Reflections

I met a young lady while getting fuel for my car. I gave her one on my businesss cards. As we talked she said she liked poetry, so I am sharing one of them today. Enjoy.

 Reflections
I stare into a still glassy pond,
Bright stars and full faced moon float in its ink.
Each sparkle reflected on its smooth surface.
Moonlight sends roots into the murky depths.
Light weakens and fades seeks the bottom.
Sooty darkness surrounds.

I gaze at ebon sky overhead.
Where bright stars and full moon hang on dark hooks.
Each twinkle escapes night’s strong and chilling grasp.
Beams of soft moonlight send ladders to climb
Fragile milky rungs extend earthward,
Night’s illusion of stairs.

I peer down the dark well of my soul,
Bright thoughts and memories shine in the gloom
Softly shift and flicker from times long ago.
Faith and hope still live, sending new green shoots,
Fragile links from past to the present,
Reminisce and promise.

Music in the Air

Music in the Air
Last evening was wonderful. The tempereature had the kiss of spring with the promise of warmer weather to come. I was able to attend a musical perforrmance at the Mt. Pleasant Senior High School. The Junior Choir, the Senior High Choir, and the Mt. Pleasant band showed their skills in the concert.They don’t get paid for their effort, but they were able put forth a wonderful performance. They don’t get Grammy awards like the people who promote themselve as stars, but they are a remarkable bunch of talented young people who are using their talents without relying on risque costumes to sell their music.
I was enticed into attending because my granddaughter Hannah Yoder sang in the junior choir. It warms my heart to see her doing something that she enjoys and does well at. The choirs and the band were clad in black shirts, blouses, slacks, and skirts. There was nothing to distract the people from the talent of the musicians. Their attire created a blank canvas, allowing the attention of the audience away from the music presented.
The band was clad similarly. The dark clothing allowed each musical instrument to glow under the overhead stage lights. The highly brass sparkled like huge gold and silver ornaments dangling on a Christmas tree. The music was from contemperary composers.
The songs and music ranged over a wide variety of tastes, for the entretainment of the entire audience. I need to thank the Choir Leader and the band director for their patience and dedication to shape these young adults into first class performers. The concert was live streamed and could possibly be seen at a later date. The auditorium was filled and so was the parking lot.

The Bus Shanty

 The Bus Shanty
While waiting to go to school, the only protection from the cold temperatures, the wind, the ice, snow, or rain was a small unheated wooden shanty. It was about five foot by five foot square and seven foot high, solidly built with a slanted roof. The shanty was a central gathering place for the kids from three families. It was out of sight from all three families along Route 711 between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania.
It did break the wind and kept all of us kids dry, inside away from the elements. Having such a place out of sight from the families would not be tolerated today. Today the school bos stops at every house along the rout even if it is every fifteen feet. But then again, times have changed and the chid’s safety is the greater concern.
Often we would have to climb a mountain of snow to enter the shanty. The piles of snow were mounded there by the diligent snowplow drivers. The snow never actualy made it inside of the shanty unless it was placed there by the winds oor the snow storm.
Clouds of condensed vapor would pour through our mouths as we breathed. Cigarette smoking was considered a cool thing to do and we would pretend that we were smoking cigarettes; the vapor was a “pretend” substitute for smoke.
Eventually the school bus would rumble into view. The loud screech of the brakes announced that our chariot had arrived. The clatter of the door opening would welcome us to enter. We would scramble over the mountain of snow to climb aboard the unheated yellow and black behemoth. After mounting the metal steps of the bus, we would grab the metal hand holds as we hustled down the aisle to sit on an icy vinyl seat. If we hurried, we would actually be able to plop down into a seat we chose before the bus would lurch foreward and hurl us to the back of the bus. The hand holds were absolutely necessary to prevent us from losing our balance. The jerk of the bus would hurl us into a seat and off we’d rumble to school.

Super-Glue and Duck Tape

Super Glue and Duck Tape
After the week I’ve had so far, I think I need to stock up on Super-Glue and Dick Tape. I’m falling apart. Tuesday I went to my dentist to have him repair my partial plate. He worked with my problem even though he was trying to pass a kidney stone.
Wednesday I woke with chest pressure and a right temporal headache. When it didn’t ease I took my regular daily medications, thinking it might help. After waiting awhile, I checked my blood sugar and my blood pressure. My blood sugar was within range, but my blood pressure was elevated. I decided to head for the emergency department at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. I was hustled into a room where the staff hooked me up to a monitor, did and EKG, and drew blood work. The doctor ordered several chewable aspirin, while continuing to monitor my heart and blood pressure. I was later given two different medications for my headache. When all my tests came back, I was released to home. I spent nearly 9 hours, from 6 am to 3 pm, I felt as though I was put through a wringer. I was completely worn out. I was so tired, I asked another person to cover the church van route for me.
I wasn’t able to volunteer Wednesday morning at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society because I was in the hospital. I missed the birthday celebration of another member.
The pain from the partial plate began in earnest. Even thoough it was after 3 pm, I tried to call the dentist’s office. The recorded message let me know that he closed and to call back Thursday morning. I figured that he wouldn’t be in on Wednesday because of the kidney stone. My toothache continued to increase. I called first thing Thursday morning. The office staff said to come in. I knew that I needed and antibiotic. My gums were swollen and tender. There had to be an abscess. I was right, but picking up the penicillin would have to wait, I had an appointment for a Cat-Scan as a follow-up frrom an ultrasound that revealed a lesion on one of my kidneys.
My PCP’s office staff called and asked who I used as an urologist. My doctor wanted to go over the results of the scan before saying anything definite. My PCP called me about 7 pm and asked who I wanted to use as my urologist. The one I had before was retired. She said that the lesion had a low probability for concern, but she wanted a second opinion.
I’m falling apart. Time to stock up on Super-Glue and Duck Tape.

Seniority or Senility

 Seniority or Senility
To some asking this question is like asking “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” To some people snniority and senility mean almost the same thing. It isn’t so, but some days one is the shadow of the other and could be easily mistaken for the other. When a person gets up and goes into another room with the destination is only a few seconds away and the person forgets what they went into the other room to get, it becomes irritating, frustrating, and worrisome. The only thing worse is when it becomes a habit.
My most recent is just a little different, but it ran in a similar vein. I was ensconsed in my recliner downstairs when my phone reminded me that I had a dental appointment. I needed to change out of my comfy pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. My jeans and dressier shirt was upstairs, so I hoisted myself from my recliner and hurried up the steps. I had to empty my pockets from my dress slacks before I climbed into my jeans and clean shirt. I gathered my wallet, keys, coins and checkbook, tucking them into my jeans pockets.
Now comes my confusion. I reached for my cell phone. I usually toss it on my bed while changing my pants. I wanted to slide it into my shirt pocket and I couldn’t find it. I retraced my steps in all of the rooms upstairs then went back down stairs and hunted through all the rooms: living room, kitchen, and dining room. I had no luck. I knew that it was no use to dial my cell from the house phone. I always put my cell phone on vibrate when I am in church. I had my cell phone on vibrate only.
Thhe sad thing was that I remembered I had it in my hand going upstairs, so I went back upstairs to continue the search. I was still having no luck and began asking God to help me. I ddn’t want to leave the house without my phone. I was on the verge of leaving home without my lifeline when I felt a sneeze coming on. I reached into my back pocket and there that little rascal was hiding with my handkerchief. I’d slipped it into my jeans without remembering. It was in my pants pocket and not in my shirt pocket where I usually keep it.
I guess that is better than putting something in away for “safe” keeping and then being unable to remember where that safe place is.
Seniority or Senility
To some asking this question is like asking “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” To some people snniority and senility mean almost the same thing. It isn’t so, but some days one is the shadow of the other and could be easily mistaken for the other. When a person gets up and goes into another room with the destination is only a few seconds away and the person forgets what they went into the other room to get, it becomes irritating, frustrating, and worrisome. The only thing worse is when it becomes a habit.
My most recent is just a little different, but it ran in a similar vein. I was ensconsed in my recliner downstairs when my phone reminded me that I had a dental appointment. I needed to change out of my comfy pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. My jeans and dressier shirt was upstairs, so I hoisted myself from my recliner and hurried up the steps. I had to empty my pockets from my dress slacks before I climbed into my jeans and clean shirt. I gathered my wallet, keys, coins and checkbook, tucking them into my jeans pockets.
Now comes my confusion. I reached for my cell phone. I usually toss it on my bed while changing my pants. I wanted to slide it into my shirt pocket and I couldn’t find it. I retraced my steps in all of the rooms upstairs then went back down stairs and hunted through all the rooms: living room, kitchen, and dining room. I had no luck. I knew that it was no use to dial my cell from the house phone. I always put my cell phone on vibrate when I am in church. I had my cell phone on vibrate only.
Thhe sad thing was that I remembered I had it in my hand going upstairs, so I went back upstairs to continue the search. I was still having no luck and began asking God to help me. I ddn’t want to leave the house without my phone. I was on the verge of leaving home without my lifeline when I felt a sneeze coming on. I reached into my back pocket and there that little rascal was hiding with my handkerchief. I’d slipped it into my jeans without remembering. It was in my pants pocket and not in my shirt pocket where I usually keep it.
I guess that is better than putting something in away for “safe” keeping and then being unable to remember where that safe place is.

Me a Normal Person?

 Me a Normal Person?
I grew up midway between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania, so I guess I’m only half normal, but I’ve lived a relatively normal life, one of three children of Carl and Sybil Miner Beck. I was the oldest, then came my brother Ken, and finally my sister Kathy Basinger. My first home was a rental cottage in Mill Run, Pennsylvania. It was part of the Curtis Rugg farm and across the field from my aunt Violet Miner and Uncle Charles Bottomly.
We moved when my dad bought a small Insulbrick clad house along Route 711. It had three rooms, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room. TheU-shaped house surrounded a small porch. There was half of a basement containing an old coal furnace, a hot water tank, and a coal bin.  Mom managed to squeeze in a wringer washer and a double galvanized rinse tub. The house lacked an inside bathroom. We washed in the kitchen sink and used an outhouse until I was nearly five years old. Later Dad ever so slowly expanded the house and basement while we lived there.
Dad’s first job after he married my mom Sybil Miner Beck was working a coal mine. Most of the mines in this area were composed of narrow seams of coal that required miners to work hunched over picking, shoveling, and loading carts.
Dad’s next job was at the Walworth factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania where they had a foundry that poured molten metalinto molds of valves. Once the pieces came out of the foundry, they were sent to various sections of the factory to be milled, drilled, and assembled into the final product. Walworth made valves of steel and brass. The sizes ranged from thirty-six inch to 2.5 inch valves. Each valve was pressure tested no matter whether they were a wedge valve or ball and socket. I worked there for a year after high school before entering the United States Navy. That’s where I earned the money to purchase my first car.
I would love to still own it. It was a 1966 Galaxie 500 XL, burgundy with black vinyl top, black bucket seats, and a T bar shift. The engine had a 390 two barrel that could make the tires smoke. I only did it once. I was too frugal and didn’t want to buy new tires. I sold this sweet vehicle to my brother when I flew off to Navy boot camp. He promptly traded it for a pale yellow mustang. I’m still not quite sure I’ve forgiven him for that. Is that normal?
Me a Normal Person?
I grew up midway between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania, so I guess I’m only half normal, but I’ve lived a relatively normal life, one of three children of Carl and Sybil Miner Beck. I was the oldest, then came my brother Ken, and finally my sister Kathy Basinger. My first home was a rental cottage in Mill Run, Pennsylvania. It was part of the Curtis Rugg farm and across the field from my aunt Violet Miner and Uncle Charles Bottomly.
We moved when my dad bought a small Insulbrick clad house along Route 711. It had three rooms, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room. TheU-shaped house surrounded a small porch. There was half of a basement containing an old coal furnace, a hot water tank, and a coal bin.  Mom managed to squeeze in a wringer washer and a double galvanized rinse tub. The house lacked an inside bathroom. We washed in the kitchen sink and used an outhouse until I was nearly five years old. Later Dad ever so slowly expanded the house and basement while we lived there.
Dad’s first job after he married my mom Sybil Miner Beck was working a coal mine. Most of the mines in this area were composed of narrow seams of coal that required miners to work hunched over picking, shoveling, and loading carts.
Dad’s next job was at the Walworth factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania where they had a foundry that poured molten metalinto molds of valves. Once the pieces came out of the foundry, they were sent to various sections of the factory to be milled, drilled, and assembled into the final product. Walworth made valves of steel and brass. The sizes ranged from thirty-six inch to 2.5 inch valves. Each valve was pressure tested no matter whether they were a wedge valve or ball and socket. I worked there for a year after high school before entering the United States Navy. That’s where I earned the money to purchase my first car.
I would love to still own it. It was a 1966 Galaxie 500 XL, burgundy with black vinyl top, black bucket seats, and a T bar shift. The engine had a 390 two barrel that could make the tires smoke. I only did it once. I was too frugal and didn’t want to buy new tires. I sold this sweet vehicle to my brother when I flew off to Navy boot camp. He promptly traded it for a pale yellow mustang. I’m still not quite sure I’ve forgiven him for that. Is that normal?

Something Smells

 Something Smells
Ever since I slipped and fell on the ice in 2015 I have had phantom smells. In the fall I hit my head and developed two bleeds in my brain. I was blessed that the only remaining side effects from the fall are phantom smells and an occasional inability to concentrate. The side effects could have ben so much worse. Some people with head injuries could suffer seizures, speech problems, problems with vision, or blindness to mention a few.
The phantom smells first appeared as car exhaust fumes or hot plastic. The smells of hot plastic still causes me to wander through my house to be sure nothing is about to catch fire. Since then I have had different odors tto join the parade; sometimes good aromas and other times not so nice.
Yesterday I began to notice a different smell. It was almost a stale piney smell and I have been trying to recognize the smell. When I woke this morning the odor was still there. It is the first time it has lingered so long. The strength of the smell didn’t fade at all. The aroma remained and didn’t diminish or go away. That puzzled me. I have never had an aroma linger for so long.
All morning I have srtruggled to recall if I had touched anything that had the same smell. I ran throuh a list of pine smelling products: house cleaners, tupentine, candles, or pine branches and came up with nothing.
It was then my nose started to run and I made the connection. I bought some Vicks VapoRub and used it on my neck. I saw a post that Vicks will help to relieve muscle pain and thoought I would try it. I’m not sure one application worked, but I had some of the ointment on my fingers and instead of wasating it, I applied to my nostrils to ease the congestion from my allergies.
So, I guess my phantom smells were fooled by the real thing.

Even Small Incidents Can Be Miracles

Even Small Incidents Can Be Miracles
This cold windy weather has been making me grouchy and I don’t like that. I made a resolution quite years ago. “If I’m grouchy I don’t leave home, because no one likes to deal with a grouchy old man.” An incident that happened Tuesday morning changed my grouchy attitude. I was outside clearing snow in my drive from the deposits from snowplows’s deposits filling my driveway. I was grumbling, thinking of the task at hand. Pulling on my boots and bundling up, I began to clear the snow. I was beginning to get chilled and began to consider whether to go back inside and to finish later. I was almost ¾ of the way finished when a guy slowed and motioned me to step aside. I did and he pulled across the mouth of my drive, reversed his truck, after lowering his snowplow that was attached and dragged the remaining snow from my drive then pushed it across the road. I gave him a thumbs up in a thank you before I went back inside to warm up.
Later, I needed to pick up a few groceries and supplies for my Accu-Check machine. I hadn’t driven my car since Sunday morning and as I pulled out from my drive, it almost seemed like I had a flat tire. My tires made a thumping noise. Grunbling, I almost stopped to see if there was a problem, then I remembered once before something similar happened. Because it was so cold and because I hadn’t driven my car for a few days one of the tires had developed a flat spot. The thumping lessened as I drove and the flat spot warmed and rounded out.
I was told that my blood work eliminated my participation in a gout study and I returned the medications to the clinic. While I was there, I got a supply of Accu-Check sticks before going for groceries. I was chatting with the nurse. We talked about the ultrasound that I had as part of the gout study. The results had shown that I had a lesion on my kidney. I had no symptoms or problems and the lesion might had gone undetected but for that serendipitous discovery. I believe it was the leading of God, just like God’s leading from one incident leading to the next when I had my open heart surgery. I’m to have a cat-scan February 27, 2025 and hopefully I’ll be able to find out more information. I’ll need to wait until then to see what miracle God has in store for me next.

Ice and Snow Gotta Go

 Ice and Snow Gotta Go
Going to church Sunday morninng, it was a bit foggy, but was able to wear a suit jacket and a porkpie hat. It was almost forty degrees Farenheit with a strong breeze and light rain. The weatherman warned of the weather dropping with winds increasing also to include even stronger gusts. It seemed to be the same as I moved into the Subday School classroom after the service. As I sat in the classroom, a heavy fog rolled in. The temperature continued to drop and the rain changed into a slushy snow that had already began to coat my car. The road home was just wet. Because the snowplows had caused a dam of shale and soil at the end of my drive, water had filled my driveway. Behind the dam was an inches deep pond. I grabbed a spade from the basement to open some drainage channels. Because it was blowing a wet snow, I didn’t make enough of them. The pond got amaller, but water kept flowing in the pond remained.
I ate some venison stew for lunch. I made a large pot yesterday. I was cold from being outside. I was so glad. I ladeled several scoops into a large mug and zapped it in my microwave. It tasted so good and quickly helped me warm up. The winds increased as well as the snowfall until it was a bizzard. The wind seemed to puch the snow across the road. I think as the snow formed an icy cap, the blowing snow scooted across the road. Because the snowplows hadn’t yet pushed snow into piles at the side of the roads and the snow hadn’t yet started to collecct snow behind them into drifts. The pond in my drive has frozen and is covered with a layer of snow. I really don’t want to deal with is in the moorning. There will be a puddle of water beneath the ice.
 A car just creeped by headlights illuminating the snow covered road. It moved slowly and I could see wind-whipped snow dancing over the snow covered road. It makes me glad the church services were cancelled and I could remain inside safe and warm.

I’m Not Perfect

 I’m Not Perfect
I’m not perfect and never will be this side of heaven. I have been tempted and drawn aside more times than once in my seventy-six years of living on the Earth. And it grates on me when someone sayd, “I’m no angel.” Of course no one is an angel. God created man to be so much more than an angel. From the sixth day of Creation, He made man to be special. He made man in His likeness. He made man to be in fellowship with Him and to walk with Him in a perfect world. He made man to live in a garden where peace and harmony abode, a place where the lion cold lay down with the lamb with no worry about safety. It was a place wheree food was abundant and there we no carnivors. Everyone and everything were vegetarian. The plants were various and abundant and would meet all needs of al creatures in this perfect world. There were no weeds or thorns in the garden. It was desiigned as a place where God and man can walk in perfect communion. God had plans to have Adam and his family as a child of His own.
The Bible says that we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23. Even the smallest sin will prevent us from entering the glorious realm of heaven. If we have lied about something or taken something that didn’t belong to us, we’ve erred and failed to do what God requires of us. If we have yielded to a temptation, we have sinned. We have cut the ties of communion with God. There is only one way to regain that communion with God and that is by asking for forgiveness and accepting Jesus Christ as your Savior. The Bible tells us that Christ is the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh to the Father, but by me. John 14:6.
I can’t find life in any other: not Buddah, Confusious, not Allah, not through Shiva nor Brahma, not through Mary nor through the Saints. Jesus stated clearly that the path to heaven is through Him. In Matthew 7:13-14 it tells that broad is the gate that leadeth to destruction and the gate is narrow which leadeth unto life. Matthew 26:28 and Colossians 1:20 tell us that the blood of Jesus that was shed on the cross was poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. With our sins covered, we can be made perfect and live eternally with God the Father in Heaven.

Just Say No to Snow

 Just Say No to Snow
I am feeling the dulling edge of the winter wearies. I am tired of the cold weather and snow. The ice is another “No-No.” The ice worriess me most since I fell near the end of winter in 2015 and I developed two bleeds in my head. I was blessed that I had very little repercussions from the injury. I still have intervals where I have phantom smells. Unexpectedly my brain says I am smelling something and there is no way possible that I am really smelling an odor.
When that false aroma first started, it was a smell of car exhaust fumes of hot plastic. I quickly learned to ignore the car fume odor, but I have to wander through my house to be sure that the hot plastic is not happening.
I don’t like the snow that the snowplows push into my driveway. I once liked to go outside in the dark and shovel the drive, but as I age I find it more of  a task especially when the snow is heavy and wet or the snow has frozen before I can ccomplete the chore.
When I was younger with kids in the house, going outside was a sanctuary. Not that the kids were bad, but sometimes going outside was an escape. Let me explain. Outside in the dark it was almost silent. No television, no one talking to me, and no phone. The only sounds I heard were the passing of an occasional car and the soft hiss of falling snow. It was as though I was inside of a snow globe where the sphere of the outside light illuminated the area where I was shovelling.
I am never content when my drive is filled with snow. I always need an escape route. If an emergency should arise, I want to be able to leave in my car or a spot for an emergency vehicle to pull in. It was especially important when my kids were living at home. Another foible I have is I don’t like to have less than half a tank of gasoline in my car. It goes back to having kids at home and a possible emergency. It was a  time when gas stations were not open 24 hours per day and the possibility of a trip to Pittsburgh might become necessary.
This winter, one band of snow has followed another and I have become weary. It’s time for spring and sunshine.

The Miracle of Time

 The Miracle of Time
How quickly time passes. It was brought to my mind yesterday when my friend’s son came to speak at our church. Although my friend had married and moved to North Carolina, he has remained a good friend. His father and mother and my family attended the same church for many years.
I have watched as this young man’s father grew up in my church and watched as he and his brothers and sister were born. Although no longer in my church, I’ve listened to his progress as he grew, attended a Christian college on the West Coast, and graduated. Now this young man is newly married and is seeking to serve God as a minister. He and his new bride have decided to focus on a church planting ministry.
Let me take you back to a time when his father graduated from high school. I shared in past stories about a joke that I played on the father. It was “The-Tie-of-the Month Club” where I packaged at least one tie and a rhyme with each tie for each month open the package that it could be worn, and some other reason it could be used. (Like a deer drag or belt to wear.)
When this young man graduated from college, I made a repeat “The-Tie-of-the Month Club” for him. I am a jokester and enjoy playing jokes that put a smile on other people’s faces without causing harm. I’m a long distance friend to this young man as well. When he spoke at our church Sunday, he had the ease and poise of a man with much more experience. He shared his vision of starting a new church.
The miracle I speak of is time. I have no idea how much time has been allotted to me. When I look back, I can see how short that string has been. Each day or week may seem to drag on forever, but in reality, they pass by swiftly in a blur. Small things that consume each day are for the most part lost and forgotten. My mind was clogged with so many small choices. Most of those things are only brought to mind when someone or something reminds us of a past incident that was once shared.

For Some Reason

 For Some Reason
After the nice warmer weather yesterday, for some reason my house felt chilly. I hadn’t changed the thermostat; I was covered with the same blankets, and actually was sleeping in a hoodie instead of a long-sleeved tee shirt.  I know that it’s still only February, but I would like a bit more heat. January’s Polar Vortex and snow almost makes me wish I was one of those people who escape south in the cold winter months. Then I look at this year’s weather patterns and figure why? Several times the cold and snow has laid down an 8 inch swath as far as New Orleans, Louisiana and 10 inches in Pensecola, Florida. I imagine if I moved, the snow would chase me to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
One thing I am praying for is that it doesn’t snow enough for me to have to clear out my driveway after the snowplows compete to see how high of a mound of snow they can pack into the opening for me. I don’t like the feeling of having my escape route blocked or that no one can visit, even though that rarely happens.
I had a message from a young man and it got me to thinking about the different churches and different pastors I have met in my past and the friendships that I have had with them. Some of the friendships were superficial and others were deeper, much like a brother. I recall their style of preaching and even some of their messages.
The earliest ones were from the Clinton Church of God, a small white clapboard building with a bellfry to one side. It has now been replaced by a red brick building. I now attend the Mt. Zion church at the top of Kreinbrook Hill. We’ve had only three ministers in the many years I have gone there and I’ve accumulated manyy memories of them. My Son Andrew asked if there were any cassettes of Pastor Leroy Kesler, he’d like to borrow them to listen to the messages. I asked Mary Kesler his wife if she had any. She thought she had them and that I could borrow them. It opened the door for me to think of the other pastors in the past with whom I have enjoyed friendships.

Back in the Saddle Again

 Back in the Saddle Again
At the end of December 2024 I finished a trial medication for a drug manufacturer for diabetes. I was given a pill that I was to consume each day. I had a slight side effect symptom of nausea, but it was minimal. The thing with that medication was that my morning blood sugars were almost always too low. The rest of the day, it was within a normal range. I loved it, but like all drug dealers, at the end of the trial period, they withheld the medication and I am again I have to be careful with what I eat and the doseage for my daily insulin. (PS I just got the W-2 form for the monies I received for the diabetes study.) Nothing is free.
I am just beginning another study for gout. In the past I have had outbursts of elevated uric acid causing some joints to swell and become very sore. At my first introduction to the study, the nurse drew eleven or twelve vials of blood and collected a urine sample. Before I left, she arranged for me to have an ultrasound of my kidneys, ureters, and bladder to be sure I didn’t have kidney stones.
In the past, I’ve had several urinary tract infections and some difficulty with urinary retention. The urinary retention was caused by an enlarged prostate. I had the Greenlight Laser Proceedure done to correct that.
The lovely young blonde tech was undelievably courteous and we talked throughout the proceedure. The test only took about fifteen minutes. As we finished, I gave her one of my business cards teling her that I was a writer and have seven books written. She was interested and asked about their topics. She also asked about my poems. I said many topics, many about the passing of my wife. Just before I left, she said, “I wish you’d have mentioned about your writing. I’m a writer too.”
With the new study, I’m back in the saddle  again.

Making Friends the Hard Way

 Making Friends the Hard Way
This past Sunday our church had a “double header” service. That is what we had, the morning services followed by Sunday school as usual, but this Sunday we had a covered dish meal for those who wished to stay for the fellowship meal afterward. Then we have a second service. We do this occaionally to prevent driving to the church twice in case of bad weather. We have done the same thing when gasoline prices were high as well.
Things are never boring at our church. Sometimes we have visiting missionaries or occasional guest speakers, but the variety always gives us a healthy appetite, either for different speakers of the wide choice of food on the “double header” Sundays.
Sunday morning I had to be careful. Several areas of my driveway were covered in ice and slick. I had no desire to repeat a fall and injure myself again like I did in 2015. Removing the windshield cover then carrying out my Bible and crock pot, it was necessary for me to make two trips to the car. Backing out of my drive was another chore. I had to reverse and rock the car forward several times. The water had frozen forming an icy pocket for one of my tires. It spun before catching traction to leave.
Back to the making of new friends; one of my close friends had a 7 year old great nephew there. I hadn’t had the chance to meet or make friends with him before. I was talking with his grandmother waiting for the food to be set out when I reached out to shake his hand. He was shy and hid behind her. Later we were sitting at the same table on opposite ends. He would glance down the table and make shy faces. After the pastor said a blessing for the food, he opened the chow line. I walked past the boy, I grabbed his hand to shake it. He was surprised and clung to my hand with all the strength he could muster. Now it was my turn to be surprised. He held my hand in a viselike grip, not letting go until we got in the queue for food. I’m not sure that I’ve made a lasting friendship, but we certainly have broken the ice and we now know each other.

To Be or Not To Be

 To Be or Not To Be
That is the question? Ever the first person on earth there has been only two sexes, male and female. The term gender has been slipped into usage to confuse people into believing there is a difference between sex and gender. There isn’t. A person’s DNA determines whether the person is a man or a woman.
Since the birth of mankind, it has always been a man is a man and aa woman a woman. Until recently, people who believe theey have been misgendered has been treated as having a mental illness. The term was gender dysphoria. Apparently the feeling is no longer an illness and is no longer in use. If a person believes they have been misgendered, they try to force others to recognize their newly discovered gender. Their belief is theirs alone and I should not be forced to recognize their mental illness.
The Bible clearly states in Genesis 1:27 that God in creating human beings, He created “he him; male and female created he them.” He made no mistakes. I am not about to argue with God, so if you believe that I am going to backtalk to God, you are sadly mistaken.
To me this trangender movement is ridiculous. It only adds more confusion to daily liife. Trying to ascertain someone’s personal pronouns is a never ending fantasy. I have no desire to wander down that rabbit hole. And if a person can change their gender by just believing it, why can’t I change race if I want?
Why can’t I become trans-species and be a giraffe? Or an elephant? Or a cheetah? Or a horse? If that sounds foolish to you, transggenderism sounds the same way to me. Doctors who fall in line by prescribing hormone therapy to halt pubescence are invalidating their oath to preserve and protect life. Physicians who agree to mutilate children are the lowest of the low, abusing children for money. They irrevocably harm these young ones. Only abortionists are on the same level. Destroying life instead of fulfilling their Hippocratic oath,

Dried Flowers

 Dried Flowers
Memories' dried flowers pressed between two pages
Preserved safely reminders of bygone ages
First dates, funerals, weddings; flowers tucked away
Each blossom calls to mind a corsage or bouquet
Pressed flat and secure where only their colors fade
Protected from time’s passage-brittle not decayed
Flowers and memories that stay fresh in the brain
Mortals cannot stop time, yet these flowers remain
Often fertilized by laughter; watered with tears
These blooms remain the same over the many years
Memories pressed between the faded petals stay
While our lives in human thoughts tend to fade away

Classy Lassie

 Classy Lassie
Let me start out this post by saying that I have three wonderful granddaughteers. I am very proud of all of them. Their artistic and musical talents make me wonder where they got those abilities. It has to be from my wife Cindy Morrison Beck. I often tease that it is a miracle for how great they are when I look at the gene pool.
My oldest granddaughter Celine Beck has a beautiful voice and plays the violin quite well. My youngest Hannah Yoder loves to draw, sing, and act in the school plays. My middle grandchild Moriah Beck loves to draw, has a vivid imagination, and plays the violin. She is the one I will single out in today’s post. Saturday evening I attended a musical event at the MonValley for the Academy Arts in Brownsville, Pennsylvania where Moriah was the solo performer. She played a series of musical themes in many genres from classical to movie tunes and Negro spirituals and hymns as well as more rural songs written especially for fiddles. I’m sure the music was selected to show her skill with the violin. Moriah’s mother accompanied her on the piano for one of the selections.This young Scottish lassie also tosses the caber ath eth Highland Games.
The one host had Morial hold up her instrument for the audience to see. The host pointed out that the neck of the violin had no frets and said that Morial had perfect pitch or she wouldn’t have been able to play so well. I’m not particularly fond of the movie “The Sound of Music.” Her selection of music included “Eidelweiss” and “The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music.” I’m not sure whether they were selected tto torture Grandpa or not. My daughter Anna Prinkey shouted “Encore” and of course there was a repeat of the “Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music.”
After the performance was over, she and Celine played several duets. Morial says he sister plays better than her. There was a “jam session” where several of the other attendees took out instruments played music.
 The hosts at the Mon Valley Academy provided refreshments. All in all, it was a very pleasant evening with my family. Thank you Morial for inviting me and thank you to the Mon Valley for the Academy Arts for providing a venue for poets, musicians, and other preforming artists.

In the Golden Sunset

 In the Golden Sunset
Sunset like a golden crown
Marks day’s end as sun goes down
Twilight’s dark fingers take hold
And bright stars fill ebon sky
Full moon stares with pale eye
Day’s warmth chased by shadows cold

Sunrise, sunset never join
Opposite sides of a coin
As far as east from the west
Exit from a mother’s womb
Then into an earthly tomb
Time on earth is but a test

She’s gone away; gone to stay
Turns to dust and clay to clay
Ashes, ashes we all fall down
Tenderness, I miss her so
Heartbroken, nothing to show
Tears almost cause me to drown

Horizons blush with morning
And night’s gloom quickly takes wing
Grave’s darkness has closed that dream
Old life withers, turning brown
I yearn for heaven’s gold crown
Where death cannot dim its gleam.

Reflections

 Reflections
I stare into a still glassy pond,
Bright stars and full faced moon float in its ink.
Each sparkle reflected on its smooth surface.
Moonlight sends roots into the murky depths.
They weaken and fade seeking bottom.
Sooty darkness surrounds.

I gaze at ebon sky overhead.
Where bright stars and full moon hang on dark hooks.
Each twinkle must escape night’s strong, chilling grasp.
Beams of soft moonlight send ladders to climb,
Fragile milky rungs extend earthward,
Night’s illusion of stairs.

I peer down the deep well of my soul,
Bright thoughts and memories shine in the gloom’
Softly shift, flickering from times long ago.
Faith and hope still live, sending new green shoots,
Fragile links from past to the present,
Reminisce and promise.

Windows of Gold

 Windows of Gold
A house with golden windows sits on a hill
Their bright morning beauty erasing the chill
The view from my windows as sun wakes from night
Each morning I’m greeted with this wondrous sight
Rising each day my soul feels drawn to that view
Grass pathway adorned with frost or sparkling dew
Always changing yet always the same to see
They sail on the green ocean and sky blue sea

As the sun rises gold windows disappear
Reflections of morning sun fading to clear
Slowly the windows lose their rich golden hue
The windows dull and lose their enticing view
Day passes, darkness falls, lights inside now burn
I’m overjoyed when the gold windows return
Not as lovely as an electrical stream
And not nearly as bright with a man-made gleam

The full moon appears with its pale ghostly face
Imparting its light with soft milky white trace
Casting deep blue shadows on tall drifts of snow
Weathered barn turns silver in the moonlight’s glow
The mundane becomes an ethereal sight
Old things become new in the magic moonlight
A crystal path shines in the dark and the chill
To silver windows in the house on the hill

Mountain silhouettes rise in the eastern sky
Subtle dim band appears as daybreak draws nigh
The horizon turns pink at the break of dawn
Waking a mother deer and her spotted fawn
The band grows stronger painting the clouds with light
First crimson, then flaxen, and finally white
The light overspills growing stronger until
It gilds the windows of the house on the hill

Winter Doldrums

 Winter Doldrums
Feeling the winter wearies is another malady that afflicts a couch potato person during the chill winter months. It’s more than “cabin fever” where a soul is sated by going outside of the home to visit a fdriend or to make a shopping run. It is more apt to appear near the end of the season, but this year the extreme cold and the continued nagging bits of snowfall seems to have affectedd me this week.
The first snowfall is often greeted with wide open arms and expectant eyes. It’s truly a welcome sight, covering the bareness of the trees and fallen brown leaves with a bright white robe of eiderdown and lace. Slowly as the shoveling snow, the intense cold, the scraping of the ice accumulates builds, the repeated sight of the pristine white drifts becomes unwelcome. I’ve grown weary of the bleak gray days that seem to blur one into another and I begin to long for the spring melt, the sunshine, and the warm breezes. I’ve grown weary of dragging my shovel out to my driveway to keep the driveway open in case I should need to leave in an emergency. The thoughts of Punxsutawney Phil does little to lift my spirits out of these dreary doldrum days of winter.Especially if he should share will be six more weeks of the winter wearies. SIGH.
I’ve grown weary of carefully waltzing my way across the icy surface of my driveway to gather the mail. I have to be extremely cautious not to fall. My slip and fall in 2015 has made me more aware of just how dangerous ice can be. I don’t want another head injury. There were two bleeds in my head at that time. The injury that occurred from the fall was more than enough.
I can’t wait until the gentle prying fingers of the vernal equinox, the gentle zephyrs, and the warmth of sunshine will chase the winter wearies away thus year. The still distant time for those dreary winter days are just a dream. I long for the snow to be replaced with bright colorful days of spring. Maybe I should rip several pages from the calendar and pretend that spring has arrived.
Alas it isn’t so. The recent icy blast and the white heaps of snow remain. Another wintery blast with its coat of white snow is predicted. It will bury my still sleeping crocuses, daffodils, and forsythia blooms beneath its chilly burden. My thoughts of spring have been dashed.  I want warm so this old bear will stay inside and hibernate.

Stepping Down or Taking a Step Up

 Stepping Down or Taking a Step Up
The house that I now live in was an 84 home kit, much like the old “mail order” homes that Sears and Roebick used to sell. The entire unassembled house was shipped to your area. The package was almost like the irems of Ikea furniture. The kit was assembled in 1976 by friends of me and my wife Cindy. I actually helped to lift wall sections of the second story of the home. I had no idea that later in life, I would buy it for my family to live in.
Through the years it was necessary to correct and repair oversights and problems that cropped up. Some of the things that needed replacement were the shag carpet, wild designed linoleum, French ditchiing, an electrical box placement, roof and window replacement. Some were because they gradually wore out and some were because a better quality product came on the market.
Over the intervening years, the stair steps from the first floor to the second floor gradually began to disintegrate. The wood for the stairs from the 84 home kit was built from pieces of cut plywood. The plywood treads and risers slowly began to show their age, even hidden under the carpeting, the wood began to sag and pull away from the walls. I did add some supports under each step to slow the progress of the weakening stair steps. I finally got worried that someone, mainly me, would step on a weakened tread and I fall through into the basement. I finaally prodded myself into action and sought out a carpenter to do the job.
Through recommendations from my kids and my brother, I was able to find a young man who was looking for work. This winter weather makes it difficult for construction workers to find projects, especially jobs that are indoors.
My Uncle Jake Stahl was a stone mason. He moved to Orlando, Florida to provide for him, his wife Halen, and his seven kids in a steadier job market. It was a time when Disney was being built and the boom for housing was just starting.
I now have is a solid set of stairs rising to my second floor. The steps are very plain and are waiting for me to hire someone to carpet them, but the stairs are strong and I don’t have to worry about finding myself in the basement. I had them install a longer handrail. With the old handrail I had to lean over a bit to grasp the top section. I felt as if I might tumble forward as I reached for it.

Under Where?

 Under Where?
While working as a nursing supervisor at H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, I had to deal with many strange occurrences, BUTT this one was unique. Uniforms for nurses were changing over the years and the fabric became Rayon and nylon. The uniforms became thinner and the fashion of women’s underwear became infused with bright colors and designs as well. The two just didn’t mix well.
A problem arose for management. They put into affect a rule that nurses could no longer wear flowered or brightly patterned underwear which was visible beneath the materila of the white uniforms. Those who did were reminded in none too friendly terms that it was against the rules. They were reprimanded and advised not to do it again.
This policy continued as many uniforms evolved into scrubs. Colored scrubs often disguised the underwear beneath the cloth, but the white ones were a little like Shahade’s veil, muting the colors and patterns rather than covering them. There was again a push to enforce the old established policy. Most nurses adhered to the policy, but on occasion in a rush to dress, someone would forget and needed to be reminded.
All was well until a male nurse was hired. For several months, through his orientation process and initial assignment on a med/surg ward there were no voiced concerns. Then one evening I was approached by several nurses with a complaint. He wasn’t violating the brightly hued or design of underwear policy. He just wasn’t wearing any underwear. They wanted me to remind him of the policy and tell him he needed to wear underwear beneath his white scrubs.
I waited for him to come out to the nursing station to be sure. His scrub top was long enough that it hid all of the complaints, but when he bent over to reach for something, it was obvious that he wasn’t wearing any drawers. More than a silhouette of his bottom was visible. The length of his top covered his private parts, so that didn’t show anything obscene.
I was in a quandary. He wasn’t violating the visible underwear policy because he wasn’t wearing underwear. I wasn’t sure what I needed to do, but I took the chicken’s way out. I told the complaining nurses that I couldn’t enforce the policy because he wasn’t violating the underwear policy. They needed to share their complaint with their unit manager who worked the daylight shift. She could approach the upper echelon of administrators for a final ruling.
I never heard whether the nurses passed the complaint along or what decision management made, but shortly after that, the young man moved to another hospital. That was the bottom line and I don’t know if they addressed the problem or not.

Yesterday's Shadows

Yesterday’s Shadows
Yesterday's but a shadow
Remnant whispers from the past.
Memory's echoes that now show
Their presence lingers and lasts.
Sometimes faintly flickering
Sometimes they are burning bright
They seem to keep on living
In soft subdued dreamlike light
Tears often wet my pillow
Saddened because of my loss
Feelings left from love's soft glow
Ever elusive emboss.
Past thoughts escape furtively
Often when least expected
Memories seek to be free
Rising to be detected
Recollections set the scene,
A knee-weakening power
With nothing to intervene,
They can strike at any hour.
The past stored as memories
Flickers of bitter and sweet
These hiccoughs cause time to freeze
Until we again can meet.
Yesterday’s Shadows.

Five Cents, Ten Cents, Fifty cents, a Dollar

 Five Cents, Ten Cents, Fifty Cents, a Dollar
There was a time when almost every town had a 5 and 10 cent store. G. C. Murphy, J. G. McCrory, and Woolworth were only a few. The stores I still remember vividly from my childhood were G. C. Murphy’s and J. G. McCrory’s located in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. The two stores sat across the street from each other. Their large display windows almost mirror images of each other’s displays. Both had upstairs and downstairs sections of their stores. Back then most were items made in the United States.
Just inside the entrance to Murphy’s 5 &10 cent store in Connellsville, Pennsylvania was a prominent candy counter with a hot nut display. The candy was displayed in bins and the nuts were on a carosel under bright heat lamps. The aroma of warm cashews and red Spanish peanuts wafted through the entire store. A lady would weigh out the candies or the nuts that were selected, then she would seal them in paper bags. Elsewhere in the store clothing, shoes, hats, and socks filled the surrounding counters. Downstairs were drapes, bedding, and toys. Murphy’s had a rest area with green leather couches and a restroom with pay toilets. Each stall boasted a thin slot to receive the dime that would unlock the stall door. I wonder how many men or women crawled beneath the privacy panel or sent a kid underneath to open the locked door from the inside. Some women would carry a dime in their shoe, “just in case.”
The J. G. McCrory store was situated directly across the street from the Murphy store. The J. G. McCrory building had just one floor. The basement of the McCrory store was for storage and stock. At the front of the building, a customer would enter at the street level and immediately found merchandise was on display. Because they only had one floor, their selection of items seemed smaller, but they did have a cafeteria. The long counter with padded swivel stools filled one side of the store. I can’t remember ever eating there, but the food always smelled wonderful. My Dad was more than frugal and it was rare that our family ate anywhere but at home.

The Soft Glow of Moonlight

 The Soft Glow of Moonlight
As I awoke from a sound sleep in the middle of the night. And as I glanced out my window, I noticed the bright moonlight reflecting on the snow drifts covering my back yard. The silver coating shone on the surface and shadows huddled beneath the trees. It reminded me of another time when I was captured by the beauty of full moon. I’d just graduated from high school and was driving home at the end of an afternoon shift working in the toolroomof the Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania. There was nothing special about the drive or the night until I saw the old weathered gray barn. I’d noticed the barn hundreds of times before. There was never anything to make it memorable, until that night. That old barn in the snow was transformed in the moonlight to become something extremely beautiful and very memorable
For some reason the old weathered boards of the barn reflected the bright moonlight. The rough wooden sides glowed like polished silver. The same moonlight caressed the snow covered roof giving it a vibrant almost electric blue crown. The barn was built on the side of a hill. It was surrounded by more snow and the once weary-looking barn became a silver island surrounded by a sea of blue snow. I slowed to see it more clearly as I drove past, wishing I had a camera.
I drove past the barn recently, but the magic was gone. The metal roof had streaks of orange rust and someone had painted the sides of theweathered barn with white paint and red trim. It caused me to think, if the roof had been bare and the sides had been painted white back then, would I still have a precious memory or would I have just driven by ignoring the old barn?

Christmases Not So Long Ago

 Christmases Not So Long Ago
Elementary school children made decorations to celebrate the Christmas holiday. Brightly colored construction paper was cut into strips making interlocking loops to form long chains. These garlands were hung around the blackboards, walls, and draped from the branches of the live evergreen tree. The Christmas tree stood in a corner with colored lights peeking from branches and student-made ornaments. The classroom was transformed into a yuletide retreat.
Children saved their pennies to purchase items for their parents from the teacher’s stock. Choices included dish cloths for moms and handkerchiefs for dads. These gifts could easily be slid inside a construction paper envelop, cut into the shape of a Christmas tree. The children cut and pasted stars and bulb shapes from scraps on for decorations. The aroma of the thick white school paste soon filled the classroom.
Children quietly hunched over their desks also made Christmas cards, bringing to life their artistic talents. Teachers sometimes shared stars from their stash “perfect attendance” or “making 100% on a test” sticker to brighten the “Merry Christmas greeting.”
At home, children anxiously awaited the arrival of the Sears & Roebuck, Spiegel’s, or Montgomery Ward Christmas catalog. Mesmerized children would claim a spot on the floor with tantalizing photos of toys, sports supplies, and clothing capturing their attention. Soon names would appear as a wish list beside items the children hoped Santa would place in their stockings or tucked beneath the Christmas tree.
Fruit, nuts, and candy no longer fill stockings. Popcorn strands, gingerbread men, and paper loop garland no longer dangle from the branches of live fir trees. So much of the old Christmas flavor has been swallowed by progress and commercialism.

Cold and Snow

 Cold and Snow
It has been a cold and snowy week thus far. Snow and frigid weather are two of my least favorite things to endure. I’ve posted in the past I sometimes on occasionly enjoy clearing my driveway. The solitude and silence with the large flakes of snow drifting down cushioning the noise and confusion can be so relaxing. The darkness of the night and the curtain of the falling snow separate me from the hustle and bustle of the world.
However this week hasn’t put me in that frame of mind. The frigid temperature and the snow pushed into my area by strong winds is just the opposite. The result caused people around me to be deprived of electricity and heat. That is never a good thing. Some of the outages were for only a few hours while other folk endured the hardship for days.
I must give credit to the linemen and the tree trimmers; they did a marvelous job getting the power restored. Even though the winds hadn’t subsided, they were dealing with the frigid temperatures and the wind to lessen the effects of the damage. The snowplow drivers kept the roads passable.
I wrote to share my experiencefrom nearly a year ago. I am thanking God that I didn’t lose power and I was able to stay warm during this onslaught of cold and storms. The story I wanted to share is about a dental appointment and one for a diabetes study program. It was a trial for a new medication. That appointment was for ten o’clock. On Monday afternoon I had a call reminding me of a third appointment at eleven o’clock. Now I was getting nervous. All three in such a short period of time and the roads were snow covered.
I left home early and was at my dentist’s office half an hour early. All went well and then I faced the real challenge, driving down the Springfield Pike. The road is a series of hills and turns that have been the locations of many accidents. It I can be the bane of any driver who face its perils on a daily basis.
Gingerly I made my way along the snow covered road and made it to my second appointment early as well. I hadn’t driven over forty miles per hour until I got onto Route 119 and managed the speed of forty six. I filled out the papers and gave my sample of blood before getting back into my car for my third and final appointment. Again I was early. I was so glad when I drove into my driveway at home.

Snow, Go Slow

 Snow, Go Slow
    It has been several years since I have been forced to drive on snow covered and icy roads, but a friend and coworker’s rant this morning reminded me of the times that it was necessary to clean off my car and drive to my job at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. She complained about having only one way to her home and that was a long hill. Taking her son to school this morning on untreated roads, she encountered a driver that stopped part way up the hill and wasn’t moving. She paused to thank the road crews for not addressing the icy surface on the beginning of another school day.
    Several other people lined up behind her, until a man in a truck ventured around them all and she soon followed suit, leaving the person in the stopped car behind. My friend lamented that she got her son to school late, which is never good for the child.
    There were so many times driving to work that would have been real nail-biters, needing both hands on my steering wheel. One time the hospital called to see if I could come in because the night shift person had called off. It was a Friday night and I was already scheduled to work the weekend. I agreed, but said if I made it home after the shift, I wouldn’t guarantee that I would be able to make it back to work. The predicted snow amount was very high.
    When my relief came in, I scooted out as quickly as I could. The snow was falling quickly and the roads were becoming worse by the second. Caution and fear were the passwords as I drove cautiously and slowly home. I turned off the main highway of Route 31 I began to encounter drifts of unplowed snow. The crews were having a difficult time keeping the main thoroughfares open so the side roads were almost unattended.
    By the time I reached my home, I was pushing snow with my front bumper and had to stop onn the road at the entrance to my driveway. I had to get a shovel to open an access to my driveway. It was a white knuckle affair.
    The kicker to the story is I was unable to leave my home from that Saturday morning until Sunday night about ten p.m. The highway department came through with a high lift and huge scoop bucket to open the road. I heard that several plow trucks got stuck in the snow as well and had to be rescued during that storm.

Joints

Joints
I don’t know whether it is because of my age, whether it’s the cold weather, or whether it’s a combination of both, but the aches and pains this winter have multiplied and have decided to remain much longer. I have resorted to using Tylenol, ibuprophen, and a heating pad to give temporary relief from the reminder that I am no longer young and that it takes longer to rebound from the daily tasks that I ask my body to do.
Last night I had a restless night of sleep. The need to reposition my trusty heating pad became a must. It was shifted from my right shoulder, to my left hip, and then to my neck. The warmth seemed to ease the aches and I could fall back to sleep for a little while.
I started the night by preparing my right shoulder. It is the survivor of many traumatic episodes in my past. It survived dislocation and relocation when a house trailer fell on it, several falls while I worked at Frick Hospital, and damage from digging up a cistern with a spade. I have been slathering on several brands of pain killing ointments and creams. I have found that a mixture of the different brands work better than a single type of cream. The gradual relief takes several minutes after a flood of a cooling sensation covers the area, but it does ease the pain. Taking the oral pain killers is next. Off to bed to use my trusty heating pad. I finally settle until another part of my body asks for relief and I shift the pad to that area and again drift off to sleep.
Last night seemed to need more shifts in position and the help of the heating pad than normal. I believe it was because my right shoulder has been more sore than usual and that I cleared my driveway yesterday. There wasn’t a lot of snow, but the snow plows always fill the first three feet of my drive with six inches or more of dirty snow. I always like to have it cleared in case of an emergency and before it freezed, hardens, and takes much more effort to chip it loose and to remove it. I carry each scoopful across the road to dump it in an empty field because that’s the direction the wind wants it to go. Otherwise, the wind creates drifts the snow across the road and then the snowplows stack the snow back in my drive. It becomes a viscious cycle.

Starving the Old Year Feeding the New

 Starving the Old Year Feeding the New
There are several New Year’s menus that I can remember distinctly. My mother Sybil Miner Beck always served pork and sauerkraut for New Years’ Eve. She told us that it’s an old German tradition to eat pork and sauerkraut to ensure good luck and to welcome in the New Year. The type of pork wasn’t always traditional, but with Mom it was a pork roast. At other New Year’s meals I’ve eaten sausage, kielbasa, or even hot dogs.
My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I often shared meals with Cindy’s best friend, Deborah Detar and her husband Bill. We sometimes spent New Year’s Eve at each other’s homes to celebrate. Cindy’s menus were more “traditionally” flavored foods, while Debbie always added sugar to all of hers. Her sauerkraut was brown, heavily flavored with brown sugar and her mashed potatoes were one teaspoonful shy of being candy. Even the sour cream dips she made for veggies and chips was more like dips served with fruit. Her kids carry on that sweet tradition. Sadly Deborah and Bill are no longer alive.
Sometimes Cindy’s parents Bud and Retha Morrison would share homemade sauerkraut with us. It was a veritable feast eating its freshly canned flavor. Sadly, I miss its flabor.
Another menu that remains firmly established in my memory bank is the meal my dad and grandparents Ray and Rebecca Rugg Miner made for New Year’s Day. Dad would buy several cans of oysters, tiny round soup crackers, and vanilla ice cream. My grandparents had a farm and provided the milk, cream, and freshly churned butter to make the oyster stew. Gram always baked an apple pie or two. While we waited for the oysters to stew, we would play games like dominoes, Pachisi, or Uncle Ted’s favorite Sorry on the dining room table.
Gram’s house soon filled with savory steam from the stew simmering on her wood fired, kitchen cook-stove. It merged with the spicy aroma of the pies still in the oven. Hungry eyes of the older members huddled around the dining room table would occasionally stray into the kitchen “wondering if the soup was ready yet?”
Finally Gram would put the games away. She’d set the table with shallow bowls. Dad would carry the stew pot to the table; steam often obscuring sight through his glasses. The rich broth was ladled into the bowls. The cellophane package of crackers passed from hand to hand until everyone had some. Soup spoons clicked as we slurped the broth. The flavor was remarkable. The meal ended with slices of still warm pie and scoops of ice cream. My memory is still filled with those delicious flavors.