The difference in the effectiveness of the drug will be compared with the placebo. I am becoming friends with the two ladies who are gathering my information.
My next appointment was for my annual eye examination. Everything went well there and I didn’t need to get new glasses or other problems with my vision. The eye drops caused me to be careful driving to get my haircut.
My last appointment is much closer to home. I was in need of a haircut again. My hair becomes fly-away when it gets long and I look like a wild man. The lady who cuts my hair has a salon is only several hundred yards from my front door. She is so pleasant and I always enjoy talking with her. Home at last.

 Rainbows and Beyond
    I believe I may have shared before my grandmother Anna Beck’s love for bright colors or it may have just been my grandfather Edson’s frugal spirit that colored their home. This was so apparent when anyone walked into their kitchen. The metal base cabinets and sink were white as was an old Hoosier cupboard and a white side cabinet. They were the islands of serenity in a swirl of color. The tiles on the floor made a sea of bright red. Brilliant blue Congoleum with white lined blocks rose halfway up the walls. Above the blue barrier, the wall was painted a bright sunshine yellow. The primitive hand-crafted upper cupboards were painted pale, pastel of sea-foam green. To complete the rainbow effect, ruffled lavender curtains hung at the windows. A small powder room claimed one corner of the kitchen.
    This area was the masterpiece of mélange. The rest of their home was more subdued with only splashes of color in the living room, dining room, and Granddad’s office. Old time flowered carpet made the centerpiece, while the dark wood dining room table and chairs rested on it with the china cupboard watching over all. In the living room, a plump maroon sofa and chair surrounded another flowered carpet; their material was stiff and itchy to sit on.
    Linoleum of pale gray embossed with flowers covered the office floor. In the center were Granddad’s dark multi-drawered wooden desk, his wooden roller chair, and two chairs for clients. Granddad made wills, deeds, and completed income taxes.
    In one corner of the office huddled a pale green metal stand; the resting place for his old Underwood typewriter. In the opposite corner, a huge safe hibernated; its single brass-eyed dial glowed. When the safe needed to be moved, 2X8 planks were required so it wouldn’t break through the old pine, tongue and groove flooring. A door led to an adjoining and narrow waiting room that held a few more chairs and a pale gray filing cabinet. Several calendars hung on the wall; the pictures helped to eliminate the drabness of the room.
    Grandma’s love for colors must have rubbed off onto her daughters Estella Strawderman and Helen Stahl. Fastidiousness and wide choices of décor could be seen in their homes as well, but I will leave those stories for another time.

 Cold and Snow
It has been a cold and snowy week thus far. Snow and frigid weather are my two least favorite thing for me to endure. I’ve posted in the past that I do sometimes on occasion enjoy clearing my driveway. The solitude and silence with the large flakes of snow cushioning the noise and confusion of the present time can be so relaxing. The darkness of the night and the curtain of the falling snow separate me from the hustle and bustle of my world.
However this week hasn’t put me in that frame of mind. The frigid temperature and the snow were pushed into my area by strong winds. The result was that many people around me were deprived of electricity and heat. That is never a good thing. Some of the outages were for only a few hours while other folk endured the hardship for days.
I must give credit to the linemen and the tree trimmers; they did a marvelous job getting the power restored. Even though the winds hadn’t subsided, they were dealing with the frigid temperatures and the wind to lessen the effects of the damage.
I started to write to share my experience. I am thanking God that I didn’t lose power and I was able to stay warm during this onslaught of cold and storms. The story I wanted to share is about Tuesday morning. I had a dental appointment Tuesday morning at eight thirty. I had a damaged tooth. I had an appointment for a diabetes study program. It would be a trial for a new medication. That appointment was for ten o’clock. On Monday afternoon I had a call reminding me of a third appointment at eleven o’clock. Now I was getting nervous. All three in such a short period of time and the roads were snow covered.
I left home early and was at my dentist’s office half an hour early. Al went well and now I faced the real challenge, the Springfield Pike. It is a series of hills and turns that have been the locations of many accidents. It I can be the bane of drivers who face its perils on a daily basis.
Gingerly I made my way along the snow covered road and made it to my second appointment early as well. I hadn’t driven over forty miles per hour until I got onto Route 119 and managed the speed of forty six. I filled out the papers and gave my sample of blood before getting back into my car for my third and final appointment. Again I was early. I gladly turned into my drive at home.

 Something to Dye For
I am not a clothes horse nor am I vain person, but when I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania I was given a dress code. I was to wear dress slacks, button down shirt, and a neck tie. Over the years I bought dark blue pants to wear in the winter and tan slacks for the summer. The dark blue slacks were less likely to show dirt from the slush and splash of ashes and grit. I liked lighter colors when spring rolled around after wearing winter colors. I already owned several ties. Sometimes by a few more, especially ties with a holiday theme. Ties I purchased were usually from thrift shops or yard sales. As fellow workers saw my various ties some would give me more. One switchboard lady had a neck tie made for me from one of her blouses, but that’s a story I’ve shared before.
Because my hair was sandy colored, my whiskers have always been red. When I was stationed in Iceland as a corpsman in the United States Navy I was able to grow a full beard and mingle with the Icelandic people unrecognized as an outsider. I kept the beard when I was discharged from the Navy and started college to pursue a career in nursing. I probably wouldn’t have shaved then, but for the constant haranguing from my mom Sybil Miner Beck. She fussed every time she saw me. I was living at home at the time. She said that it made her feel old. When I shaved it off, it took her two weeks to notice that it was gone. She didn’t believe me until my dad Edson Carl Beck corroborated my story.
So where does the dying part of the tale begin? The first happened when I was in nursing school and my hair became grossly soiled with blood from an accident truck driver patient. My uniform and hair were thick with blood and clots. I took some hydrogen peroxide to soak my uniform. The clots were sticking to my hair. Not thinking, I used peroxide with shampoo. The clots came out, but it also brought out red highlights in my hair. I’ve also told this detailed tale in past stories.
I dyed the second time when I worked at Frick. I had a red goatee beard. As I aged, gray crept into my hair and began to display itself in my beard, but only at the corners of my mouth. When I began to look like a cartoon fox with wide jowls of white against the red, I had two choices, to shave it off completely or to hide my encroaching age. I dyed it for about a year until the gray won the war.

 Strange Bedfellows
Quite a few years ago, I went to a hunting camp in Potter County for bear season. The cabin had three rooms with my brother Ken and his son Kenny Jr. One room held the kerosene heater, cook stove, sink, and a foldout couch. Another room held two bunk beds, while the third room was set up as a living room with a couch and recliner chair. The first night at camp, I was so tired. The other beds were taken and I was relegated to the living room recliner. The other hunters said I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep and stay asleep because the other hunter assigned to that room snored.
I was so tired; I didn’t care. I dropped off almost immediately and slept soundly through the entire night. After the second day of trudging through the hills of northern Pennsylvania, I felt weary and thought I’d have no trouble sleeping, but I was wrong…someone had moved a saw mill into the living room. The loud snoring almost pulled down the ceiling tiles and the paint from the walls. I tried to shut out the sounds with a pillow over my head, but to no avail. The irregular breathing and loud snorts didn’t allow volume and variation of the noise. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I gathered my bed linens and headed for the foldout couch in the main room. I rousted my nephew and told him to scoot over. Three people tucked into the foldout couch were very tight, but at least I was away from the locomotive-like snores. The snores could still be heard from there, but a wall separated us and dulled all but the loudest snorts.
My mom Sybil Miner Beck used to tell the story about my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner who was taking care of one of my cousins while his mother was in labor. The cousin nudged Gram while they were sleeping together and said, “I’m scared. I hear something.” Gram said, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. You’re safe. Go back to sleep.” After several times of being awakened, Gram asked, “What does it sound like?” The cousin said, “It sounds like a piggy, Grandma.” Gram said, “Oh, that’s just Grandma snoring. You’ll be just fine. Go back to sleep”

 Snake Oil Salesmen
Snake oil is a term used to describe deceptive marketing, health care fraud, a scam or outright lies. A "snake oil salesman" is a similarly common expression that’s used to describe someone who sells, promotes, or is a proponent of some valueless or fraudulent cure, remedy, or solution. Snake oil comes from the concoction that was sold as a cure-all elixir for many kinds of physical problems and diseases. Many 18th and 19th-century shady entrepreneurs advertised and sold mineral oil mixed with various active and inactive household herbs, spices, drugs, and compounds, but contained no substances derived from actual snakes whatsoever. It was labeled as "snake oil liniment." The peddler made unsubstantiated claims about its efficacy. These patent medicines claimed to be a cure for a panacea of symptoms and diseases were extremely common from the 18th until the 20th century This was particularly in vogue among vendors who marketed addictive drugs such as cocaine, amphetamine, alcohol, and opium-based concoctions or elixirs. They were often sold at medicine shown as medications or products promoting health. Often shills were hired to extol the virtues of the product.
There are still snake oil salesmen today in medicine, politics, telephone scammers, and yes, even in churches. That list includes false teachers, faith healers, and prosperity preachers.
An interesting side note, rotgut whiskey of the old West often had two rattlesnake heads in each barrel. Rotgut wasn’t aged and had extremely high alcohol content. Its recipe quite often used dubious quality of grains and corn in its fermentation bases. Whiskey labeled as bourbon was actually distilled from low-grade molasses. Whiskey that was shipped West in the 1800s might have started out as bourbon but along the way, but it was watered down and mixed with other ingredients to increase profits. One favorite western whiskey recipe was Ol’ Snakehead. Its ingredients were: one gallon of alcohol, a plug or twist of tobacco, black strap molasses, red Spanish peppers for spice, five gallons of river water, and two rattlesnake heads to give it “spirit.” There was a saying, “Drop in a horseshoe. If the shoe sinks, it ain’t ready yet but when it rises to the surface and floats, the whiskey’s ready.”
Now I will share the point I wanted to make about the original snake oil salesman. The Bible says Satan appeared in the Garden of Eden as a serpent. He enticed Eve to eat the forbidden fruit by telling her that she could be like God and know the difference between good and evil. Satan was a liar then and has been passing along the same lie that caused his fall from Heaven. That old snake wanted to be equal to his Creator and he’s been a snake oil salesman ever since.

 School Days
    Several years ago I posted on Face Book a black and white photograph of a fire that consumed the old Poplar Run School. A huge column of black smoke rose as the tar paper roof melted and burned. The building was located between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania where the Poplar Run Road intersected with Route 711. The school was located just below my parent’s place, Carl and Sybil Miner Beck.
    The one room, white washed clapboard school building sported a hand hewn sandstone block foundation. Eight steps were formed of the same stone that were inserted into the earthen bank to create easy access to the hollow of land where the school was nestled. There was just enough room for the teacher to park her car on the berm and still allow the flow of traffic on Route 711. Every weekday Miss Ora Woomer would descend those stairs to open the school. Cold days she would start the fire in the pot bellied stove and on warn days, she would raise the windows to allow the air to circulate and cool the uninsulated building.
    Ora was a roly-poly, short statured woman with close cropped gray hair who wore glasses only when she was in the classroom. The heels of her black lace up shoes would tap loudly as she crossed the wooden floor.
    To one side of the school was the coal and kindling shed. It was the responsibility of the older boys to keep the coal scuttle filled and that there was kindling inside to start the fire for the next morning. At the rear of the building were the two privies, little more than latrines. There was one for the girls and one for the boys. Peeping was discouraged, but it didn’t always deter the more ambitious children.
    Recess was always a much anticipated event where boys would often disappear into the woods that surrounded the school. It was mostly a game of cowboys and Indians. Occasionally, someone would get tied to a tree, unable to respond to the bell announcing that recess was over. When Ora would discover that a child was missing, she would send out a search party, extending recess for nearly another hour, until the “lost” child could be found.
    All of these stories were shared with me by the neighbor boys. If the Poplar Run School would have stayed open for one more year, I would have joined those who could claim that they attended a one room school house. I did get Miss Ora Woomer later as a teacher in third grade in the newly built Springfield Elementary School.

 Corncobs
I can remember seeing a movie where two “city slickers” called country folk corncobs. I remember cartoons with the character Popeye having a corncob pipe clenched in his teeth. There are memories of old people saying they kept a supply of dried corncobs in their outhouses for sanitation purposes.
But my oldest recollection is a faint one, augmented by retellings from my mom, Sybil Miner Beck. One of my great aunts was a backwoods woman. She was as backwoods as Daniel Boone, frontiersman, explorer, and statesman. My great aunt smoked a corncob pipe. It wasn’t very lady like, but it wasn’t unusual for country women of that time to rub snuff or to smoke. She was visiting a friend in the hospital. Smoking was permitted then. The friend was smoking a cigarette when the doctor walked in. The friend who wasn’t to be smoking shifted the cigarette to my great-aunt, who held them both. She refused to smoke either so the doctor wouldn’t know who was smoking either.
Another group of happy memories is of our family’s annual visits to the Sweet Corn Festival in Millersport, Ohio. My parents would stay at my aunt Ina and my uncle “Nicky” and Ina Miner Nicholson in the summer when the ears of corn were yellow, full, and ripe. The festival was almost like a county fair with amusement rides, entertainment, game booths, and lots of good food. One of the community organizations had a large steam engine thing at their booth. It cooked hundreds of the kernel-covered cobs at one time. The ears of sweet corn were pulled out on trays, lifted with tongs, buttered, and served in narrow cardboard boats. Hot and butter flavored, the corn quickly disappeared leaving only sweet flavorful memories, chewed cobs, and butter smeared face, lips, and chins.
When my mom served corn on the cob, we had yellow plastic holders that looked like small corn ears with two metal prongs. When plunged into each end of the cob, it secured the ears, and allowed us to eat the delicious kernels without burning our fingers. My dad, Carl Beck would eat the kernels circling around the cob, while Mom at them like a typewriter, going end to end.
After I married Cindy Morrison Beck, summer get-togethers often had sweet corn served at the family meals. Her dad, Bud would hang a large kettle of water over a wood fire. Once the water boiled, he would fill a pillowcase then drop the ears of corn in to cook. With one swift move, he would lift the pillowcase out, let it cool, then remove the cooked corn. All of the corn was ready to eat at the same time.

 Lost in the Snow
I’m not a person who likes the cold and snow. I am an avowed couch potato when the snow flies and the cold winds blow. Sometimes I am lured outside to keep my driveway clear of snow, but the snowplows are just as determined to close it back up and placing an impassable mound of packed snow and ice at the mouth of my driveway. When my wife was still alive and my kids were living at home, I always made sure the driveway was shoveled and there was at least half a tank of gas in the car. I was never able to be sure there wouldn’t be an emergency. Back then there were no twenty-four hour gas stations if you ran low and had to drive any distance at all.
There were many nights that I would shovel my driveway with snow falling steadily. The impact of the near silence was refreshing. The noise of the tumbling thick snowflakes would make a soft shushing sound as they fell in the darkness around me had a calming effect.
I’d never make it in Alaska with the frigid temperatures. The harsh wind and the potential for a case of frostbite have no appeal for me. There is too much of relying on myself for me to survive there. I am a procrastinator as well as a couch potato. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck labeled me as mechanically retarded and I would respond, “I’m mechanically dyslexic.” Somehow that slight change in the title made it more palatable, but I must agree I am mechanically challenged.
I’ve lived in Pennsylvania most of my life, but as a corpsman in the United States Navy, I was stationed in Orlando, Florida after spending a winter in Great Lakes basic training and then in Keflavik, Iceland. I was far from satisfied with the weather in those places; dealing with frigid temperatures at Great Lakes, mosquitoes and hurricanes while in Florida, or the winter darkness and snow storms in Iceland…no thank you. When I was being discharged in August, I was sent to Philadelphia. The heat and humidity I endured there in the un-air conditioned barracks were stifling. I guess it all comes back to the old phrase, “There’s no place like home.”

 Cheapening
Over the many years of my life I’ve seen new words added to our vocabularies while other words have lost popularity or been discontinued. New terminology has been created to cover the increasing complexity of inventions of the changing world. But what I am concerned about is the cheapening of some words’ meanings. Too many people casually use words that are being hurled in playground episodes, epithets or name calling. When an individual or group of people can no longer rationally debate their differences or are unwilling to act reasonably toward each other, they begin to use thoughtless phrases or toss offensive words at each other.
Take the word “racist.” It was a term to define someone who asserted differences in character, intelligence, etc. judged by skin color or ethnicity alone. It asserted that one person was superior prejudging another based on those differences without knowing the other person. Too often it has become an epithet used when another person doesn’t agree with another’s ideas and has nothing to do with one’s view on race or ethnicity.
The same is true of the word “bigot.” When someone can’t win arguments by reason, another person may resort to calling the opposition a bigot. When a person cannot be swayed or persuaded into a similar view or opinion an opponent is often times called bigoted.
Using the term “Nazi” seems to be the most recent term being used when someone disagrees with the ideas being espoused. The term is a despicable term describing a tyrannical political party that foisted one atrocity after another on dissenters and on a specific race. “Fascist” is another term running parallel to it. Hitler was at the helm of this demented political party and his name is another insult randomly hurled when someone refuses to believe the argument or stands against the opposing belief. Hitler and his followers committed barbaric and horrendous attacks on mankind. They herded men, women, and children into box cars, hauling them to concentration camps as slave labor. They were either worked to death or murdered in gas chambers. Sometimes the skin of a corpse was used to make lamp shades. Gold teeth were extracted and sold. Even their hair was used to stuff furniture. The dead were buried in mass graves and forgotten like trash.
When the people of today casually or loosely toss around words like Hitler, Nazi, Fascist, and concentration camps, they cheapen the real meaning of the horror that is concentrated in those terms. They lessen the true historical facts and gravity those words imply. People need to be able to argue, defend, and debate their points of view without denigrating or cheapening the true meaning of history found in those words.

 So Sick of It
When I was a young guy, my friend Earl Duane Barkley was staying with his grandmother Carrie Hall while his parents drove to the big town of Connellsville, Pennsylvania to shop for groceries. Carrie Hall was my neighbor and Duane and I were good friends. When he visited, came for short vacations, or stayed overnight, we’d get into trouble together. We were the same age. We didn’t actually get into trouble, but we’d build things, explore, and play games.
This particular day, I’m not sure what we were doing when his Mom came home, but she gave me some cashews to eat. She purchased some at one of the five and ten stores. Most of the five and ten cent stores had a confection area of candies and a windowed section that displayed hot Spanish peanuts and cashews near the entrance to the store. They were in a lighted glass case and rotated on a carousel under a heat lamp. The enticing aroma filled the store from the time you entered until you would leave. It beckoned customers to purchase hot nuts. There was a person who would use a large metal scoop to fill the bag with the selected nuts into a white and pale orange striped paper bag. The person would place the bag onto a scale to measure out the correct amount.
They brought some home and gave it to Duane and I to eat. It was the first time I’d ever eaten cashews. I liked the flavor and probably made a pig of myself, eating more then I should have. Later, I got so sick from them. I puked and thought I’d never stop. For years, even the mention of cashews made me turn green.
Another food item that made me so terribly sick was a zucchini boat. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck was given a zucchini. She scooped out the seeded center and filled it with bits of bread, onions, and some of the flesh of the zucchini. She added mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce then baked it. The concoction tasted good on the way down, but it was horrible coming up. I spent the entire evening hovering over the porcelain toilet bowl. Again, it was years before I could think of the words zucchini and food in the same sentence. Looking back at the whole ordeal with the zucchini, it may have been something else that sparked my ill-feeling and aversion to the zucchini, but I still couldn’t see it being served on my dinner table for years.