And the Mountain Roared

 And the Mountain Roared
I often heard my wife’s Mother describing a sound that she would hear. Retha May Morrison would pause at whatever she was doing; cock her head to one side, and say, “Shush, just listen to the mountain roar.” And indeed the wind in the trees did. She and Bud her husband were groundskeepers at Camp Christian near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. The camp was surrounded by thick wooded hillsides and was graced with a small stream running through it. When the wind would blow from a certain direction, the sound of the wind did give a low, guttural growl.
Camp Christian once had been a summer retreat for weary people from Pittsburgh and the surrounding communities. They would ride the train to spend a day, a weekend, or even a week in Killarny Park. The park was a place of escape where people could boat, swim, and fish with lodging and meals available for those who were able to afford it.  Many would pack a lunch and for the price of the train fare they could relax, hike, wade, or swim, away from the smoke and noise of the city.
The camp had a large two storied Millhouse. It was of white clapboard hotel-like bedrooms upstairs. Downstairs was a huge kitchen, a banquet room with multiple tables for eating, and an open, wraparound porch. At one end of the dining room was a large stone fireplace where a fire frequently burned in the cool of the evening. There was a chapel and also a few rental cabins with little more room than to provide shelter and sleeping quarters. The white clapboard shelters were snug and provided refuge from the rain and wind.
A large metal bell perched atop a stone pillar at the front of the Millhouse and summoned diners when the meals were ready to be served.
Eventually Killarny Park was purchased by a consortium of churches in Pittsburgh as a summer camp. Reserved on different weeks, the camp was available for adults, for couples, and for children. One week was set was always aside for the underprivileged kids of Pittsburgh. Although the Millhouse has now been replaced with a more modern dining hall and kitchen, children’s’ shouts of laughter still echo in the camp.
As I sat this morning, deciding on what to write I heard the mountain outside of my windows roar. I live near White, Pennsylvania and although the trees aren’t as close to my house as the trees that surrounded Camp Christian, my mountain roared. The wind was just right. The sound of the wind’s roar entered my home, as did the memory of Retha’s once familiar song.

No Alarms

 No Alarms
I was needed to drive with a friend to have testing done yesterday. She would have to endure anesthesia for the test. I would be needed to be with her to listen to the directions for her post-operative care at home, but more importantly I would be needed to drive her home. She wouldn’t be permitted to operate a vehicle for twenty-four hours. She would need to be under the care of a relative for twenty-four hours.
I was to be at her house before six AM. She needed to be at the hospital by seven AM. I set my alarm for four-thirty. I was sure to wake up in plenty of time to grab a shower and eat a bite of breakfast before I got into my car and drive to her house. For some reason the alarm didn’t go off and I woke at five-thirty two AM. I was in a panic, because. It would take fifteen minutes to drive from my home to her house. I hurried outside to my car, pulled off the windshield cover and…there was a layer of ice. I jumped inside and peering through a clear spot I began the journey. For some reason the morning darkness seemed to absorb my illumination from headlight. Although I knew the road to her home, in the darkness it seemed unfamiliar. I arrived at her home at five fifty eight with two minutes to spare and we were off.
Along the way, we saw red flashing lights and slowed. There was an auto accident at a crossroad. Emergency vehicles had just arrived. The fire department was allowing traffic to drive by in a single lane. It slowed traffic, but we were able to continue.
It made us feel thankful. If we had started ten or fifteen minutes earlier, we could have easily been involved in that accident. We continued to drive, arriving at the hospital arriving at six fifty eight. We made it with two minutes to spare. I had a book that I planned to read while I waited, but in my haste, I forgot it in my car. As I waited, I went to the hospital’s cafeteria for the breakfast that I didn’t have time to eat. I felt better with some food in my stomach and now I could relax as I waited for her procedure to be finished and recovered from her anesthesia. I reviewed some articles on my cell phone as I waited. Once the procedure was over, we made the drive back home without incident.

Going Home for Christmas

An extra post because of the holidy. Merry Christmas

Going Home for Christmas
As I grew older there seemed to be nothing so wonderful, so good, and so blessed as to be home for Christmas to the place where I grew up. This was my home place where I learned to walk, talk, and play with my brother Kenneth Beck and my sister Kathy Beck Basinger. It was the house where we all grew up with our parents Sybil Miner Beck and E. Carl Beck. It was the place where we were raised, nurtured and loved.
When my father bought the land it had a small cottage covered in brown Inselbrick tar paper. Inside there were two tiny bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room that surrounded a covered porch in a U shape. The house had half basement and half crawl space beneath it. I didn’t forget to include an indoor bathroom because there wasn’t one. There was a path and an outhouse to the rear of the yard.
The house expanded over the years I lived there to include a full basement, another bedroom, and indoor plumbing. It became a home filled with love where life was celebrated, routine days, birthdays, and of course the holidays. Later in life we gathered within those walls to enjoy the annual celebrations of Christmas and Thanksgiving. We would and share our lives with our parents and each other as we sat, talked, and ate.
When my parents died my sister held many of the family gatherings, but one year, I opened my house for Christmas. Since I am widowed, it meant more than my usual cleaning and to provide an extra table and chairs, but it was worth it. I made my home ready. I prayed that this house where they learned to walk, talk, and play would become a treasured memory. I hoped this house where they were raised, nurtured, and loved would be remembered as the home where they celebrated Christmas.
My grandchildren now come here for Christmas and hopefully the memories of love and this house will be passed on to another generation. Merry Christmas.

All Gift Wrapped

All Gift Wrapped
I spent yesterday sorting and wrapping Christmas gifts for my family. We plan to celebrate tommorrow on Christmas Day. As a youth, my Mom Sybil Miner Beck would assign me the task of wrapping Christmas gifts at my childhood home. I ued to make very beautiful bows and because of that, it became my annual job. At first I didn’t mind, but it slowly became a job that I detested.
The reasons I hated to wrap gifts were twofold. The first was that most of the time of the time I had to use the lick and stick seals with te dry glue on the backside to fasten the edges of the wrapping paper in place to seal the paper wrapping. My Mom occasionally would have some shiny cellophane “Scotch” tape for me to use, but the tape would always be in short supply and I could only use small slivers of tape to secure the wrapping paper around the present. It was a horribly tedious task. Mom didn’t have a problem buying gifts, but she didn’t like to buy a large supply of tape, or do the gift wrapping or herself and my Dad Carl Beck couldn’t be bothered doing the wrapping. He would much rather wind some ribbon or string around the bag and stick a name tag on it.
Mom would even welsh out on wrapping my Christmas gifts. She would hide the gift inside bags, then turn them over to me to wrap. I must say as a kid, although I was tempted, I didn’t snoop. That happened mych later in my life. I didn’t want to know what presents that my Mom had purchased.
My Dad rarely shopped except gifts for my Mom. Because of the hours he worked, he would often wait until the last minute and would rush into Burn’s Drug in Connellsville, Pennsylvania on Christmas Eve to make some hasty purchases. All are just memories now. All are treasures lodged in my mind. One thing I always do is to keep plenty of cellophane tape on hand at Christmas.
Merry Christmas to all.

Why So Cold and Dark

 Why So Cold and Dark?
I’ve never been a huge fan of the cold and snow, but when you add the shoetened daylight hours, it becomes a triple threat to my happiness. As a couch potato I don’t like the shoveling of snow from the driveway, tha porch, and the porch stairs. I guess I could become a hermit over the winter months. I have to clear away the snow and ice to prevent another fall like I did in 2015.  My driveway became slick when a thin layer of water lay on top of a patch of ice. My feet flew out frm under me. I fell onto my back and the back of my head bounced on the ice. I’m not sure if I lost consciousness, but I lost a lot of memory of exactly what happened, but my daughter Anna Prinkey tells me I came to the door of her bedroom saying, “I think I need help.”
Much of that day I still can’t remember. I only recall small snatches of going the Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. I’ve retained a very small thought of the CT scan and a few recollections of the ambulance ride to Pittsburgh. Some of the nurses and techs from Frick were olld friends and I can’t recall which ones they were and what they did for me.
The worst thing about winter for me that makes the darkness and cold worse is the wind. It so often bites and makes the cold and snow turn blizzardlike. Burrr, I dislike the hought of being forced to stay inside when the roads get drifted and dangerous to drive on. I live on a side road that is less travelled and less well maintained. Much of the roadway crosses open fields and has many steeper hills to navigate. Some of the hills have a curved approach that prevents me to get up any speed to shoot up the hill.
A couple of winters the transportation department’s snowplow became stranded in a drift and they had to bring out a snow-fan truck to free it and another year the drifts became so widespread and deep that they brought in a machine with a scoop shovel to open the road.
I pray that we can escape some of the more intense cold, the more extreme snow storms, and the heavier wind storms. I tease that Canada needs to keep their freezer doors closed, but it does have an edge of truth.

Almost

 Almost
This past week my brain has been slightly off. It hasn’t made me compleelly crazy yet, but the week isn’t over yet. I still have several days left. Monday I picked up my mail on my way home from shopping. I shared on FaceBook thyat I’d purchased holiday pint bottles of maple syrup in October feeling that I had gifts put away for my kids and the workers of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society, only to find that I can’t find them. Looking back, I believe that I was so tired after two days of frying sausage that I forgot to load them in my car. There is no other explanation, so I needed to buy gift cards as a poor substitute.
I went shopping to get a few needed groceries and had to make a second run a few days later because I forgot some needed things. Not a big problem, but I get upset with myself when some things were on my written lisst. That is very irksome.
My latest ALMOST dip into a world of forgetfulness was that I needed to get my vehicle inspected before the end of the year. The beginnings of this gap in my memory had its roots in the year 2023. My inspection month should have been October and I was driving to the end of November with an expired inspection and my mechanic said that because it was so close, that he would apply the inspection sticker for the month of December. There was no harm no foul, but it was a miscue for my memory.
I was driving over to the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society on Wednesday for the ususal work day and exchange of Christmas cards and gifts when I noticed that the December inspection was due. I actually stopped along the road and callered my mechanic to see if he could fit me in. He was gracious enough to fit me in on Thursday morning. That was a blessing. I found out that he wasn’’t going to be open Christmas week and I was almost in violation again.

So Tempting

 So Tempting
We all face temptations in life, sometimes daily and sometimes it arrives unexpectedly, but they do come. It can be described as enticements, troubles, or trials. Satan doesn’t walk up to you, throw you over his shoulder, and carry you to the sin, he entices. He woos you a little at a time. Just like the fisherman with a lure. It isn’t the real thing, but a copy of something tasty, something good, something pleasant, but hidden there is the hook with barbs that pirce and hold on. It is a trap, a thing that bites, a thing that has consequences.
Temptation is the thing that often comes as a testing to see if we will keep our integrity. “Who will it hurt? Who will see it?” Satan asks as he whispers in our ears. “No one is looking.” It could be the lust of the flesh, greed for something that isn’t ours, or to try the taste of drugs or alcohol. Sometimes it causes us to move just one step closer to sin’s trap.
Temptation is sometimes a constant. It becomes an always present trial, hovering like a lion, waiting for an opening, waiting for the smallest weakening in our resolve. It can become persistent, seemingly growing stronger the more we resist it. Sin’s allure often seems pleasant with nothing to fear, but Satan doesn’t play fair. He plays for keeps.
But we have a companion that is faithfully at our side. We will never have to fight the battle on our own. God will give us everything that we need to escape and resist it. He will always enable us to have the victory. 1 Corinthians 15:57, “But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
God gives us an example of how to handle temptation of when Potiphar’s wife attempted to cause Joseph to sin. First he refused. She still persisted. Joseph recalled all that he had been taught about a holy righteous God and ran from the temptation. He was falsely jailed for his resisting sin, but God restored Joseph and rewarded him by raising him up to an even higher position.

As I Age

As I Age
As I age, I look back remembering many things of my past; cars with fender skirts and girls with poodle skirts. Then, the cars had clutches. Women carried clutch purses. Movies had lines like, “I have you in my clutches” and a lot of clutching went on in the back seat of the family car. Girls wore bobby socks on their feet and bobby pins in their hair. Guys knocked over pins at the bowling alleys and used cotter pins to build soap box cars.
We had hula hoops to swing and hula dancers swayed, competing for space on the dashboard with plastic saints. Behind many of the homes were outhouses and smoke houses, one, people hid to smoke and in the other people flavored and preserved their meats.
We had no drive-thru, only drive-in restaurants and drive-in movies. We played baseball calling balls and strikes while some grown up relatives (and kids) smoked Chesterfields and Lucky Strikes. The idea of the Marlboro man hadn’t been born yet.
Doors had porcelain, brass, or glass knobs. Some our cars sported knobs on the steering wheels. We “smoked” candy cigarettes and bubble gum cigars and no one worried. We had ball caps, cap guns, B. B. guns, and sling shots and played from sunrise to sunset.
Felix, the cat, Tom Terrific and His Mighty Wonder Dog, Manfred graced our black and white televisions. Kids wore Keds. Our skates were adjustable, had metal wheels, and fastened to the bottoms of our shoes. Our games weren’t electric. All we needed an empty field, places to hide, or a can to kick and have fun. Our games were powered by imagination, not with batteries.
Little boys kept garter snakes and grown-up girls wore garter belts to hold up their nylon stockings. Boys bought dime priced comic books and men collected match books. Girls played with dolls and women used make-up to look like dolls.
Telephones hung on the wall and had a crank handles. They were connected to a party line and we had to listen and count the number for our ring tones. There were no musical ring tones, no texting, no Google, no computers. The fanciest thing we had was a typewriter.
We fought with our best friends one day and did a sleep-over the next night. Bullies and fights were a part of life, even at school the brawlers were separated and sent in different directions, rarely were we sent home. If fighting was a reoccurring theme, the gym teacher might put boxing gloves on the guys and allow them to duke it out.
Kids brought guns and pocket knives to school. No one was shot or stabbed. We were taught right from wrong and the value of life. We were guided and controlled by our parents and teachers, not the government and its inflexible laws and set rules. Things were simpler and handled at a local level; parents, teachers, and school boards made the decisions for our education.
Times have changed, but can we say they have changed for the better? 

Powerless

Powerless
Last evening it was very cold with the temperature hovering about the twenty degree Farenheit and the wind made it feel much colder. The insult to the frigid situation was that our electric power company scheduled a downtime for an update to their system. The duration for the downtime was from 7:30 pm. To 10 30 pm. For many people that meant no lights, no ability to cook food, heat water, or to warm their homes. Why would they schedule a downtime during a bitter cold time of the year?
We older people don’t tolerate the cold very well any more.n three hours the temperature can drop considerably. Layers of clothing may help, but many people cannot tolerate such a drastic change. There are more than enough power outages caused by weather disasters to keep the linemen of the electric companies busy, why create more.
Now I will share my thoughts on what is actually going on. The governments are making an attempt to force citizens worldwide to rely on the power grid that they control. They would compel people to rely on unreliable sources of energy like solar and wind instead of carbon based fuel. They want to direct and control us. The powers-that-be can shut off our access to energy with the flip of a switch, unlike fuel that is more difficult for them to limit the ease and scope of our mobility. With every action attached to a power-cord, people are put on a leash. It will place a restrictive governor on mankind’s freedom and creativity.
With their control of the power-grid, at any moment they can cut off access to electricity and with the recently installed electricity meters, they have access to each individual meter. They can say, “You have reached your limit” or if you don’t do exactly as we say,” we are shutting off your electricity and we are unably to stop them.
Now that pushes my thoughts to last night. We had no say when the power company would stop the flow of electricity into our homes. Most people were unable heat their homes and were forced to face the frigid temperatures, they had no redress. Fortunately, the loss of electricity was for only hald an hour, but if there had been a problem, it could have been much longer. It is all about creating a tether to limit the choices and freedoms that we have in our lives.

Let's Eat

 Let’s Eat
Yesterday was another class luncheon for the Connellsville Area High School senior class. It was held at a local restaurant Bud Murphy’s. It’s never a large gathering. It fluctuates because of personal schedules. Ther may be as few as six or eight and may be as many as a dozen. This gathering was our Christmas get together with a cookie share time as the highlight of the event. Doesn’t that sound exciting?
One our members usually bring something to decorate if there is a holiday just to make the table look festive. Yesterday was no exception. Table cloth, table runner, and crafted bells brightened the usual restaurant table. Small candy cane gifts were distributed. Cocoa bombs were handed out as we waited for our wait person to take our orders and for the kitchen to prepare our meals.. And I mustn’t forget the after dinner chocolate covered Andes or York mints to freshen breaths after a meal that may be filled with onion oor garlic.
Since I’ve mentioned our wait person, let me say that only her age keeps her from being an integral part of our group. Heather is as off-the-wall as we are. I believe that she has taken special care of our group as well.
I thought it was an ugly-Christmas-sweater day. I was decked out in a red button-down shirt, Santa necktie, and a peaked Santa hat to shop for a few minutes before lunch time. It was great to greet people with “Merry Christmas” and watch them smile. While I was out buying a few things I bumped into my Sister Kathy Beck Basinger, her husband Doug, and a cousin Robin Beck. I had to stop and talk for a few minutes then hurried off.
I was glad to get home to finish the chore of butchering my deer. I started a batch of venison jerky and packaged the meat to freeze. Although I am glad to have some extraa food on hand, I am glad that chore is over. My right shoulder has become achy and sore. A deep ache remains in the muuscle and shoulder joint.
Now I must face the question “To be or not to be?” Will I put up my eight foot high Christmas tree or not. Putting the tree together is only a fourth of the Herculean task. There are the lights, the garland, and the hundreds of ornaments to hang in the branches. Once the holiday is over, I am faced with dismanteling the big green monster. If I don’t I will miss seeing the old Christmas heirlooms that usually dangle from the branches. Maybe I should throw a smal party and have my friends do the work. Merry Christmas.

I Need a Haircut

 I Need a Haircut
I need a haicut, badly. I don’t ean I need a poor quality haircutt, I mean it’s been well over a month since I had my last tonsorial appointment. When I was younger I had think sandy brown wavy hair, but as I’ve aged, I’ve lost the color and the thickness. The hairdresser I went to at that time had to use a set of scissors that would thin the amount of hair I had on top of my head. One day I aasked why he wasn’t thinning my hair? He said, “Nature is already doing that for you.” Thus began the downward spiral.
I’ve had many barbers over the course of my lifetime. The first barber I can remember was my Uncle Charles Bottomley. My dad Carl Beck would load my bother Ken and me into our car and we’d go to his hime in Mill Run, Pennsylvania to get each of us a haircut. I’m sure it was because my frugal dad got a discounted price.
The next barbers I had were paid for by Uncle Sam with them running the clippers over my head to remove all but an eigth on an inch of hair, if you can call that a haircut. It was more like shearing of sheep. The old joke with a barber asking, “Did you want to keep your hair?” And the barber hands a clump to the recruit.
My desire to get a haircut has caused me to try different barbers, even causing me to do some trimming of hair on my own. I don’t like the newer “trained” barbers/hairdressers. The education for many of the brand name haircutting establishments is to snap on different sized clipper covers and to run them through the customer’s hair like mini-lawnmowers.
My most recent barber/beautician closed her shop, but she just notified me that she’s reopened in her own home. It’s time for me to call her to make an appointment. She’ll need to give me the location of her business.
What caused my mind to set off on this journey other than the need for a haircut was the dream I had last night. The dream centered on getting a haircut. How I got to the shop and how I placed myself in the hands of a novice I’ll never know, but as I was in the middle of the haircut, the would-be barber walked off and his wife took over. I recognized the wife and know that she often gets wound-up to do some strange and weir things. I was in a panic… then I woke up. The need for a haircut remains and the need is coming to a head…my head.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

 Baby, It’s Cold Outside
The sudden cooldown after a warm ending to autumn caused me to remember my mom Sybil Miner Beck singing that old song,”Baby It’s Cold Outside” on cold mornings. With the temperature at 20 degrees Fahrenheit and a wind chill of minus 8 degrees, it’s way too cold for me. In my youth, school schedules were never delayed, just because it was cold. Only ice and snowy roads cancelled classes. I can remember walking to an unheated wooden bus shanty, huddling inside. At least we were out of the wind as we waited for the long yellow and black behemoth to arrive trailing a plume of steam and fumes. The brakes squealed as it stopped opening its folding door maw. We would hurry to be swallowed by it, joining fellow students for the ride to school happy for the small but welcome warmth inside.
My mom had a quirky trait of singing a chorus of a song when it matched something one of us kids would say. The song always had some tie in with what we had just said. She only did it at home for us, so I’ve always thought that it was special for the family. If she would have tried it in public, people probably would have thought her crazy. I must have thought that it was special, because I picked up her unusual trait and will often sing a few lines from a song, but I have added telling a story or sharing a joke that mimics some word in something that was said. I did this when I supervised at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. I’m not sure if anyone thought I should be wearing a straight jacket or not, but most of the time, it did bring a smile. Hopefully I made a fellow employee’s day go a bit better.
I decided my New Year’s resolution several years ago and have been practicing it ever since. That promise was “If I am grumpy, I don’t leave home. No one wants to deal with a grumpy old man.” So far, over the many years I’ve been able to keep it. I like that it makes many people smile when I share it. Those who enjoy it most are the cashiers at stores where I shop, especially around the busy Christmas holiday. The chatty cashier sometimes will occasionally share a horror story of a rude or irate customer that they had to deal with. So to my friends and readers, I challenge you to adopt the same New Year’s resolution. It helps to spread a smile.

Who Will Pull Santa's Sleigh This Year

 Who Will Pull Santa’s Sleigh?
It’s that time of the year again when hunters are all decked out in flourescent orange hunting coats and hats. They converge on the woods and fields in search of venison. I joined that throng of men, women, and youth who were trying to bag their prizes.
It was very cold this year. My Brother Ken took pity on me and allowed me to hunt from a hunting stand he built for my Dad Carl Beck. It is on the backside of Ken’s property. I don’t know whether to thank him or does he think I am too old to be traippsing around in the woods. I can say I was thankful because it was so cold and I’m a couch potato when it’s cold outside. He was also kind enough to put a small propane heater inside to mitigate the icy air outside. Sitting for two and a half hours and I saw onlly a gray squirrel and a few birds, I called it quits for the day;  if I sit much longer or I get cramps in my legs.
I don’t hunt on Sunday. I go to church and Sunday school in the morning and evening services later in the day. That is enough sitting for me. I don’t want to miss out and do without my afternoon nap. That just wouldn’t do.
Monday morning I was at home and heard several shots from the woods behind my house, A few minutes later I saw three does scurry across the road and into the field in front of my house. I don’t hunt there. That land is posted, but it spurred me to get dressed and drive to my Brother Ken’s house. I wasn’t sure that I would see anything there, but I knew I wouldn’t get a shot at anything inside of my house. So I drove to Ken’s place and hurried back to Dad’s hunting stand. It was later in the day and the temperature was about twenty-eight degrees Farenheit with just a whisper of a breeze. I didn’t light the propane heater. The hissing of the flame covered the sounds that any approaching deer might make. The stand was warm enough. It was protection from the cold and the breeze.
I got settled in the seat and had my rifle at the ready should any target come within range. I opened a bottle of water and began my vigil. The approach of the doe was silent. I saw a movement as she nibbled the tops of bushes and made her way towards me. The shot was loud in the confines of the stand, but who will pull Santa’s sleigh this year?

Just a Snow Globe

The following is a fictional story that became a part of our family history when my son Andrew thought it was real and the snow globe. Of course I went on line to find a globe and gave it to him for Christmas.

 Just a Cabin Snow Globe
Christmas was drawing near. I searched the attic until I found the old trunk filled with antique and fragile Christmas ornament heirlooms. They were bulbs that we’d stored away when the children were growing up. We feared that they’d be damaged or broken. Many had been handed down through several generations and were irreplaceable.
As our children grew, tree decorations became handmade Santas, cotton ball lambs, angels, candy canes, handprint ornaments, and Popsicle snowflakes. These child-inspired works of Christmas art became our holiday precious treasures. Now the children were gone, their ornaments were gone, and so was my wife.
Feeling the need to recapture and resurrect a happier time in my life, I looked for the trunk. I decided a Christmas tree might brighten my empty home. It was the first time in several years that I was feeling the need, and that old trunk held many reminders of our happier moments.
The tree was small. Soon it was festooned with the old fragile heirlooms and filled with just as many fragile memories. From among the wrappings, I pulled out plastic sleigh, reindeer, and Santa,. I gave its old spot on top of the bookcase. The ceramic Crèche was centered in its special place on the mantelpiece. I thought the storage trunk was empty until I spotted the shine of light on the curved surface of the snow globe.
Carefully I removed it from its wrappings. The globe had been hand blown. It was old before my wife and I bought it at a small antique shop. Inside was a small cabin nestled among several evergreens that would disappear in swirls of snow when the globe was shaken.
As my wife Cindy lifted it from its shelf, she said, “I love it. I’d like to live in a place like that someday.” So, we bought the globe.
In the past, I’d occasionally shake it to watch the snowstorm; I never really looked closely at it. I was about to shake it again when a small speck of color caught my eye. I’d never noticed it before and donned my glasses for a closer examination.
Surprised, I almost dropped the globe. Standing in the open doorway of the cabin was a woman, the same shape and coloration as Cindy. Her hand was raised in a wave. As I cradled the glass globe, I smiled a sad smile. She was finally in the cabin of her dreams.