Everyday Patriots

Everyday Patriots
We run into everyday patriots everywhere. They surround us: when we shop, when we go out to eat, or when we go to church. These people are for the most part go about their business everyday without thought of the important ideals they uphold. From farmers to food service workers, from truckers to teachers, from healthcare workers to hairdressers; all contribute to the fabric of society. We literally bump into them as we go to work, come home from work, and when we vacation. We may meet them when we have problems. If we need someone to repair a leaky roof or a leaky faucet, we can find them. In times of disaster or extreme weather conditions, we have linesmen, we have those who drive the snow plow trucks, and we have the National Guards. If we need emergency care they come to us: firemen, police, ambulance drivers, and paramedics. These men and women work, earn money, pay taxes, and create a stable environment. They form a national entity, a form of government, a national language, and core values that hold a country together.
An everyday patriot may be the postman that faithfully delivers the mail, the person who delivers fresh bread to the grocery store, then person who provides the produce at a roadside stand, or stocks the snacks in our minimarts. They are the folks who grease the gears and keep the cogs engaged that suppliy our daily needs. They are the checkout cashiers. They are the men and women who fill the shelves. They may be the butchers, the bakers, and the candlestick makers. They could be our vehicle’s mechanics. They could be mothers, grandmothers, fathers, or grandfathers. They can be the people uoi meet on the streets walking their dogs.
These everyday patriots are not superheroes in bold costumes, they are everyday patriots. They work, vote, raise their families, and make a community. They can be neighbors, workmates, and even strangers who do some kind deed or show a courtesy. They do their best to create a better world and share it with others. So I say, hooray to our everyday patriots and heroes. May God continue to bless their daily efforts to keep America strong and independent.

Nobody Loves You Like...

Nobody Loves You Like…
The words “I love you” sometimes easily tumble out of our mouths, almost meaningless in today’s society, but they are words to be held precious when they are uttered with real meaning. Like when a parent holds a newborn close and softly whispers those words or when a child hugs a parent’s legs, looks up, and says, “I loves you, Mommy” or “I loves you Daddy.” How about when we’ve found the perfect match and our hearts sing those very same words until they spill out and we take the step to draw that person even closer to us. Sometimes we use these words when a friend becomes so very close and dear to us.
There is another being who loves us with a love that is nearly impossible to describe. It is the love of God. It has existed from eternity past to eternity future. God has shared his desire to adopt us into his family, to make us one of his own. Just like the Prodigal son, God says come home. I allowed my only begotten Son to die that you can have eternal life.
What was unusual about God’s love…he sought us out when we were undeserving of love and not looking for his love. Our Creator offered it to us. We are his creation. He shaped us out of the dust of the ground. This Almighty being now pays attention to us who are only specks of dirt.
His love is universal, offering it to the entire world. The Bible says, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. John 3:16, even though we were still steeped in our sin. Romans 5:8. The Bible also says, “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us…” 1 John 4:10.
It is a gift freely given. It is unearned and unmerited. Isaiah 64:6 says, “But we are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags; and we all do fade as a leaf; and our iniquities, like the wind, have taken us away.” This is God’s view on what mankind can accomplish without him.
Hollywood and the laxness of our vocabulary has cheapened and diminished the power of words like awesome, glorious, and yes… even the word love.
 

Cowabunga Dude

 Cowabunga Dude
For those who are as old as I am or for those who are up to date on television history, you will remember the Howdy Doody Show. It was a kid’s program with a smiling freckle faced marionette named Howdy Doody and the emcee Buffalo Bob. Howdy was dressed in jeans and a gingham shirt while Bob had a fringed buckskin jacket. Later when television shows were colorized, we found out that Howdy had red hair and freckles.
Supporting characters we grew to love were the silent Clarabell the Clown, Chief Thunderthud, and Princess Summerfall Winterspring. One of the key words was Cowabubga to express surprise. There were other marionette and human characters as well as an audience of children.
This phrase word popped back into my vocabulary when Stephen the summer intern was helping to prepare for our church’s summer vacation Bible school. Once the theme for the skits and lessons were decided by our pastor, we began the task of rounding up and creating the props necessary to decorate the dais and classrooms. The theme was “on the farm,” with areas to represent silos, barns, farm market, and the interiors of farmhouses.
Sheep from past Christmas plays were extracted from storage, but our Pastor wanted life-sized cows to peer out of the baptistry. I was helping decorate elsewhere when I stumbled on Stephen and Pastor trying to create the cows. Their idea to use 2 x 4’s for the frame and heads of the cows seemed to be way too heavy and bulky. I saw several gallon-sized water jugs and noticed their shape of the bottoms was nearly the same shape as a cows nose, thus our “cows” took shape.
Since then I’ve teased Stephen with cow items like the candy Cow Tails, a cow greeting card, and Milk Duds. Last week I found a cow costume, full sized and adult. I couldn’t resist. It’s on its way the North Carolina where Stephen is completing his senior year at Ambassador Baptist College in Lattimore, North Carolina. Cowabunga dude, I hope you like it and that it brightens your day.

At the Point

At the Point
Have you ever arrived at a point in your life or a point in a task and you ask yourself, “What am I doing? Am I doing this task well enough, am I doing the job correctly, or has the task become so familiar that I can no longer tell the difference anymore?
Sometimes when I try to write the next pagees in a new book about a trapper and his dog, I am concerned about the writing. Not the plots, because the plots usually are good, but am I being too wordy as I explain and share my thoughts. Are they well enough for my readers to understand what I want them to see or am I sharing more than I need?
I try to share what my characters are thinking, what they are seeing, and their emotions. I want my readers to see things through my eyes. I want them to feel the same emotions that I am feeling. I want the story to seem real to them. I have friends who proof read. They help me to eliminate some of the extraneous thoughts, but occasionally, it will shallow the character and lessen the impact or the emotional connection with the character. Oh, well, my friends don’t always have the last say. I don’t mind when it streamlines the story by eliminating unnecessary rabbit trails and cuts out the tangents that occur when I write.
I have been collecting a number of stories. The themes in each are pieces of nostalgia with the plots cenetering about and around the time of the Christmas holidays. It is to be a series of short stories set in the 1940’s. Each tale shares the emotions of a lost husband or wife. The person who is left behind is drawn back to remember the lost loved one by an accidental scent, a song, a letter, a Christmas ornament, or a Christmas card.
I will continue to write these short stories hoping and praying that I can create something that is enjoyable with a touch nostalgia tossed in to prevent boredom. I pray that I can think of enough plots to actually put them together to complete a book even if it is like the holiday time magazine Ideals.
 

Autumn Chill

 Autumn Chill
The bright sunny days of summer have somehow slipped away. It’s yielded to slightly cooler days and even chillier nights. An extra blanket feels more comfortable when I allow my bedroom window to be cracked open in an otherwise stuffy room. I’ve decided to bring out the flannel sheets; washing and air drying them to remove the stale stored smell. I also need to wash my king sized, hand-sewn patchwork quilt. It’s in the tumbling block pattern. The material is recycled double knit fabric, yarn-knotted to a flannel sheet. Almost every diamond shaped piece has a family story attached to it. The blocks were at one time, someone’s skirt, pants, shirt or blouse. They are easily recognizable by the color or the print pattern. Each block reconnects to a page in my brain’s book of memories.
Apples hang on the trees in the back yard waiting to be picked. Those that are pecked by birds or have fallen to the ground will be tossed to the horses in the pasture behind my house. I really don’t want to make applesauce, apple butter, or apple schnitz this year. I offered them to my kids and had no takers. I may gather a few of the better ones, pare, slice, and freeze someor I may keep a few of the grimes golden to eat. The rest that fall or are damaged I’ll share with the bees or chop them up when I mow my lawn.
It seems each time I try to downsize, I end up storing something else. To those people who say a person can’t take belongings with them to the grave, I’m sure my kids will make room in my coffin. Just teasing, my kids are sorting through some things and getting rid of some of the clutter.
I have one room in my house I describe as decorated in early depression. There are old tools and enamel pots that hang on the walls. They’re too good to throw away, but no longer used for cooking or for work. I have several old photographs hanging to keep the room from looking like a hoarder’s hideaway. Because I’m thinking about getting a smaller house, I kept the Christmas decorations in that room rather than lugging them to the attic. The tub that has the artificial tree is huge and heavy.
The leaves are beginning to turn and it will soon be time to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department’s Sausage and Buckwheat Festival. This year it will be held October, 11, 12, and 13. I’m waiting for my call to join the ranks. I have volunteered for nearly fifty years, working my way up from dishwasher, to cake fryer, and finally to frying sausage.

Ashamed

 Ashamed
Recently, I have been very concerned and upset with the candidates running for the Presidency of the United States of America. I have clashed heads with my friends because I find one candidate more repulsive than the other. I have wasted time sharing my views that have been turned aside by the concerns of the world and not focused on prayer.
I know that God is in control and whether or not I like it, He will choose the next President of America. God has raised up rulers and removed them. He has raised up countries and has laid waste to them. Proverbs 8:15 says, “By me kings reign, and princes decree justice.”
In Daniel 2:21 the Bible says, “And he changeth the times and the seasons: he removeth kings, and setteth up kings: he giveth wisdom unto the wise, and knowledge to them that know understanding:”
Israel, God’s choosen people wanted a king like the pagan nations around them. God granted their wishes, gave them a king, and the Jews have struggled with the men God allowed to ascend the throne to rule over them. He sent them into captivity when the king turned the Jews’ hearts toward evil and away from worshipping Him.
All throughout the Word of God, the LORD shows the reasons for placing some rulers or keeping rulers in office. Sometimes it is to bless those who call on His name and sometimes it is to punish those who have Ignored Him. My time and energy has been focused on something that I in my own strength I can’t change. I have been ignoring my responsibility of praying for God’s will to be done and ignored sharing with my friends and neighbors, the need to have an intimate knowledge with the Lord Jesus Christ. I need to share God’s mission to show His love by sending His Son to earth to carry each of our sins to the cross and to bear the pain and agony of the punishment for the sins we’ve committed.
Let this be my message to you, if I am less vocal and seemingly less concerned with the outcome of the election, it will be true; it will be replaced with concern about and prayers for my friends.

Button, Button, Who Has the Button

 Button, Button, Who Has the Button
    Last night as I crawled into bed and was wondering what I should write about for my blog spot, my eyes fell on the old Ball canning jar filled with buttons, sitting on the top of my chest of drawers and it gave me an idea about some nostalgia that I could share. The jar itself is large, approximately one and a half quarts and the glass is aged, no longer completely clear. It is topped by a zinc lid. Stored inside is a myriad of buttons of different colors and shapes. Many are antiques, passed down in the family to the following generation. Some are new, either bought for a sewing project and never used, while others have been carefully removed from garments that were worn beyond use. Many of these tiny clothing fasteners were toys that kept many grandkids amused for hours, struggling to put them on a string in just the right order. Or when several children gathered, Grandmother Miner would start the game, “Button, button, button, who’s got the button?”
    My grandmother kept her buttons in a metal tin, like many still do, but I put mine in a jar to display their beauty. Like a kaleidoscope, if I get tired of a pattern or wish to see different buttons, I can rotate and shake the jar. Instantly the view has changed. Many of the colors are subdued, white, gray, black, or brown, but even those hues vary. Pops of color, reds, blues, clear rhinestones, polished brass, and silver play hide and seek. Some buttons have two holes pressed through their body while an equal number sport four holes. Then there are buttons that have no holes in their body, but are flat buttons that have a single hole attached and protruding from their backsides. There are a few from my naval uniforms, dark blue with the anchor design pressed into them.
    There is at least one furniture button covered in a coarse, brown nylon material from a couch my mom and dad had when I was a kid. Many of the buttons were old before I was born and many of the buttons bring back memories. Some are plain white or black, removed from shirts or pants. I’m sure that they have stories to tell, but common tales of work and play.
    I have tried to share my thoughts of the beauty I find in the simple, common things that so often we overlook. Instead of saving these memories of metal, plastic, wood, and even ivory, some simply toss them away, used, forgotten, and of no consequence.

Still Visiting Some Old Joints

 Still Visiting Some Old Joints
Aches and pains got me to seek information about the pain in my knees and lower back. After my initial visit to my dctor and voicing my increasing pain, she wrote a prescription for xrays and an echcardiogram. The reason for the echocrdiogram happened when she was listening to my chest. She heard my heart’s irregular rhythm and asked if I felt that. I said it is just a PAC. (Premature atrial contraction) I’ve had them most of my adult life and I’ve learned to ignore them unless there are several in a row. I wore a heart monitor ffor 30 days in the past to rule out atrial fibrillation or flutter. The ineffectual beating of the heart’s atrium (upper chambers) can cause blood clots and strokes which is not good for me or my circulatory system. The test results came back okay. She also scheduled for me to see two specialists for the pain in my knee and my lower back.
Tuesday I saw an orthopedist for the pain in my knee. After reviewing my x-rays, talking with me, and examining my knee he believes it is my old enemy arthritis. The x-rays revealed the bone spurs in my knee joint were growing larger. One of the options he recommended was total knee replacement, but the other was a less invasive option. I chose the latter. I am doing exercises and taking an anti-inflammatory drug.
Wednesday I spent at the Historical Society reviewing the proposed newsletter for mistakes before it goes to the printer and filing more obituaries. Filing obituaries isn’t fun, but it’s a necessary chore that we do. In the evening we drove the church van route and collected two relatively new boys. One was anxious about going with “strangers” but by the return trips we were friends.
Thursday was my appointment for my back pain. I’d always assigned the origin of my pain to a sciatic nerve impingement, but after the doctor reviewed my x-rays and examined me, he feels it is the same enemy arthritis. The area for this arthritis wasn’t in my spine, but in my pelvis at the sacroiliac joint. That joint is fused, but sometimes the arthritis in that joint causes pain. Although the pain was less when he examined me, it was because I’d started on the anti-inflammatory drug the day before.
So for now this old couch potato is to take the new medication and exercise.
Still Visiting Some Old Joints
Aches and pains got me to seek information about the pain in my knees and lower back. After my initial visit to my dctor and voicing my increasing pain, she wrote a prescription for xrays and an echcardiogram. The reason for the echocrdiogram happened when she was listening to my chest. She heard my heart’s irregular rhythm and asked if I felt that. I said it is just a PAC. (Premature atrial contraction) I’ve had them most of my adult life and I’ve learned to ignore them unless there are several in a row. I wore a heart monitor ffor 30 days in the past to rule out atrial fibrillation or flutter. The ineffectual beating of the heart’s atrium (upper chambers) can cause blood clots and strokes which is not good for me or my circulatory system. The test results came back okay. She also scheduled for me to see two specialists for the pain in my knee and my lower back.
Tuesday I saw an orthopedist for the pain in my knee. After reviewing my x-rays, talking with me, and examining my knee he believes it is my old enemy arthritis. The x-rays revealed the bone spurs in my knee joint were growing larger. One of the options he recommended was total knee replacement, but the other was a less invasive option. I chose the latter. I am doing exercises and taking an anti-inflammatory drug.
Wednesday I spent at the Historical Society reviewing the proposed newsletter for mistakes before it goes to the printer and filing more obituaries. Filing obituaries isn’t fun, but it’s a necessary chore that we do. In the evening we drove the church van route and collected two relatively new boys. One was anxious about going with “strangers” but by the return trips we were friends.
Thursday was my appointment for my back pain. I’d always assigned the origin of my pain to a sciatic nerve impingement, but after the doctor reviewed my x-rays and examined me, he feels it is the same enemy arthritis. The area for this arthritis wasn’t in my spine, but in my pelvis at the sacroiliac joint. That joint is fused, but sometimes the arthritis in that joint causes pain. Although the pain was less when he examined me, it was because I’d started on the anti-inflammatory drug the day before.
So for now this old couch potato is to take the new medication and exercise.

Semper Fi

 Semper Fi
Tuesday was an unusually sad day. The second Tuesday of each month is a day that we graduates of Connellsville Area Senior High School gather for a lunch, laugh, and talk about our past and present. We sometimes share our aches, pains, and medical conditions, but we gather to share our lives. We were once classmates, but now have become friends. While waiting for our food to be cooked and served we talk sharing jokes and many serious topics. This past Tuesday was especially difficult. There was one face that was missing at our table.
John Ohler Jr. passed away since our last get-together. His smiling boyish face was often a spark to our laughter and humor. Sometimes his humor was a little risque, but never mean. His white hair and white Fu-Manchu type mustache that extended below his chin belied the boyish good humor hidden behind his sparkling eyes.
At the center of our Tuesday table, one of our classmates set a placce for our U.S.Marine pal. A photo of him in his dress uniform, and other cards of respect as well as a candle decorated the spot where he usually sat and “his chair” remained empty during the meal. It was a solemn time but not completely somber because we shared stories of his antics. Even our regular wait-person told stories about him. It was almost as though his spirit still remained although he was physically missing.
Driving to and from our meeting I was reminded of John. I rarely see a Corvette on the road, but today I saw three newer Corvettes. John had recently purchased a new siny white Corvette and drove it to the last few CAHS lunch gatherings. He had some of our ladies of the luncheon go out and sit inside for photos, even giving a few gals a ride.
He was proud to be a senior of the Connellsville highschool graduates, but even prouder of being a soldier in the United States Marine Corps. He was an in-country warrior of the Vietnam Conflict. He would occasionally mention that he was in combat there, but never shared the horrors that he’d seen, only metioning in hints what he endured.
We missed today you old buddy…Semper Fi.

Youngish Pup Old Dog

 Youngish Pup Old Dog
It was my son Andrew Beck and his wife Renee’s anniversary. Don’t ask me how many, I can’t keep track of the exact date let alone know how may years. I do know it is in the 20 year range because my wife Cindy Morrison Beck died in March about 23 years ago and their wedding was in August of the same year. They wanted to delay their wedding, but Cindy wouldn’t have wanted it that way. They already had everything reserved and the plans were in place. Flying out to Arizonne and the wedding was a bit of a blur, but they havve been happily married and have two beautiful daughters.
When he was in school, he disliked reading. It took a girlfiend and my wife and I buying hotrod magazines to encourage him to read. The girlfriend pushed him to read his homework and the magazines needed him to read to tell him what the photos were all about.
His grandfathers and his uncles were more mechaniccally inclined that I am and his skills tended to follow after them. I was surprised that he went to Allegheny Community College. It was for plumbing. There he got his Masters Deegree in plumbing. I was surprised at the amoount of reading necessary for him to complete the courses. I would have been overwhelmed with the amount of formulas and math that is necessary to understand the hydraulics and flow of water.
His position when he lived in Amarillo, Texas and now here in Pennsylvania requires him to do a lot of reading. He does bids on installations and redoing large projscts. It is necessary for him to a massive amount of paperwork in ordering, codes, etc. He does quite well.
I have been doing the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and I sometimes struggle transferring photos that I find and attach them to the body of the newsletter. I never thought to ask him for help, but I have asked for assistance of his sisters for computer help. I mentioned my problem when he visited Thursday evening and he said let me look. I was amazed. He uses a program called SnipIt. It was just shy of a miracle and was able to make the transfers with ease. I am so happy that my youngish pup has taught this old dog a new skill.

The Scent of a Woman

 The Scent of a Woman
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 had subsided and were becoming less intense and less frequent. It wasn’t that I loved her less; it was that the hurt I was feeling couldn’t continue without me going insane. Time slowly blunted my grief to the point I could take a breath without missing her. My heart would take a few beats without feeling the crushing pain. It eventually became easier to climb out of bed each morning. I was waking less tired from a restless, image-filled slumber.
There were still photographs of her on the walls, the bureau, and in other areas of our home. They served as a reminder of what a gracious and loving person she had been. Seeing her face was a comfort to me. It seemed that she was still near.
It was my work that kept me lucid. Every day, I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth and drove to my job. My work routine had been set apart from my life with her. The separateness of it allowed me to continue to function. I didn’t say live, but I managed to move 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 paychecks, old check books, financial statements, and other odds and ends. The first cardboard box wasn’t large. It seemed like in no time I’d reached the bottom and filled a trash bag with the discards. I returned the important papers that I thought needed to be saved. When I returned the box, there was another carton tucked to one 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. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pulled the carton close. “What it could be?”
I slipped my fingers beneath the tightly folded flaps and lifted the overlapping tabs that closed the top of the box. I tugged until they finally separated with a soft pop. Anxious to see what was inside, I leaned over. Tears quickly welled up in my eyes. The box was filled with clothing that Rose had at one time stored. Although they were washed and clean, her scent remained intact and as I opened the carton, it floated free.
Pandora’s Box had been opened. There was no way for me to return it to the way it was before the vault had been breached. Old wounds were reopened. The pain and grief was still there; alive, buried inside of me but so was our love.

Christmas Pies

Christmas Pies  Between the holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas falls the deer hunting season in our state of Pennsylvania. The first day of buck hunting has been a holiday for school kids who want to join in the hunt. My mother-in-law always relied on someone in the family to harvest a deer so she could claim some of the fat, tallow, and bits of the venison to make the filling for her mince meat pies. She would bake the meat pies for the Christmas holiday meals. She would occasionally use beef products to make the filling for her pies if no venison was available, but that was something she would only do reluctantly.
Usually my brother or I would get either a buck or a doe or both. We frequently hunted together with our father and usually managed to bring down at least one deer and quite often more than one among the three of us. We didn’t allow any of the deer meat to go to waste. We would harvest as many deer as we had licenses. Our families liked the flavor of venison.
After we would spend hours in the outdoors hunting to find and kill a deer, we didn’t really want to turn our hard-earned prize over to a butcher who might or might not salvage all of the meat from the carcass for us. We had heard stories about unscrupulous butchers and were worried that all of the meat from our deer might not be returned or the meat might not be handled properly or we might not get back all the meat from the deer that we had turned in to the butcher. We also did not like that butchers used band saws to cut through the brittle deer bones, splintering them and leaving slivers of bone and grit in the meat.
When we were younger, we helped our uncles and our grandfather butcher several hogs and a young bull at granddad’s farm every year. We had learned the basic skills for cutting up meat and it was only a small step from that to actually butchering the deer for ourselves. Our father had a garage/ shed at the back of his property. We would skin the deer and allow it to hang inside to cool before quartering it. Eventually we would divide and slice the meat into the desired cuts.
If we found a stray hair we knew who to blame. Our cuts of meat may not have been as fancy or as perfect as those that a professional butcher. We would first cut around the bones and remove them before slicing the meat. All that was left for us to cut was meat.
My brother liked to divide his deer to make steaks, deer sausage, and cold pack the smaller non-descript pieces of venison. I liked to cut my deer into steaks, cold pack the smaller pieces, and make deer jerky. Usually I could save enough meat and fat from the rib cages to give my mother-in-law enough meat to make two or more mince meat pies.
Following a recipe that she had used for years she would mix the raisins, currants, apples, citrus products, and spices together. Once they had cooked, she would put the mixture into glass jars and store them in the refrigerator until the filling was needed for the making of her pies. It would be only one of the flavors of pie that she would bake for Christmas.

The Christmas Cactus

 The Christmas Cactus A large stainless steel bowl sat at the top of the stairs in my grandmother Rebecca Miner’s rambling old farmhouse. The bowl was the top chamber from an old milk and cream separator that Granddad had used on his farm. The raw milk was poured into the top bowl and a centrifuge would separate the milk from the cream as it flowed through the machine. The milk was to drink and cream churned to be butter.
The shiny metal bowl was nearly thirty inches in diameter and eighteen inches high and sat squarely in the center of a large Mission Oak desk, designed to look like a library table with open shelves on each side and wide drawer in the middle.
The steep wooden stairs with long curved handrail climbed the distance of twelve feet to disappear into the dark reaches of the second floor where Grandma kept the huge plant. The large stainless steel container was converted to be the planter for the old Christmas cactus. The plant had long ago filled the creamery pot and spilled over the full rounded sides, cascading in long green streams. It was an enormous thing, like a queen sitting on her throne to rule one end of the hallway.
The desk and plant were in the cool dark hallway. The window behind the desk and cactus was covered by a green, room-darkening shade Grandma kept it pulled nearly all the way down allowing a only small amount to light to slip through an eight inch space.
This monstrous plant had started its life as a snippet shortly after my grandparents’ wedding. Year after year it continued to grow and Grandma would transplant it into larger containers to match the growth of the cactus.
The only container I can remember as I visited Grandma’s farm house was the enormous stainless steel cream separator. The cactus developed thick, gnarled stems that paralleling the thickened and gnarling of my grandmother’s arthritic, feet, hands and fingers.
The flat-green, oval-shaped, ripple-edged leaves tumbled in thick perfusion over the edge of the steel separator and flowed down its sides in waves. The leaves nearly hid the container beneath its thick foliage.
Just before Christmas, that dark corner of the hallway would suddenly explode into color. The cactus would spill its blossoms in colorful waterfalls that floated on a sea of green. Each bloom looked like a series of colorful trumpets stuck one inside on another. The colors ran the gamut of hues from deep watermelon pink to a hot orange-red and even into a pale yellow. They looked like small fiery torches blazing in a dark green sky.
The expanse of colorful blossoms would only last several days. One by one they bloomed, showed the their beauty, then would slowly wilt and drop to the floor like a plague of dead insects with their colors fading to a ghostly white. They waited until Grandma would sweep them up and toss them into a trash grave.
When my grandmother could no longer take care of her large rambling farm house, she decided to have an auction to get rid of all the things that would not fit into a mobile home she had bought. I am not sure who bought the massive Christmas cactus, but I hope that it still fills another person’s home with its beauty at each Christmas season.