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.