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?