Mechanically Dyslexic
When my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was alive, she would comment on my mechanical skills saying thet I was mechanically retarded. I told her that I preferred to be called mechanically dyslexic. She wasn’t far from wrong. My brain was wired to be creative and not logical. My carpentry and electrical skills are minimal at best. I managed to install several ceiling fans in my home without setting a fire, blowing a fuse box, or electrocuting myself.
Yesterday was an example of my lack of mechanical dexterity. I accompanied a friend to West Virginia. She was to have a procedure that required anesthesia and she asked if I owould drive her back home afterward because she would not be allowed to drive for twenty-four hours. Because we are good friends, I readilly accepted. She drove ther truck down to the hospital because she likes to drive and sfter all, it was her truck.
When the procedure was over, I was told to go outside and fetch the truck. No big deal, right? But because I’d never driven her truck, I had to first adjust the seat. I couldn’t squeeze my long legs and chubby body beneath the steering wheel. Once that was accomplished, I looked at her keyring to find the magic key that would start her vehicle.
There were about ten keys hanging from the fob on a ring, most looked like house keys or keys to a padlock and none would fit into the trucks lock. I tried. I kept sorting through them, looking at the ring and the fob. There was nothing that resembled a key that would allow me to start the engine.
The starting system on my car was completely different. I needed to have my fob in my car with push button starter on my car’s dashboard and there was nothing that resembled a key or the push button start with her keyring. When I looked up, I could see her waiting in a wheelchair at the hospital’s entrance. With no other options, I decided to leave the truck, walk upa and ask her which key.
She had seen the truck hadn’t moved and was wondering why? When I handed her the keys, she pressed a small, unmarked raised chrome button on the fob and much to my surprise, a hidden key emerged like a miniature switchblade. I was thoroughly impressed. I’d never seen a key like that. The rest of the drive home was uneventful. We stopped for breakfast and chuckled at my mistake.

 Another Tie of the Month Club Member
Stephen, the summer intern at Mt. Zion Community Church has become a friend and as we’ve worked together on projects we talked and I shered the story of the tie of the month club I made for a friend another for his son. Steven thouht it was a cool idea and wanted one for one of hiis college buddies and the obliging person who loves to pass along a smile, I created another rendition.
I went on an excursion through my closet supply and selected the most out of date, most gaudy, and ugliest ties I could find at out of my own collection. I selected about thirteen of the most horrid ties I could find and gave them to Steven.
I advised him to wrap each tie individually to make the delayed agony of seeing each tie emerge last as long as possible. For each tie, I wrote a “cute” saying that described the tie and alternate uses for it. The printed monthly poem was to be cut and attached to each package. I think the first tie was for New Year’s Eve and was a print to echo the winter holiday. I can’t remember each tie and the sayings, but possibly for Independence Day, I remember offfering a red tie with red blue and white stripes. There was a different verse and tie for the different months.
There were wide ties, narrow ties, medium ties; ties with stripes, designs, or polka dots, but my favorite tie was a very narrow one. It was dark burgandy color with a shiny design woven into the fabric. It was probably in style when Bobby socks and the D. A. haircuts were the in things. It was so long ago that I can’t remember the words of the whole note, but I know the alternate suggestion I offered, if he didn’t want to wear it for a tie, was that he could keep it in his pocket when he was hunting and could use it to drag his deer out of the woods.
The accompanting letter went something like this: Dear sir; you have been enrolled in the “Tie of the Month Club” by a friend. We are sending all of the ties at once so we can keep the postage costs of our service to a minimum for all of our customers. We are relying on your honesty, integrity, and discretion that you only will open one package at a time for the months designated on the accompanying cards. Opening one at a time will enhance the gift and extend the joy of the gift. Thank you again for joining the “Tie of the month Club” and hope you will continue to be a satisfied customer. Sincerely John Doe, president.
The collection of ties and rhymes made Steven smile in anticipation of the surprise his buddy would get on receiving the package. Now all I have to do is wait to see how much the new member enjoys his membership.
Another Tie of the Month Club Member
Stephen, the summer intern at Mt. Zion Community Church has become a friend and as we’ve worked together on projects we talked and I shered the story of the tie of the month club I made for a friend another for his son. Steven thouht it was a cool idea and wanted one for one of hiis college buddies and the obliging person who loves to pass along a smile, I created another rendition.
I went on an excursion through my closet supply and selected the most out of date, most gaudy, and ugliest ties I could find at out of my own collection. I selected about thirteen of the most horrid ties I could find and gave them to Steven.
I advised him to wrap each tie individually to make the delayed agony of seeing each tie emerge last as long as possible. For each tie, I wrote a “cute” saying that described the tie and alternate uses for it. The printed monthly poem was to be cut and attached to each package. I think the first tie was for New Year’s Eve and was a print to echo the winter holiday. I can’t remember each tie and the sayings, but possibly for Independence Day, I remember offfering a red tie with red blue and white stripes. There was a different verse and tie for the different months.
There were wide ties, narrow ties, medium ties; ties with stripes, designs, or polka dots, but my favorite tie was a very narrow one. It was dark burgandy color with a shiny design woven into the fabric. It was probably in style when Bobby socks and the D. A. haircuts were the in things. It was so long ago that I can’t remember the words of the whole note, but I know the alternate suggestion I offered, if he didn’t want to wear it for a tie, was that he could keep it in his pocket when he was hunting and could use it to drag his deer out of the woods.
The accompanting letter went something like this: Dear sir; you have been enrolled in the “Tie of the Month Club” by a friend. We are sending all of the ties at once so we can keep the postage costs of our service to a minimum for all of our customers. We are relying on your honesty, integrity, and discretion that you only will open one package at a time for the months designated on the accompanying cards. Opening one at a time will enhance the gift and extend the joy of the gift. Thank you again for joining the “Tie of the month Club” and hope you will continue to be a satisfied customer. Sincerely John Doe, president.
The collection of ties and rhymes made Steven smile in anticipation of the surprise his buddy would get on receiving the package. Now all I have to do is wait to see how much the new member enjoys his membership.

 Your Cheatin Heart
“Your Cheatin Heart” was a popular song that filled the Country Western radio air waves at one time and my Mom Sybil Miner Beck would sometimes sing parts of that song when I was a child. It was brought to my mind because I had a restless night, waking everal times as I made an attempt to slumber. I couldn’t get the pillow adjusted comfortably under my head. The temperature dropped outside and the breeze through the open window strengthed so I had to get up to partially close window. My hip began to ache as I tried to sleep on my side and was forced adjust my position several times. The ceiling fan was running too fast and the breeze from the whirling blades chilled my feet and the covering blanket was either too warm or wasn’t heavy enough.
Another partial lyric section of Your Cheatin’ Heart talks about a restless night and that is what I had. Aalthough I didn’t walk the floor and my tears didn’t fall like rain, I was wakened several times to adjust the comfort level off something. I didn’t cry and cry as the song’s lyrics describe, but all through the night each attempt to stay asleep failed and aonther part of the lyrics would manifest itself with “but sleep won’t come the whole night through,” One irritating thing after another decided to visit to keep me out of slumberland and looking in.
I tossed and turned seeking that sweet spot where I could drift to a night of restful sleep, but it failed. Too often other irriatants intruded seeking my attention. I am sure naptime will come early today. I hope my reclining chair will be more restful.

 Are We Ever Satisfied
    Too dry, too wet, too hot, too cold; are we ever satisfied? Not enough money, too busy, bored; do we ever have enough? Worse than that, are we ever just thankful? When our needs are met, do we want more? It’s like when we’re eating and there is one slice of pot roast or a few small potatoes left, even though we’re feeling full, do we sit there wondering, “That was so tasty, maybe…” Then we decide, “I can’t let that go to waste” and it goes to our waist instead. We push away from the table, waddle over to the sofa, and collapse in a stupor, wondering why we’re so tired.
    In America, too many have so much and yet we are so ungrateful, unthankful for what we have. In many places, food, water, and adequate housing are just a dream. They don’t want equality; they want a chance to earn what we have so abundantly available. I know that there are children that go to bed hungry, according to government statistics, but with food kitchens, food pantries, and welfare, that should already be addressed.
    There was a time when churches handled these needs, but more and more the government has stepped in with so many rules and regulations, it nearly impossible for them to function. Churches kept tabs on the people who really had a need discernong those who choose not to work and refusing to try and lift themselves out of poverty. They knew the destitute from the lazy. The churches meted out chaarity to meet the needs of the needy.
    The government stepped in, always thinking that it could do better. There is so much waste and inefficiency of the bureaucracy that much of the resources are lost and fed back to the federal system. The government has taken the place of the “bread winners” and “fathers” to single parent homes. Often the money distributed to feed the children goes to alcohol, tobacco, and drugs. The local communities had a better handle on these situations and wouldn’t have allowed the abuse that is rampant today.

 Busy Hot Summer Days Simmer
It has been hot the past few days and those who predict the weather say there is a long stretch ahead. It always seems that the pace of my life quickens as the heat rises, although I’ve had plenty of things to keep me busy in the winter.
The volunter work at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and the monthly meetings are only one part of it. I am editor of their newsletter and imagining ideas for the articles are scarce. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m being lazy or if my brain is running in neutral.
The Mount Zion Community Church is getting ready for vacation Bible school. The theme for the program will be the farm. I have been helping to create barnyard scenes for the auditorium and several classrooms. Some of the decorations were reused from past years, while other items are erected from cardboard, two by fours, paint, papier mache, and milk jugs. Some props are on loan from the congregation to try to give the feeling of being in a barn or on a farm. All sorts of animals peer out from stalls, cluster at chicken coops, or raom the classrooms. They aren’t ignoring the fields of corn, grain, sunflowers, or stacks of hay. One thing I am grateful for is that the areas are air conditioned. Yesterday I helped for a short time to replace ceiling tile in the gym and the gym isn’t air conditioned. I was glad when I left the last few replacement panels to others.
Today there is a workday at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society located in Stahlsrown. We are still sorting the contents of twelve boxes of binders, photographs, and documents donated by the family of a member who is deceased. Once they are reviewed, they must be asessioned to facilitate retrieval in the future. It does no good if we have an item and can’t find it. Many of those documents are family histories, cemetery lists, and obituaries. All must be added to our inventory.

Fathers
    My father Carl Beck was never an emotional man. Showing love wasn’t easy for him. A pat on the head or a swat on the behind was his way of saying “Good job.” He did give occasional hugs, but I can’t remember a kiss. He went to work, paid for the things we needed, kept us fed, and built more onto the house when the size of our family grew. I guess he put his love into the tangible things in our lives.
He meted out justice, gave us chores to do, and taught us right from wrong. One taboo for him was never to be late. It was always, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” Growing up wasn’t always easy, but then again life isn’t always easy. If you are finding it is easy, you’re going with the flow and most of the time it’s the wrong direction. He took us to church Sunday mornings and evenings and to prayer meeting on Wednesday evenings. We worshipped God in a small congregation in the Clinton Church of God. My father’s fixation on being where you are supposed to be and “On Time” (Which actually meant early.) can be best described in the following vignette.
It was winter and very snowy. The roads were very slick and snow covered. Sunday mornings meant we WERE going to church. All of us piled into the car and we started out. I am sure it was thirty minutes early for a fifteen minute drive. There were several ways to get to church and all of them involved going uphill. Dad tried one way without success, the second way and no success, and on the third try we managed to get there. Pulling into the parking lot of the church, we opened our car door to get out and we could hear the congregation singing the first hymn. Dad called, “Kids. Get back into the car. We’re going home.”
Later in life, my dad was in a nursing home. He couldn’t stay at home and care for himself and we couldn’t keep two people in his home to help him walk. It was more than balance and it always took two people to help him.
His birthday was June 21st, 1923. He always bragged, “I was born on the longest day of the year.” He died September 4, 2013. I visited him twice a week and when I would leave, I would always tell him “I love you.” I wanted him to know that I knew he was saying “I love you” over all of those years.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
 

 The Chair
The old man sits in a chair by the door
waiting for someone who's been there before.
His skin is as thin as rice paper page,
drooping face speckled with spots of his age.
Drowsy head bobbing with white hair askew,
as light leaves the sky and lawn fills with dew
No headlights appear and shaking his head
Weary he rises and shuffles to bed

The old man sits by the door in a chair
no children or friends come visit him there.
Stirring as thoughts of them surface and rise.
With muscles twitching he opens his eyes,
through rheumy lenses and limited view
he sees youth passing, amazed how time flew.
The door remains closed, sealed tightly with rust.
The chair's now empty, filled only with dust.

The Sink Window
The old woman stands, leans against the sink,
and stares through windows to look and to think
Her steps now falter on knees filled with pain.
Wistfully her eyes stare down the long lane.
Wrinkles map her face. Age spots back her hands
wearying quickly from daily demands
No family seen she turns and shakes her head,
closing the curtains she hobbles to bed.

The old woman wakes and on the sink leans,
her body is bent, face lined with ravines.
She stares at her hands, once supple and sure,
resting on the sink misshapen and sore.
Puckered lips sag into a toothless frown.
Her youth’s flown away her clock has wound down.
The curtains are closed as stray breezes sigh,
The windows are dark. The sink remains dry.

Busy Children
Children caught up in personal affairs
no time for one who sits alone in chairs,
no time to give them and no time to think
of someone who waits and stands at the sink.
Busy with family everyday
not recognizing how time slips away.
Someday you will be waiting for a call,
wanting affection, no matter how small.

Quickly the children grow and leave the nest,
lifetime spouses die and are laid to rest.
Embers of hope weaken and barely glows
when no one calls and no one shows.
Traveling salesmen are greeted with glee
and “Witnesses” invited in for tea.
It will happen much sooner than you think,
and be you in the chair or at the sink.

 Summer Intern
Our church Mt. Zion Community Church has gotten an intern for eleven weeks this summer. We have provided an opening for a person from Ambassador Bible College of Latimore, North Carolina to spend the summer learing abouth the ins and outs of the function of a church and its pastor. These men are studying to become missionaries, chrch planters, or pastors.
The young man we are hosting this summer is Stephen Andrews. When I firs met him, he reminded me of Abe Lincoln. He had a serious almost somber face with a similar beard, but his was a lighter sandy color. I was told by others who worked more closely with him that he was a very friendly fellow and decided to find out for myself, so I invited him to lunch Sunday afternoon after chuech and Sunday school. Of course we ate at a local restaurant. I have cooked for myself for almost 20 years and haven’t died or wasted away, but I am not a gourmand.
As we sat and talked waiting for the food to arrive, I found that he did smile and had a very pleasant personality. I found out that he was from a rural setting in the state of Maine and that he’d worked construction before going to college. I shared that I’d visited Mount Katahdan many years ago, probably before he was born.
This past Tuesday my daughter Anna Prinkey asked me to drop off some paint. She was at church making props for our up-coming vacation Bible school. The theme this year is at the farm, so many of the props reflect barns, animals, and windmills. I found her in the church workshop with my niece Hannah Yoder. They were converting the game warden’s lodge from last year into a barn.
Stephen and our Pastor were also making props. They were constructing cows to look out of the baptistry. Not the entire cow, but head and shoulders to look out above the half wall. I helped them with the design of these papier mache creatures. I noticed that the water abd juice jugs had the general shape of a cow’s muzzle. We decided it would weigh less and eliminate some work to turn these plastic jugs into the shapes needed for our cows.
Stephen’s carpentry skills came in handy as we made support for our herd of cattle, if you can call two “cows” a herd. Between my corny jokes and my daughter’s puns, Stephen and our Pastor laughed as we got to know each other better.

 Meet and Greet
I had a wonderful weekend that started Friday. Friday was a retreat held in Ramey, Pennsylvania. It was at the Servant’s Heart Camp. The camp is a Christian camp that is on the shore of a large lake nestled in the woods. Since its inception, it has been a place where the love of God is celebrated and has opened its doors to different groups of various age groups. There are weeks during the summer where the camp hosts people of different ages. Last Friday it was for the “Young at Heart” and the camp invited those over sixty to spend the day listening to the preaching of God’s Word and enjoying the fellowship of other senior Christians.
I’ve spent time at the camp before as a camper and as a volunteer helping with various chores to ready the cabins for the next batch of campers. The cabins that house the campers are constructed of logs and very much remind me of the KOA cabins at many areas of the United States. So the camp has a special place in my heart.
When our group arrived Friday morning and as we drove across the spillway of the dam, I was able to see the foundation of the much anticipated main lodge under construction. It was such a blessed sight to finally see. I felt a lump form in my throat. I could hardly take my eyes from it to see the beauty surrounding me. Pray that the camp will continue to grow and that the finances will come in to finish the construction of the main lidge.
We exited our van and thus began the mingling of other older Christian men and women with the remarkable younger, sprier staff members. The staff was always thoughtful and courteous helping in many ways to make our stay enjoyable. It seems strange that at seventy-five I found myself in the middle age group. While talking with others, I found some at the low end of sixty and others in their late eighties.
The camp spreads over two hundred acres with multiple areas set for games, zip line, and canoeing. Some of the men and women had limited walking ability and were chauffered to the different areas by staff in four-wheel-drive vehicles. As usual, the brunch and evening meals weres great as were the two messages given. I have forgotten the minister’s name but he spoke elegantly. The camp staff presented a humorous skit.
The rain stayed away all day until we were climbing back into our van to head for home. For more information, check out the camp at www.shcm.org or info@shcm.org.

Wicked Kids

            Whether you can believe it or not, my brother Ken, my sister Kathy, and I were not always angels when we were children. If our poor mother Sybil Miner Beck was alive, she’d confirm it. We were listening to music on an old tape recorder and got tired of hearing the same songs over and over. Out of boredom and because it was one of those bulky reel to reel tape recorders, we devised a plan. I’m not sure if it was me who suggested it, but all three of us liked the idea.

            We were upstairs bedroom, turning the volume of the recorder low. Using a blank tape, one of us said, “Mom!” After a few seconds of silence, we said, “Mom!” again a little louder. After a third pause in a bit louder, we said, “MOM!”

Our plan was almost ready. After rewinding the tape, we put the recorder at top of the steps. Everything was in place except us kids. We knew Mom was around the corner in the kitchen. Turning the recorder button to maximum volume and hitting play, we hustled down the stairs into the living room and hid in the corner beside the couch. We had a good view of the doorway where we could see and hear what was happening.

The familiar voice of our recording floated down from its ceiling high nest, “Mom!”

From the kitchen Mom replied, “What?”

We chuckled. Our warped plan was starting out well.

After several seconds, the voice from above called out again, but a bit louder, “Mom!”

“What do you kids want?”  She replied with an edge of irritation in her reply.

Again, we didn’t answer. After another pause, a loud voice called, “MOM!”

We could hear Mom lay aside whatever utensil she had been using. Anger sounded in her approaching footsteps as she stormed to the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, she yelled. “I’m not answering you kids again. What do you want?”

From behind her she heard the muffled snickers and suppressed laughter. Spinning around, she said, “I’m busy. Unless you want me to find something for you to do, you need to disappear.” You’d have thought we were from the spirit world we vanished so quickly.

She wasn’t in the best mood the rest of the day.

Another day we must have been a constant irritant asking Mom to do one thing or another. She finally said, “Mom, mom, mom. That’s all I hear. I wish my name was mud!” and being the obliging and loving children that we were, we called her “mud” for the rest of the day when we wanted her.
Wicked Kids
    Whether you can believe it or not, my brother Ken, my sister Kathy, and I were not always angels when we were children. If our poor mother Sybil Miner Beck was alive, she’d confirm it. We were listening to music on an old tape recorder and got tired of hearing the same songs over and over. Out of boredom and because it was one of those bulky reel to reel tape recorders, we devised a plan. I’m not sure if it was me who suggested it, but all three of us liked the idea.
    We were upstairs bedroom, turning the volume of the recorder low. Using a blank tape, one of us said, “Mom!” After a few seconds of silence, we said, “Mom!” again a little louder. After a third pause in a bit louder, we said, “MOM!”
Our plan was almost ready. After rewinding the tape, we put the recorder at top of the steps. Everything was in place except us kids. We knew Mom was around the corner in the kitchen. Turning the recorder button to maximum volume and hitting play, we hustled down the stairs into the living room and hid in the corner beside the couch. We had a good view of the doorway where we could see and hear what was happening.
The familiar voice of our recording floated down from its ceiling high nest, “Mom!”
From the kitchen Mom replied, “What?”
We chuckled. Our warped plan was starting out well.
After several seconds, the voice from above called out again, but a bit louder, “Mom!”
“What do you kids want?”  She replied with an edge of irritation in her reply.
Again, we didn’t answer. After another pause, a loud voice called, “MOM!”
We could hear Mom lay aside whatever utensil she had been using. Anger sounded in her approaching footsteps as she stormed to the bottom of the stairs. Looking up, she yelled. “I’m not answering you kids again. What do you want?”
From behind her she heard the muffled snickers and suppressed laughter. Spinning around, she said, “I’m busy. Unless you want me to find something for you to do, you need to disappear.” You’d have thought we were from the spirit world we vanished so quickly.
She wasn’t in the best mood the rest of the day.
Another day we must have been a constant irritant asking Mom to do one thing or another. She finally said, “Mom, mom, mom. That’s all I hear. I wish my name was mud!” and being the obliging and loving children that we were, we called her “mud” for the rest of the day when we wanted her.

 I Have Been Trying
For quite some time I have been trying to get a Facebook friend of mine to go to church with me. I share talks with him and have offered to have him join me for walks. My daily walks have lessened and I really need to get back into them. I give him a shoulder to cry oon when he is having problems. I finally managed to meet him for a quiet meal at a local restaurant. We had a nice meal and talked, but so far I haven’t been able to entice him to come to church.
He knows our church and went to school there before our church school closed its doors. His reluctance to visit with me is because he has fallen away from basic tenets of the church and has become slack in following the precepts of the Bible. I still will try to help drawa him back to church.
There is more rain in the forecast and I have been struggling to keep up with mowing the grass. I managed to wash two loads of clothes and cut the grass yesterday. There was one small area of grass I wanted to get cut. That small patch gets swampy when it’s wet and the weather forcasters are predicting several days of rain, but now even it is trimmed.
Later today I plan to volunteer at the Stahlstown Historical Society. If you haven’t visited yet, there are displays of local history, access to records, and information on many family histories. The space is less than we would really like to have. It limits what can be put on display and able to be viewed. It is a repository for artifacts, photographs, maps, and documents of our local past. The hours are 11 am to 3 pm Wednesdays and 10 am to 2 pm on Saturdays. The admission is FREE.
I am still planning on downsizing. A four bedroom house is much too large for an old man. I am trying to decide whether to go through the jungle of paperwork to purchase another smaller house or whether I want to move into a rental. There are pros and cons to both, I just need to decide and forge ahead. Without my wife and without kids in the home, my homme has become just a house and no longer the home where my memories are stored.

 Youthful Summer Days
I’m sure that we all can remember those days of summer after school was over and the freedom to go outside, run and play, or to ride a bike and swim. It was a time of enjoyment that wasn’t limited because the sun was hot or the air still, sultry, and humid. Socks and shoes were optional. Tincture of Merthiolate or merchorochrome was applied to scrapes and cuts after being washed with soap. Shirts were only worn as an afterthought and sunscreen was unheard of back then. Mom would dab on apple cider vinegar to cool the sunburned skin when we chose not to wear a shirt.
Rainy days provided mud and puddles to play in and would often earn Mom’s anger when we brought the outside indoors. We had play clothes which were actually good clothes that were getting too small or were nearly worn out.
As kids, summer seemed to stretch on forever. Endless days of sunshine that slowly flowed by until the days of school and being imprisoned inside for another entire schoool term approached. The educational walls claimed so much of each day. It allowed so little respite because of tasks assigned by the teacher. It was called homework. The only reprieve from the homework came when Mom called for supper or when the weekdays finally ecame the weekend and a short window of escape arrived. Softballs and bats were exchanged for footballs. The fields that were once makeshift baseball diamonds become the football gridirons.
Autumn turns to winter and the footballs are stored. Heavy coats, boots, mittens, and scarves are resurrected. Sometimes larger sizes were purchased. It was necessary because our bodies had grown from the year before. Sleds, toboggans, skates, and skis are dragged from basements, sheds, and garages, dusted, and put to use. Ice, snow, and blustery wind do little to deter the escape from the confines of the house. Snow days become a temporary pardon from the weekday prison of school.
Now those summer days fly by all too quickly and we complain about the heat, the rain, or the cold. Ah, to have the heart of a child again.