Making Time to Make Friends

 Making Time to Make New Friends
Sometimes it isn’t the close bonding of a deep friendship that will arise, but doing little things for strangers that make a big difference. Things like talking to a cashier as I check out at a store. They slowly change from being a stranger to become an acquaintence, then to a friend who recognizes you, returns your smile, and is friendly in return. It becomes better if you remember something that they’ve shared with you about their family.
Sometimes it’s just doing something unexpected for someone who needs help. I am taller and when I see a shorter person, especially and older person, trying to reach a product from a higher shelf, I ask, “Can I get that for you?” Most times the person ssays, “Thank you, yes,” returned with a smile.
Recently a new family has been attending our church regularly. As most often, new people are cordially greeted by other members and welcomed to join us in our worship services Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening in Prayer Service.
Slowly as they got used to my face, I began to talk with them, finding more about them, their occupations, their likes and dislikes, and family histories. I found out from one of the kids the name of a great grandfather. When they mentioned his name and his occupation, I remembered that we had information at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania.
Last Wednesday as I put in my hours of volunteer work, I took photographs of a book we had about their great grandfather, several other photos, and a rocking butter churn. I sent them to the family, hoping that they might be entices to visit the society’s show room.
This weekend we are having a young Ambassador Baptist College graduate visit our church in a “Meet and greet” session. Our church is searching for an assistant and youth pastor. The meet and greet is an event to allow him to see if he might be led to and interested in being a candidate for that position. A game night Saturday, then he will be able to give the sermon Sunday morning. It will allow the congregation to visit with him and if he is interested, it will allow him to candidate and for me to pssibly make a new friend.

Catch a Falling Star

 Catch a Falling Star
Almost seventy years ago, the song “Catch a Falling Star and put it in your pocket.” It was a catchy little ditty that was sung by many artists. In 1958, one of the most prominent artists to release it was Perry Como. His crooning voice made the song a hit.
I have no idea what its actual meaning is, but for myself it means to capture moments in time before they fall away into obscurity. Like meteors that streak brightly across the dark night sky, memories will flare intensely for a moment before they begin to fade and finally disappear. So many things that my dad, Carl Beck and my mom Sybil Miner Beck have said or done have now slipped into dark crevices and may never be recalled again. Many stories of my grandparents Edson and Anna Kalp Beck or Ray and Rebecca Rugg Miner have been lost to my recollection. Sometimes someone will breathe on the embers of a memory and I can quickly fan it into a flame. When that occurs, I hurridly write about it in my BlogSpot. I try to recall as many of the facts from the incident before it dies completely. Sometimes it’s not entirely accurate and another relative will furnish more facts. I’ll go back and correct the mistake or expand the scope of the story. I’m trying to pass this torch along to my children and grandchildren.
I wish that I would have paid better attention to details that were passed down in an oral tradition. It’s a struggle to record pieces of my heritage and pass it along so my children will have them. I don’t have the patience or the ability to do the research of the genealogy of our family like some do. I let that task to others. To me, that path is dry and dusty. I try to remove the cobwebs of my family’s history and add flesh to skeletons of the past. I like to stir our family histories and make them more interesting and complete.
Catching a falling star is what I am attempting to do. I want to create a verbal picture to share the beauty, the sadness, and the joy of our family’s past. I share some of my own stories of my life from the time of my youth, through school, enlistment in the Navy, college, and days of work. Not too long ago I shared a story that I hadn’t shared with my children. They were surprised to hear that when I was in the Navy my “friends” planned to kill me thinking I was a snitch, but as you can see, they didn’t.

Beginning to Write

 Beginning to Write
I can remember in kindergarten of my attempts to write. I was given a thick blue pencil that I could almost rest on my shoulder as I learned to print my numbers and letters. They must have thought the pencils were too heavy enough, because there were no erasers. Perhaps they knew that if I tried to erase and correct mistakes, I would wear holes in the paper.
Now, let me tell you about the paper. It was coarse and off colored white, having lines of blue drawn on it to keep my lines of printing straight, as well as knowing the height and depth of these English hieroglyphics. The teachers pressed me to learn to make them just so. This task is difficult for a five year old learning the fine art of writing and the fine motor skills needed with the log of a pencil. The paper was of the lowest quality and frequently I would have to write around chunks of tree bark or large splinters imbedded in the paper.
Once I mastered that, I was required to learn cursive. Cursive was wonderful. The flow and the beauty of the written word made me ecstatic. It was so much less cumbersome and slow than printing the block letters. I don’t understand why schools want to eliminate this necessary skill. If people lost the ability to read cursive, how could we read the documents written by the great men of the past? Anyone could substitute words on a printed page and say “this is what our founding fathers said.” They are already twisting many meanings of words and if I could’t read cursive, I would never know.
My grandfather E.T. Beck’s cursive writing was a true delight to behold, although I must say his writing as a squire and justice of the peace was much more flowery than his writing in his accounting books. I didn’t inherit that elegant skill from him. My writing, especially in high school was much more pinched and small, I was always frugal at least that is what I tell myself.
So, letters became words, words became sentences, sentences became paragraphs, paragraphs became stories, and stories became books.

To Arms

To Arms
Thursday was a long and stressful day. I knew that it was going to be a long day, but the stressfull part unfolded during the day. My friend asked me to accompany her to Ruby Hospital in Morgantoen, West Virginia. It is about an hour drive. She usually has a service animal, but the service animal can’t drive, so she has me to go along in case she doesn’t fell well enough to drive back home.
The trek started out from her house. I drove over there. I was early as usual. That was one of my Father E. Carl Beck’s commandments, “Be early of you’re late.” We left her house at 11 o’clock am. About fifteen minutes into the drive, she figured out that she was leaving home too early. She recalled the time of her appointments and we were leaving an hour earlier than we needed to leave. There was no need to return to her house and we continued on our way.She did want to leave a little bit early because of road construction in Connellsville and near Morgantown, but not that early.
The trip was after the morning rush hour. Traffic was light and we arrived at the hospital just a few minutes less than an hour. (PS When we left home gasoline was $3.69 a gallon and in Morgantown gasoline was $2.72 a gallon. Something is really fishy here. Could it be the “much higher” gas tax in Pennsylvania?)
So we arrive at the hospitaal and are directed to the srea for her first test. NO problems. Actually they took he in aboout half an hoourearliier that her appointment. And that made the wait time for her second test much longer.
The area for her second test had signs directing us to that area. Several places along the corridor were signs advising “No Weapons.” I remembered that I was carrying my pistol in my pocket. I usually keep it there and had forgotten about it. On the way into the area, I mentioned it to the receptionist. She didn’t seem alarmed and I went in, sat down, and began to read my book. Fifteen minutes later I looked up to see three uniformed security guards. One asked me to step into the hallway to talk. They asked that I accompany them to the emergency department to relinquich my weapon until we were leaving. They wore pistols at their sides and were heavily armed. I wasn’t going to argue. It was an odd feeling being escorted down several hallways. People along the way were looking and wondering what had I done to have three guards with me.
When my friend’s test was over, we left after stopping to collect my pistol only stopping for a meal on the way home. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now 6 pm.

Bounderies

 Boundaries
    As children, we all grew up learning by testing the boundaries that were set by our parents and grandparents. It was a way for us to know what was right and what was not acceptable. It was a way of learning how to think for ourselves. It was a way of determining and setting the moral compasses of our lives. These boundaries were placed so we might understand what was expected of us and what the norms of society are. These limits taught us to respect others and be responsible to authority, of property, and for the laws of the land. Punishment for crossing those landmarks showed us that there were consequences for those trespasses.
    Each generation has become more lax, lessening the pressure to comply with societal limits and have widened the acceptable boundaries. Look at the clothing worn today. Many of the youth wear garb that barely covers what underwear covered just a few years ago. They go to school showing more flesh than a butcher shop display window. I’m not saying that some changes weren’t necessary. No one wants to be covered from head to toe in Lindsey-Woolsey, but there should be a point that it’s not acceptable. I won’t blame it on the kids. They see what the celebrities are wearing and do their best to emulate them. The media pushes the boundaries of decency to wean people away from practiced standards toward a culture where everything and anything is tolerated and accepted.
    Respect for others was once taught in our homes, churches, and communities, but violence has now become rampant. The act of abortion and the elimination of capital punishment have lessened the value we place on life. Mass shootings and the “knock out game” shows a true lack of empathy for helpless victims. Removing corporal punishment from schools have allowed many schools to become battle zones where the student often goes unpunished for bad behavior.
    There have been recent judicial rulings that go against the United States Constitution and our established American rights. More and more these judges try to force their views on American citizens by teisting their judicial powers. These rights were previously guaranteedsacrosanct in the Amendments. The assault on our rights continues as they try to ban the ownership of weapons and ammunition. Marriage has been redefined, its standing as a chioce has been raised to a right, and if I should say something against it, I can be prosecuted for a hate crime. That ruling infringes on my previously guaranteed rights of freedom of speech and religion. I know that many cannot or will not see how this one ruling impacts others, but it does and it will continue to cross boundaries into other guaranteed rights.

Blogging

 Blogging
I began to blog quite a few years ago mostly to share my life experiences and family stories of my relatives that were told to me of my parents, grandparents, and other kinfolk. I wanted to keep the past alive for my children and grandchildren because I didn’t listen closely to my relatives when they shared their stories and much to my dismay, many have been lost. Most stories will never be recovered unless someone shares a story with me or says something that jogs my memory.
Many of my blogs are about things that have happened to me. Some are the thoughts that I have about some subject or my take on what is happening. I try to share stories of my childhood, my school days, my time in the United Statres Navy, my college days, and my time working as a registered nurse. I share stories about other nurses, patients, and even doctors.
When I started writing my blog, I wrote a story every day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. It began to wear on me. I would struggle to think of new themes, new ideas, or remembering fresh stories. It became such a chore that I almost stopped writing altogether. I retreated and began to post Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. My word count was 350 to 450 words per post. That limit was tolerable although there are still days I struggle.
I was talking to an acquaintance about my blog and gave him a business card. He just returned from Japan. As I talked with him, I brought the conversation to my blog. I asked him if he thought that some of his Japanese acquaintances could use my blog to improve their English. He asid that they did fairly well with their English, but thought that they might improve and learn some slang and how English was sritten to improve their skills. Being the person who wanted to increase my readership, I asked if he could mention my blog to them. He said that he would. We will see if my number count increases.
All in al to date I have made 2113 posts. The readership fluctuates, some days only a few, while other days the number is quite large. There is one part of my screen that lists the number of readers and what country they are from. Hopefully I will see some readers from Japan.
I also edit the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society newsletter and have passed the newest copy along for approval from several other members and add photos.

Heidi

 Heidi
Tuesday is my light activity during the week. Tuesdays are usually free of any major projects and my schedule is light. This past Tuesday I decided to indulge and make it a day for myself. A day for me to relax and to do exatly what I wanted to do. I did make mental plans to drop something off to my son Andrew’s home. His house is on the other side of Uniontwn, Pennsylvania. I also planned while I was out to make some stops on my way home after the visit. He told me that he wouldn’t be home, but my Granddaughter Celine would be there.
My son has several acres. He keeps chickens, several ducks, and a small but growing herd of goats that he raises to sell. His younger daughter Moriah has a cow-milk allergy and I believe that they are also aiming to raise a few goats for their milk.
I took my time driving along the roads to his home keeping the car a couple of miles under the speed limit the whole way. Why not? I had all day. When I arrived Celine was feeding bottles to a pair of the youngest goats. We had a great time talking as she finished and then introduced me to the other animals sharing the names of the goats. I was able to relax with her and enjoy the sunshine.
I stopped at the Uniontown Mall to visit an antique storre, but was sadly disappointed. It was no longer in business. I made one lap around the interior of the mall to see what businesses remained. But nothing interested me.
My next stop was at the Grocery Outlet. The variety of foods with some name brands and other foods with odd aand off the wall names filled the shelves. Some prices are exceptionally low, while others are about the same as my local stores. I did buy a few items, then climbed into my car and returned home, my relaxing day was over.
Later, when I was talking on the phone with my son that I felt like the Grandfather in the book Heidi and Celine was the little goat girl. I imagine everyone has read the book or seen the movie of the little girl Heidi visiting her Grandfather in the Swiss Alps. Grandfather had just visited the Alps.

America’s Sins

 America’s Sins
There was a time in history that America was a God fearing country. The first men and women came to our shores seeking religious freedom; searching for the ability to worship God without interference from a king or government.  The foundation of the Constitution was based on biblical principles that God described in His Word. The Constitution of the United States is the document that separates a freedom loving people from peoples in the rest of the world.
America has been blessed. The face of God has looked favorably on our nation to make it a powerful entity and a haven for the oppressed. God has allowed our country to intervene when evil men attempted to rule the world. America has given the lives of its men and women to secure liberty for those who were being enslaved.
But year after year America has turned its back on God and year after year God has been saying, “I love you. Come back to me.” The government’s been straying from the principles on which our nation was created. Too many politicians have come to rely on their own strength and wisdom instead of seeking the face of God who is the source of all wisdom and strength.
Morality is on the decline and depravity is on the rise. Our government cannot legislate morality. If the hearts of our citizens remain unchanged, laws will do little to restrain evil or to limit its effects.
I believe God has been showing His displeasure by the increase of earthquakes and weather disasters. When mankind is unwilling to recognize the Creator of the Earth and the weather concerns, but gives credit to “Mother Nature” or “Climate Change” it will only increase. When men do not give God the credit for creation nor see it as a pronouncement of judgment, He will continue to weigh those people and allow that nation to be brought down in defeat.
History shows that when a country removes God from its daily life other than to think of Him as a servant; only to be beckoned when something is needed, that country fails. God will use the same hands that produced the many years of safety and blessings to also deliver the wrath of His judgment on the people of that nation.
It is time for Americans to be less proud and more humble. God is the only strength and refuge in times of trouble and fear. He is our buckler and our sword. God can bless America again if only we turn to Him and seek his forgiveness and face.

A True Redhead

 A True Redhead
Often my brother, Ken and I would hop onto our bicycles and ride to our friend’s house about half of a mile away. Our friend and his brothers would join us and we would take to the shaded lanes and abandoned fields near their home. The one area where would ride was the abandoned campground, the one where a neighbor boy, Les and I while driving in an old jalopy he was repairing, encountered a troop of hiking Boy Scouts.
The deeply rutted roads ran through wooded sections and through large and small open areas of the old camp. Some of the tracts were large open meadows, where our families would pick wild full-flavored strawberries and some by quiet little niches that would hold a tent or a small Scotty trailer. This campground had been abandoned, but people still drove in to use the campsites.
Sometimes we would ride to the old camp just to swim in the stream that had been dammed up and other times we rode for the joy of feeling the wind in our hair. It almost seemed like a paradise to us kids. We had the freedom to ride long distances without the fear of traffic. If we got warm, we rode in the shaded areas or if we got chilled, we would relax on the grass in the warmth of the sunshine.
This particular morning was sunny and cool, the perfect weather for riding our bicycles. It was cool enough to ride in jeans and a polo shirt without overheating when we pedaled furiously. Here and there, wisps of fog curled in low lying areas of the road and at the campsites.
It was a time of freedom. We were riding for the sheer joy of it, feeling the cool air rush by us, our shirt tails flapping behind us in the wind. The morning was filled with the aroma of honeysuckles and stale wood smoke. There had to be campers about.
Tucked tightly in one of the small campsites was an older Scotty trailer. It was turquoise and white. Coiled around its bottom was a large bank of fog, reaching about thirty inches high.  The door to the trailer was open and framed in the dark doorway was an alabaster skinned, statuesque woman. She was sky clad…absolutely naked… not wearing a stitch of clothing. It was as though Aphrodite herself was standing there. The fog swirled around her feet and she appeared to be standing on a cloud.
In the soft morning sun, her skin shone like polished, translucent milk glass. She had wide hips, a narrow waist, and breasts the size of small grapefruit. It truly was “Venus on the Half Shell” standing there in rural Pennsylvania
 It was a heady and titillating moment for us boys. We stopped our bicycles just out of sight. We weren’t sure what to do, but the only road that went out, meant riding back past the Scotty trailer and this nude woman. After a short rest, we decided to ride back, but we were disappointed. The door was still open, but empty. The one thing that I can say for sure was this woman was definitely a red head.

A Rose by Any Other Name

 A Rose by Any Other Name
Our family had a great Aunt Rose Shipley. She lived with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson in Charleroi, Pennsylvania. Their home was along the Monongahela River. We would occasionally visit and while the adults sat and talked, my sister Kathy, brother Ken, and I would sit on the cinder-lined bank and watch the boats and barges go by. It was better than being cooped up inside even though Aunt Rose was a cool old lady.
Aunt Rose had the most beautiful white hair with large soft curls that framed her wrinkled face. She had a pleasant laugh and a quick smile. It was rare that we ever saw her frown. Sometimes she would visit my grandparents Miner’s farm, staying for several weeks at a time. She would help cook, shell beans, peas, and bake. I can remember one time when she was helping with the supper meal and ended up with the task of making gravy. She got frustrated and said, “Becky, there’s lumps in the damn gravy. I guess I’ll have to strain it.” That was the only time I ever heard her swear.
She always wore a dress that was lavender or had lavender print. I never knew whether it was her favorite color, but it made her white hair look absolutely stunning.
Grandma Rebecca Miner’s house had a long concrete front porch with cinder block walls and pillars. It was cool in the summer and stayed dry in the winter being protected by two tall hemlock trees. Grandma had two Adirondack chairs, a love seat to match, and a contour fitted swing. One day as Aunt Rose and Grandma were on the swing, I reached through the half-block air holes at the bottom of the wall and grabbed Aunt Rose’s ankle. She was startled, jumped up, and screamed. Just a youthful prank, but I always thought she had a twinkle in her eye when she saw me. I could be wrong, but I hope not.
When they weren’t on the porch, they were in the sitting room, not to be confused with the “sitting parlor,” only used by special guests on special occasions. The informal sitting room was where they would watch television. Aunt Rose loved the Pirates until they won the World Series, “acted a fool,” and poured champagne over each other’s heads. When that happened, it dampened her desire to watch them and was indifferent to watching their games or following their stats and standings. For some reason I don’t remember her dying or her funeral, so I guess that she will continue to live on in my memories.

Exploring Emotions

 Exploring Emotions
Over the past several days I’ve been consolidating my posts from multiple flash drives onto one with a larger memory capacity. My computer repairman suggested that I do it. He told me that if anything happened to cause one of them to crash, I would have a back-up. It would be a shame if I lost all of that data. I bought a flash drive with a much larger capacity and have slowly been transferring my stories. I just looked and I have nearly 2,500 posts as well as poetry, stories, and even some random thoughts that I’ve saved.
When I open each title or read the first line or two, memories come flooding back. It’s somewhat like driving in a hailstorm and emotional pieces of sleet bounce off my memory’s windshield. Thoughts of sadness…click, thoughts of joy…click, emotions of love…click, emotions of death…click; they appear then they‘re gone swiped away with wipers and I’m on to the next moment. There were tales of holidays and celebrations and some are amusing and funny anecdotes. It’s like sampling at a smorgasbord.
Interspaced are the ups and downs that mimick feelings of riding on a roller coaster. I felt the highs as it climbed and crested the top before the stomach turning feelings of the plunge into the next valley. Doors and windows into my past opened and shut rapidly, almost dizzyingly. Somettimes it felt like a mental battering ram or an assault on my thought tower.
The winds of those memories sometimes flow like a stream and would rush in like a flood. Some stories srormed at me with strength or they would refresh me like a soft breeze. In the collection, I was able to shake hands with dogs from my past. I was opened albums of faces that appeared and disappeared like the tricks of a magician. I was surprised with what I found like him pulling a rabbit out of his hat.
An orchestra of remembrances sounded softly or grew in strength or sometimes thoughts would clash. It’s an emotional grocery list of my life. The saddest part is that so far I have only slogged halfway through the stories. I wonder what I will shake from the tree next.

Stilts and Skis

 Stilts and Skis
When we were kids, we tried to make skis, sleds, and stilts from scraps at out neighbor’s house. Pieces of wood, held together by straightened and reused nails, were the starting point for any project. The stilts were lengths of two by fours with smaller pieces as the foot rests. Bits of leather strapping helped the user to keep his feet on the perches.
The sleds were for the most part bobsled Frankenstein creations with automobile steering wheels and chrome strips fastened to wide board runners and a plank body. They were heavy and didn’t go very fast, but they were sleds that could be guided. It took several kids to pull the monster back up the hill for the next ride.
Skis were attempted once and they were an unmitigated failure. The wood was too thick and unyielding. Chrome strips did slide fairly well, but would bend and not support weight. On top of that, how were we going to keep them on our feet?
Now that I am grown, I bought a pair. I am still not adventurous enough to try downhill skiing, but purchased an entire ensemble of cross country skis, poles, and boots for $5.00 at a yard sale. Behind my home and across the road are fields, fairly level that would be my safe practice areas. I am sixty-five and bones are more easily broken.
Until yesterday, there hadn’t been enough snow to try them out. Bravely, I wore the boots down the stairs into the basement and gathered everything near the garage door, chair, skis, and poles. I had enough foresight to lift the garage door about six inches to allow me to approach it and open it with the tips of the skis passing under it.
Skis snapped in place, I lifted the door and emerged a novice and cautious. Skis made turning awkward, but I closed the door behind me. I was surprised to find the skis were less stable than I thought they would be. I could feel the gravel chunks making one of the skis tilt to one side. Poles in hand I scooted up the drive and into the wilds of my yard.
The snow was wet and occasionally stuck to the bottom of one ski or the other. Sometimes lifting and stepping and sometimes sliding along, I got comfortable with the feel of the boards strapped to my feet. The mail was in and I scooted across my yard and the next-door neighbor’s yard to the mailbox. All that greeted me were advertisements. I circled the posts that upheld the boxes and headed back to my house, ads wadded up in my back pocket.
I made one more circuit of my yard and put the old fire horse back into the barn. I hadn’t fallen, although there were several, “Whoops, that was slippery.” Safe inside I removed the gear and leaned them against the wall until the urge and snow drew me outside again.

Just Cloning Around

 Cloning Around
I heard from the news that scientists were able to clone wolves that have been extinct for more than 12,000 years. Colossal Biosciences, a biotech company in Dallas, Texas has resurrected the dire wolf by using ancient DNA and genetically altering the genes of a gray wolf. The gray wolf is the closest living relative. The company announced that the result was essentually a hybrid species similar to its extinct forerunner. So it isn’t a pure-blooded dire wolf, but a hybrid species.
The dire wolf was once a top predator that roamed North America. The dire wolf was larger than the North American gray wolf. They had a wider head, light thick fur, and a stronger jaw.
With this accomplishment under their belt, Colossal will continue working to resurrect the mammoth, dodo, and Tasmanian tiger. They have been working on theseprojects since 2021. Will we be able to see actual dinosaurs like in the movie Jurrasic Park or will the costs be prohibitive.
The cloning of the Ice Age wooly mammoth DNA samples will be retrieved from several mammoth specimens and ntroduced into the edited living cell nucleus of Asian elephants-the mammoth’s closest living kin in an attempt topreserve the mammoth’s traits.
Colossal also works to save endangered species. There are often “bottle necks” that may be caused by lack of genetic diversity. Colossal is attempting to introduce a wider gene pool into the endangered animals.
One project is to revive the pink pigeon that is indiginous to the Island nation of Mauritius. It once thrived there until its habitat was lost due to the incursion of sugar plantations.
The pricce for Colossal is a colossal $10.2 billion. The biotech company has the resources to persue these scientific endeavors without much concern about the cost. They have partnered with many conservation organizations.
The company worked with Indigenous MHA Nation tribes (Mandan, Hidasta, and Arikawa) to have the dire wolves to live on their lands in North Dakota. Colossal is negotiating with North Carolina to help strengthen the endangered red wolf population.

Which Commandmennt?

 Which Commandment?
I once heard a sermon on the Ten Commandments. It wasn’t which commandment was the most important or which commandment had a blessing attached to it, but on which commandment does all the other commandments hinge? The radio pastor said that all the other commandments rested on “Thou shalt not steal.”
At first I thought that it was a bit strange until he went through the Scripture and applied stealing to all of the others. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” When that law is broken, we steal the honor that only the LORD God deserves. The glory that is His because He is God almighty is diminished. Making a graven image, again that is stealing the reverence and veneration that belongs to God alone. When we give recognition that is due to the LORD to an inanimate object or to “Mother Nature,” one begins to replace the Creator with something in creation. Mankind devalues God and replaces Him with something less.
“Thou shalt not take the name of the lored your God in vain.” Stealing the laud, the recognition, and the elevation of the LORD’s name, we relegate it to the class of any other word in our vocabulary and steal the respect of that holy name.
“Keep the Sabbath day holy.” The Sabbath was a day the LORD set aside for mankind to rest and to worship Him. It wasn’t to be just another day of the week. When we don’t set aside the time for the day of worship, we steal fealty that we owe to God our Creator. Our God is a jealous God often taking back that time with illness to force us to slow down and to recognize Him.
“Honor your father and your mother.” When we don’t acknowledge and hold in esteem the people who gave us life, we steal something that is owed them. It is the one commandment with a blessing attached to it. When we honor our parents, God says that your days will be long upon the earth.
“Thou shalt not kill.” Killing takes a life. It takes something that doesn’t belong to you and destroys something precious to the other person.
Thou shall not commit adultery” and “Thou shalt not covet.” These two commandments are two sides of the same coin. Seeing something that doesn’t belong to you and you decide that you must have it. Stealing is the root.
“Thou shall not bear false witness against thy neighbor.” When we bear false witness, we steal the reputation of our neighbor. Lying is another sin that God hates.
Finally, we are back to the commandment, “Thou shalt not steal.” I didn’t give justice to the preacher’s sermon, but I can understand his reasoning.

Repeating Myself

 Repeating Myself
Yesterday in Sunday school another one of my stories came full circle. I shared the story by a friend of mine and his testimony with the blessing of God in His life before on my blog. In his testimony, he tells of a time when his leg was caught in a manure spreader and his rescue by emergency personnel. He has made a Gospel tract of the incident and his need to rely on God to intervene and the peace that he felt during the entire problem. The tract is one way that he can share his faith in God.
Last week he drove one of his friends to a local hospital for therapy and follow-up for a stroke. My friend excused himself to go back outside to his vehicle to retrieve a few of his tracts. He came back inside and gave one of his tracts to a hospital employee while explaining exactly what it was. A woman standing nearby asked for a tract too. She said that she remembered reading the story on a blog that I shared, either on my blogspot or on a share on Facebook. That surprised me, but it was a pleasant surprise that someone had read it and was able to tell him about his testimonial. I was wonderful that I was able to share his story and that it made an impression on others.
Another friend asked if I ever shared her story of her vehicle accident and her near death experience. I am sure that I did. She is a good friend and has also made a tract of what happened to her and God’s intervention in her life. The tract is a way that she can share her faith in God and the peace that she had during the time that the accident and her time of rescue.
I often use on or other of their tracts when I witness to others. It is easier for me to say this is a testimony of my friend and the intercession of God in their lives. People seem to be more receptive to these tracts than the regular Gospel tracts.
Repeating Myself
Yesterday in Sunday school another one of my stories came full circle. I shared the story by a friend of mine and his testimony with the blessing of God in His life before on my blog. In his testimony, he tells of a time when his leg was caught in a manure spreader and his rescue by emergency personnel. He has made a Gospel tract of the incident and his need to rely on God to intervene and the peace that he felt during the entire problem. The tract is one way that he can share his faith in God.
Last week he drove one of his friends to a local hospital for therapy and follow-up for a stroke. My friend excused himself to go back outside to his vehicle to retrieve a few of his tracts. He came back inside and gave one of his tracts to a hospital employee while explaining exactly what it was. A woman standing nearby asked for a tract too. She said that she remembered reading the story on a blog that I shared, either on my blogspot or on a share on Facebook. That surprised me, but it was a pleasant surprise that someone had read it and was able to tell him about his testimonial. I was wonderful that I was able to share his story and that it made an impression on others.
Another friend asked if I ever shared her story of her vehicle accident and her near death experience. I am sure that I did. She is a good friend and has also made a tract of what happened to her and God’s intervention in her life. The tract is a way that she can share her faith in God and the peace that she had during the time that the accident and her time of rescue.
I often use on or other of their tracts when I witness to others. It is easier for me to say this is a testimony of my friend and the intercession of God in their lives. People seem to be more receptive to these tracts than the regular Gospel tracts.

Elevators of My Youth

 Elevators of My Youth
In the rear lobby of the gray bank building, a glass encased marquee listed the room numbers for the professionals who had offices above. My mother Sybil Miner Beck located the floor and room number of the doctor we sought. We walked across the white and gray streaked marble floor to stand outside the elevator at one side of the lobby. The frosted globe chandeliers hanging from the plaster fluted ceiling cast puddles of light onto the door. The car wasn’t at the lobby level. I could see the metal bars of an accordion gate through the thick, diamond-shaped chicken wire impregnated glass window.
I glanced at my mom. She nodded and I pressed the black button with the ivory colored up arrow near the top of a shiny brass plate. Somewhere above in the blackened shaft a bell sounded. “Br-rin-ng.” Above us the rumble of something heavy being shut followed by the squeak and rattle of something else being closed. Elevators had an operator who controlled the car, taking riders to the requested floor. The noise continued to grow. I heard the snap of a spark, then the thrum of an electric motor starting. Soon, it was replaced with the whoosh of the car as it descended.
Through the small window I could see thick dirt and grease coated electric cables loop into view, then droop lower as a pale light in the shaft grew stronger. The humming of the motor and the clicking of the elevator car intensified as it dropped into the lobby. A soft swoosh pushed the smell of ozone out of the shaft and into the air around us.
Slowly the heavy platform of the car appeared in the glass window and slid by. The hum became louder as it neared the stop. I heard a gentle jiggle of the car leveling with the lobby floor.
A smooth mahogany colored hand reached across the lighted window to unlatch the accordion safety gate and scissor it to one side. The hand reappeared. The rasp of metal elevator door slid open with a heavy rumble.
As I stepped inside, I saw the operator. She was a middle aged black woman who smiled as we entered. Her smile revealed a set of dazzling white teeth enhanced by her dark skin. She wore a white button down blouse, white socks, a black skirt, and black tie-on shoes.
“What floor, please?” she asked.
Mom gave her the floor that we wanted. The woman smiled again as she reached for the metal handle and levered the car door closed. The operator shut the accordion gate before settling onto a polished wooden seat.
Grasping the handle of the dial on the green-painted metal wall at her side, she pushed it forward and the elevator car slowly rose in the dark shaft. There was a small bump then I felt the vibrations of the motor through the hard soles of my dress shoes. Several floors passed by the window, showing large white painted numbers on the thick concrete floors. The numbers designated the level of the building.
I saw the numbers 2, then 3, and then 4 come into view. The operator twisted the dial and the elevator slowed as the floor we needed approached. With a small adjustment that made the car jiggle, she stopped the car. With a practiced tug the accordion gate openedand she opened the outer door by tugging a long metal handle.
As we moved toward the door, she gave us a dazzling smile and said, “Have a good day.”
“Thank you,” I replied exiting the elevator.

A Parting Shot

A Parting Shot
There has been a definite drop in temperature the past few days and it will last another few days. There has been a coating of snow and the wind has caused me to pull out the winter coats and gloves again, just when I was enjoying a few temperate almost balmy days, even when there hasa been a lot of rain. It has been soggy but it has been short sleeve shirt weather.
I was getting used to seeing my saffron-colored daffodils, my periwinkle, pink, and white hued hyacinths, and my red and yellow tulips beginning to spread their bright colors from the brown leaves and slightly greening grass. The bright dots of yellow coltsfoot flowers have raised their heads in patches of sunshine. I am grateful that my forsythia bushes and my apple trees havve decided to wait for a bit yet before they open their blossoms. There is too much cold air hanging around yet. There is a freeze warning for today.
An old saying certainly has been proven to be true this year. I was once told that if we get fog in February, we will get snow in April. It must be true. We had a heavy fog in February and yesterday we had a layer of snow that was deposited my lawn and car when I woke. As I drove to Connellsville, Pennsylvania to eat lunch with a few friends, the skiff of snow on my hood disintigrated and blew onto my windshield.
I was glad that I was wearing my gloves as I gripped the cold steering wheel and was also glad that the heater of my car quickly warmed.
So many wives tales have been proven to be true.Wisdom that has been passed down from years of experience that we sometimes dismiss, but often have merit. Don’t be so eager to dismiss them, but remember them; file them away in your brain.

Uncovering Wisdom of the Past

Uncovering Wisdom of the Past
I have been reading a book that is giving me more insight into the outrageous treatment that the government of the United States dispensed to the Native Americans. The book is titled, “The Dull Knives of Pine Ridge A Lakota Odessey.” In the annals, the facts and stories of the history of the original people of our country were fed a multitude of lies. The lies did little to feed their stomachs and the stomachs of their families. Treaties were broken one after another. The Native chiefs signed negotiated treaties in good faith. Promises for no further expansion into Indian deeded lands were disregarded almost as soon as the ink was dry. The indigenous people were herded onto reservattions that had soil so poor that little could be grown there. Cattle barely had anything to graze on. The promised herd numders of cattle were slashed with no thoghts at all on how it would affect these untrained people. They were used to hunting and gathering and had little insight on how to plant crops and how to manage animals. For the most part, the hunter wariors cared for their horses and ponies.
Slowly the government wrested the weapons from them. Bows, arrows, lances, and even their knives were seen as weapons, not as items of necesity. The young braves secreted their rifles away from the prying eyes of the Indian Agents.
I am almost half way through the reading of this book and discovered two insightful quotes that I thought that I needed to share. The ability of the Indian chiefs to see though the horror of the situation and view the crux of these matters in just these two quotes is quite remarkable.
On February 10, 1890 after much haggling with the Lakota men, General George Crook took their signatures to cede their land on the Pine Ridge to Washington D.C. The government slashed their issue of beef by one million pounds and President Benjamin Harrison opened the ceded territory to white settlers. The aged chief Red Cloud said, “They made many promises, more than I can remember, but they mever kept but one; they promised to take our land and they took it.”
The other was made by Crazy Horse of the Ogalala Sioux. He sdaid, “A people without a history is like wind on the buffalo grass.”
What is happening in our schools today? History is being erased, covered with social idealism. Facts are being deleted and lies are being inserted. It is an attempt to destroy America from within. We see attacks daily on our borders, language, our culture, and our history. Return our schools to our local communities.
 

When It’s Time

 When It’s Time
My grandfather Raymond Miner sometimes shared stories of things that happened in the coal mines of Southwestern Pennsylvania. One story was stirred when we saw on television a news story of an airliner that had a door pop open during a flight over Hawaii and a stewardess was sucked out and killed. She was the only person that was harmed during the incident.
He said, “When it’s your time, it’s your time. We started to dig a new mine shaft and still close to the surface. Normally we worked underground, but were always willing to leave the darkness, go outdoors, and eat our food in the fresh air when we could.
“This day we gathered outside the mine entrance picking spots to sit and eat. I‘d just opened my lunch bucket when one of the other miners cocked his head to the side as if someone had called his name. He laid aside his sandwich and walked back into the mine. He’d barely stepped inside when the ceiling of the mine collapsed. The debris and rubble buried him. It was as though God had called his name, told him to come into the mine, and then drew him home.”
Most of the veins of bituminous coal in Southwestern Pennsylvania are not very thick and even though my granddad was a short statured man, he either had to stoop or crawl through the mine to swing his pick and loosen the coal. Once the coal was freed, he would shovel it out, loading it into the mine carts that would haul to coal to the surface.
He worked the night shift with my uncle Dale. What I didn’t know until after my granddad and my uncle both had died was that my uncle was lazy, often sleeping during the night and my grandfather did the work of picking, shoveling, and loading the coal for two people.
Granddad’s labors didn’t end at the end of his shift at the mine. He worked on his farm during the day, catching sleep whenever he could between chores. He worked to provide for his wife Rebecca and his eight children: Rachel, Violet, Cora, Ina, Sybil, Cosey, Dale, and Theodore. He had little time to rest, but loved my grandmother and his children so much. I don’t think he minded. I imagine my uncle didn’t take the time to help Granddad on the farm either.
When the time came for my grandfather to end his time on Earth, he was seventy-six years old, diagnosed with hardening of the arteries, but I think that he died because he was worn out from burning the candle at both ends, working in the mines, and on the farm. Although my grandfather was a man short with a quiet nature, he stood tall in my eyes.

Whoville

With the recent anniversary of my wife Cindy Morrison Beck’s death, I thought of this previous post and thought I would share this story.
Whoville
An advertisement on the television shared the information that this year, The Grinch That Stole Christmas special would be celebrating its fiftieth anniversary of airing on the television. It is so hard for me to believe that this wonderful Dr. Seuss Christmas classic has been around as a part of the holiday season for that long. I can remember my kids spellbound and growing up to the message of the Grinch’s attempt to steal the joy of Christmas. He, of course failed, and finally joined the residents of Whoville, realizing the true spirit of Christmas. When the Grinch saw that Christmas was a celebration separate from the gifts, food, and decorations, he returned all the outward trappings that he had stolen, mistakenly thinking that they were the essence of the season.
One central character was named Cindy Lou Who. She was the major reason for the changing of the Grinch’s mind about the holiday. Her innocence did much to change the Grinch’s undersized heart and misguided view of Christmas. It caused him to return the roast beast, the wreaths, and the assorted toys and gifts.
My wife’s name was Cynthia Louise Morrison Beck, but preferred to be called Cindy. So each Christmas she would get the additional moniker of Cindy Lou Who and it lasted until the last Jing Tingler, Flu Flooper, Who Hoover, Gar Ginker, and Trum Trumpet were unwrapped and enjoyed by our children.
The title of Cindy Lou Who was put away after each Christmas and was resurrected as soon as The Grinch That Stole Christmas would march across the television set. Happy fiftieth anniversary to the Grinch, to Max his dog, and to Cindy Lou Who. 

Are You Catholic

 Are You Catholic This incident occurred while I was still working in the emergency room at Frick Hospital, Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. It was the B.C. era, meaning it was in the days before computers, so when a doctor ordered an x-ray, the nurses would have to write the patient’s name, birthday, cubicle number, what part of the body was to be x-rayed and why it needed to be x-rayed on a small chit of paper. Then the nurse would have to hand carried the requisition to the radiology room and given to the techs inside.
One day I carried a request into the radiology room and as I turned to leave, one of the techs said, “If you see the priest, tell him to stop in and give us ashes for our foreheads. We also want him to bless the x-ray machine.” It was then I recognized that it was Ash Wednesday.
Just as I reached the door my warped sense of creativity and humor kicked in. I said, “You know, when the priest comes in, you guys could set up a confessional booth in the dark room. He can open the doors for exposed sins and unexposed to give you your penance.” As in all radiology rooms at that time, there were film storage bins with doors marked as to whether the films had been exposed or whether they were yet unexposed. My mind made the comparison to the Catholic confession chamber with confessed and un-confessed sins.
I heard them laugh as I exited. Later in the day, I carried another chit for an x-ray to the techs. When I opened the door the priest was already inside. He had already placed ashes on the techs’ foreheads. One of the girls pointed to me and said, “There! That’s the one.” Apparently they told the priest what I had said about the darkroom “confesional.”
The priest turned to me and asked, “Were you an altar boy?”
“No.” I replied.
He tried again, “Are you Catholic?”
“No.” I answered again.
He tried one last time, “Do you want to be Catholic?”
My reply was again, “No!”
My response was almost lost in the two technicians’ loud laughter. The priest didn’t laugh, but I’m fairly sure that I saw a smile on his face.

Shoulders Hips Knees and Toes

Shoulders Hips Knees and Toes
Wednesday I helped to distribute food “baskets” to veterans. It is a rewarding experience to see these men and women who have sacrificed so much to serve our country’s wishes be rewardeed in some small way. We have those who’ve fought in the different wars that American politicians have asked them to fight. One of these men who come fought in World War II and is 100 years of age. Many of the people who come for the food baskets were once wounded. Many are older and can barely shuffle in. Some of these veterans have to be driven to the food share, but they all deserve the respect and the food that we distribute to them.
The boxes of food are stacked on pallets. The pallets are unloaded for volunteers to carry to the vet’s car. The boxes of food weigh about 12 to 25 pounds depending what has been prepackaged. Some are lighter when they are filled with mostly dried goods, (Cereal, noodles, macaroni & cheese, etc.) or they are much heavier when they have canned goods placed inside. There is usually a box of various frozen items: meals, hot dogs, French fries, lunch meat, chicken, or ground beef or ground turkey. When a veteran arrives, the volunteers hustle to load the vehicle with the various boxes, bags, and jugs of milk and drink portion that is to be dispensed. The boxes are hefted and carried about fifty feet to the awaiting vehicles to be loaded into trunks, truck beds, or back seats.
There are times that the veterans arrive in multiple numbers and it is often difficult to know who arrived first to serve them first. For the most part, the veterans are of good sorts and accept if we make a mistake, unlike shoppers at nearby grocery stores if someone mistakenly “jumps the line.”
The hardest part is getting the drivers to line up into spaces for loading. If anyone has driven lately, you know the experience level of drivers on the roads today. Getting them to maneuver and stop where they are to be is sometimes tricky. Add to that those whose eyesight is fading. So far we’ve avoided parking disasters and we are thankful for that, but it does create episodes of confusion especially in peak arrival times. All in all it went fairly well.
I was very tired on Wednesday evening, but waking up Thursday morning soreness arrived: shoulders, hips, knees, and toes. I almost forgot to mention my back.

Travel Brochures

 Travel Brochures
When I first started to write, I became part of a group of amateur writers who met at a local library sharing pieces that we’d written for comparison. Others would evaluate our writing skills and point out errors and hints for improving our texts. It was as the Bible says, “Steel sharpens steel.” The observations and suggestions were to help us become better writers.
I label myself as a descriptive writer. I want my readers to understand where I am coming from and to see what I’ve sene, smelled what I’ve smelled, taste what I’ve tasted, and heard what I’ve heard. I would occasionally write in excess because one of my fellow writers told me that I “should write travel brochures.”
The story I wrote was about a gambler from New Jersey who was on the run because he had a dalliace with a casino owner’s wife. His escape led him to book a cruise from Newfoundland through Labrador. I used the sights, scenes, and smells that I encountered from a trip I took on the Northern Ranger. The Northern Ranger is an ice-hardened ship, 236 feet long that plied the coast of northern Newfoundland to the town of Nain, Labrador. The ship was taken out of commission in 2021.
In telling the murder mystery tale I’d written, I described each port-of-call, the people that I met on the journey, things that I saw, and the way the people of Labrador interacted with the crew. The Northern Ranger wasn’t a passenger ship, but provided berths for a few passengers and a large passenger seating area for passengers that would travel between the different towns. The ship also hauled supplies to the ports, collected, and their transported products of fish and other seafood items in its hold.
The description of the different ports and varied people added to the flavor of the story. I did omit almost one entire chapter because it was a sidebar of a married couple that added human interest to the tale, but it had no bearing on the plot. I was reluctant to do so, because it was a wonderful piece of descriptive writing about this older couple. I wanted to include the couple because the main character met her on the plane flying to Newfoundland.
Now to share with you another group of descriptive writers, they are pediatric nurses. If you have ever read thee charting of a pediatric nurse trying to describe the bowel movements of a child, you will understand what I mean. Color, consistance, odor, amount, etc are all part of the information that they want to share, although I doubt if a nurse’s descriptions of a hospitalized child’s bowel movement would be included in a travel brochure.

A Very Special Anniversary

A Very Special Anniversary
    Today was a very special anniversary. It’s a date that I don’t like to celebrate, but it’s an anniversary none-the-less. March 24, 2003, my beloved wife Cindy passed away. She had been ill with upper respiratory tract infection symptoms for about a week. Her wheezing was getting worse and I gave her no choice, it was time to be seen at the hospital. After much testing it was determined that she had fallen victim to the silent killer, ovarian cancer. It had quietly invaded her body to the point little could be done. Ten days later she was in the loving arms of Jesus. Cynthia “Cindy” Morrison Beck had passed through the veil from life into death and into heaven beyond earth’s shadows.
    The irony of the date is that is the second anniversary that I am forced to celebrate on the same date. It’s the anniversary of my mother Sybil Miner Beck’s passing. After many years where her mind and body held captive by the insidious grasp of Alzheimer’s disease, she died on the third anniversary of my wife’s passing. On March 24, 2006, she was freed from the shackles of the terrible disease that had been stealing her mind and ravaging her body for so many years. The symptoms of tha disease had gotten to the point she could no longer remember how to eat.
    There is sadness with this anniversary, but there’s also a blessing. In the brief window of Cindy’s illness, she had no pain. It was difficult for us who were left behind, but in retrospect, she didn’t have to suffer the agony and terrible pain that so many cancer victims have to bear.
    After so many years of my mother not knowing what was happening to her and the horror of having her memories swallowed up by the black hole of Alzheimer’s, she was finally free. In heaven she was again ablto be the person that we remember.
    Though neither of them are still here their memories remain alive in the hearts and minds of those who knew them.
 

Armpit Hairs

 Armpit Hairs
Before I retired coworkers were sharing a flyer with the drawing of a mushroom and the caption, “I must be a mushroom, because around here, I’m always kept in the dark and fed fertilizer.” Recently I thought it was more like being an armpit hair. I worked as middle management and we were always kept in the dark, compelled to enforce decisions that often smelled badly, even when senior management made an attempt to use deodorant, it still smelled.
Too often it caused me to sweat with attempts to get staff members to comply. Most often it seemed that there were many more steps added to accomplish a simple task which was already being done satisfactorily. Those decisions often mimicked the “common core math” fiasco that was forced on schools to obtain financing.
I’ve had school teachers support “Common Core Math” by arguing that with some children, it was the way they learned. My reply was, then teach those children separately. Children learn in different ways. Some children understand by touch and by feeling, some learn by audio input, while others learn by visual stimulation. Teachers use various methods to reach children who need alternate methods of learning. They don’t force all the other the children in the class to learn by one method only.
Computers were supposed to eliminate or at least reduce paperwork. Hospitals swarmed to join the rush toward a paperless society, but what I have seen is an actual increase of generated papers and an increase of repetitious questions. This unnecessary work causes a decrease in productivity. It doesn’t matter if the doctors or hospital is in the same system and it doesn’t matter how close the appointments are: the very same questions are asked over and over and over again. The computer programs were created for the ease of the bean counters. Each click registers a corresponding charge to make the calculation of billing easier.
Who remembers paper bags for groceries? Stores were compelled to use plastic sacks to save the environment. While paper bags are from a renewable resource and biodegradable, plastic is not. Plastic bags have now become a huge problem, so much so that stores were beginning to enforce reusable shopping bags. Then the Corona virus hit and using “contaminated” reusable bags suddenly became taboo. The reusable bags could save stores money. From what I understand stores plan to pass the cost of plastic to the consumer charging a few cents for each “disposable” bag.
And so on it goes. There are too many people that make regulations that govern everyday lives that have absolutely no idea what’s necessary outside a boardroom or outside the virtual created computer world. Anyone else feel like an armpit hair?

Worries, Not Me

 Worries, Not Me
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was a song that was a hit song not very long ago. It suggested that a Happy-go-lucky life was the way to go. Some may think that this is a fable, a mythical creature like the unicorn. I just want to remind my readers that the word worry is not mentioned in the Word of God. It is never mentioned, although many passages point to the word in many other forms. The feeling of worry is never in a positive sense. It is always in the negative.
A lot of the passages say to “fear not” because God will take care of His own. The Word shares how God takes care of the sparrows, the lilies, and His children. He never forsakes His own. Time after time the Bible shares how God guides, provides, and protects us. It shares that God is always faithful. The rising of the sun and moon and the rotation of seasons show His design. He has each star named; think of the number of them that are spread out through the universe. He just know how many there are, but has each one named.
God also has each hair on our heads numbered; on some of us he has less to count than on others. He knows the number of grains of sand on every beach along every ocean. God says don’t be concerned. I created this world and all that is in it. I am in control.
When the storms in life come along, remember that Jesus, God’s Son spoke and stilled the wind and the waves. When we think we are trapped and have no escape, rebember He parted the Red Sea and provided safe passage. And why not; He merely spoke and created everything in the universe into being from absolutely nothing. Today the worlds and all that we can see, feel, and hear are being held together by His will.
I’ve tried to eliminate the word worry from my vocabulary. The closest I come is to substitute the word worry with the word concern. When I am concerned, I am compelled to turn it over to God. In my weakness God reveals His strength. I can’t think of anyone or anything stronger than the Creator of the universe. Can you?

Rough Weather

 Rough Weather
Yesterday afternoon wind and rain moved through the area of southwestern Pennsylvania close to where I live. About two miles away, utility poles were pushed over and trees were damaged. I’ve seen some photographs of areas close too my home, but haven’t attempted to drive to those areas. I’ve heard reports that several roads are closed to traffic, but the road I drove to church was open last evening to go to church and was able to worship God, sing, and pray.
Yesterday afternoon, the wind began to increase and warnings on the television announced a tornado warning. All of a sudden, the electricity flickered and the rain began to pelt my house. As directed by the announcement, I moved away from windows. The rain gushed across the windows at the rear of my house. I’m glad that the wind came from the west and not from the east. I have outdoor furniture on my front porch and never would have been ablt to gather them up and move them into the basement. The velocity of that wind would have collected them and strewn them into the next county.
My daughter Anna Prinkey called me this morning as she drove to work and shared some of the damages done nearby. Some roads are still closed this morning because of tree and electric power pole damage. The men from the power company and the men who clear the trees will be busy today. I am so thankful for those men and pray for thsir safety.
I am glad that I don’t have to leave home and pray for those who do have to travel to their jobs. Keep a watchful eye out for danger, Be safe.

Walworth Valve Company

 Walworth Valve Company
During the first few years of my life, my father Edson Carl Beck worked in the coal mines located in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. The coal veins underground in this area were low. The thin seams caused the miners to work, bent over to dig yhe coal with pick and shovel. Once loosened, the coal was shoveled into carts then hauled to the surface. Because of the low ceiling, he had a dark tattoo on his forehead. It happened by bumping his head on a low overhang and the coal dust wasn’t properly washed out at the time.
His next job was working at a factory called The Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania. The company made valves casting them, shaping them, and finally selling them. In the foundry men poured the hot molten metal into molds shaping the bodies of the valves, wedge gates, and the ball stoppers. The metals the workers used were brass, iron, and stainless steel. The choice of the different metals was determined by the type of valve requested for the customer. I believe the smallest valves were brass with a 2.5 inch diameter opening and the largest valves were steel or stainless steel and were 3.5 feet in diameter.
Walworth was an old, wood-block floored factory. It was started in 1888. The original machines were powered by a belted pulley system. A second-floor line of pulleys on a long shaft spun leather belts. The belts stretched down to power the machines on the first floor, transferring the power to each individual machine.
My father’s job was to run a large overhead drill press. His expertise on the machine often caused him to actually earn less money than those who were less qualified. Let me explain. Other men were shaping smaller, multiple pieces in a run. Once they were set up, they could drill the valves in a shorert time, earning “piecework.” That meant if they finished more pieces that the average, they got higher wages.
However, my dad would have to set up his machine to do only one, two, or maybe three valves. The set up time for the drill between orders was a loss of productivity. He earned only a straight salary compared to the other men doing piecework. His skill and knowledge hindered his wages instead of helping him.
I worked there for a nearly a year before joining the United States Navy in 1968, but my father continued to work there until 1975 when management decided to fold up their tents and move the entire operation to Mexico. One of the original buildings from the factory is still standing. It is the white, stucco-looking medical building situated behind Hoss’s Restaurant in South Greensburg just off Rt. 119.

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 heav’ns golden crown
Where death cannot dim its gleam.

Choices

Choices
He had to finish reading and writing the report to keep his flagging grades up or wear dirty underwear to class. He decided to do both. It seemed reasonable. He loaded his basket with clothing, laundry detergent, and the book that he was reading, titled, “On the Wilderness trail; From Moccasins to Motor Cars. “ It covered the history of the Wilderness Trail and its expansion into major highways.
It was mid morning and there would be little competition for the machines at the Laundromat. Hopefully it would be quiet. This place was near his apartment and less busy than the one on campus. A friend would turn dirty underwear inside out to have a “clean” side against him until he could do his laundry; not me..
The Laundromat was empty. He quickly claimed two machines, slotted the money, and added the detergent. Choosing a seat at the corner of a table, he began to read, making notes as he found interesting items that he would need for his paper.
He’d barely read two pages, when the door opened. Glancing up, a young woman entered and began to toss her clothes into a machine a few washers away. He noticed her long black hair and nearly violet eyes. He heard the money slide into the slots and water gush into the machine. She hadn’t brought anything to read or do and of course, she wanted to talk.
“Hi,” she said and chose a seat several chairs away. He could feel her eyes on him, as if she was evaluating him. It was as if she was deciding something about him.
It would be rude to ignore her. He looked away from his reading. She was about twenty-three, had velvety, pale skin. Her raven hair caused her skin to seem paler.
Looking up, he replied “Hey,” and went back to his book. The assigned reading was due and he really didn’t have the time for small talk.
He saw movement from the corner of his eye and glanced toward her. She had crossed her legs-long, shapely legs. The short skirt hiked up even higher up on her thighs. His mouth went dry. He was torn between the book and the look.
He managed to read a few more sentences when he heard her stirring in her chair. He was enticed into taking another peek. She had uncrossed her legs leaving a dark cavern beneath the hem of the skirt. Looking at her face, she shared a welcoming smile. Her pearly white teeth gleamed from behind crimson lips. Her eyes sparkled. Wresting his eyes from this vision of loveliness he returned to his book.
His washing machine stopped. He rose quickly to toss the wet clothing into the dryer. Inserting another few coins he completed the chore. She said, “You remind me of my brother.”
”Why is it when I have homework due, do I meet such a beautiful woman?” He thought and returned to his reading, nodding and smiling as he passed by..
“I make a mean spaghetti. It’s my brother’s favorite,” she continued.
“I like spaghetti too,” he managed as he shuffled by her.
Hopefully he would be able to finish the assignment and still have time to talk. He had never read so quickly in his life. He tossed his second load of laundry into an unused dryer and returned to his reading. Each time he glanced at the beautiful woman, she was always looking at him. His throat went dry and he became more and more aroused.
Only one more chapter to read; what should he say to her. He could barely keep his attention on the words he was reading. Everything he thought to say to her seemed contrived and frivolous. Just as the buzzer of the dryer sounded and pulled him from his reverie, the door of the Laundromat opened. A tall handsome man with a toddler in his arms entered. “Hi Hon, ready to go home?”
“Yeah babe, let me grab my stuff,” she replied.

Losing the Battle

 Losing the Battle
This Sunday we are compelled to set our clocks ahead one hour and we lose one hour of sleep. I still don’t understand the wisdom of repeating this action every year and setting clocks back one hour every fall. The wisdom of a Native American supposedly saying, “Only a white man will cut six inches from the bottom of a blanket then sew it to the top will make the blanket six inches longer.” I have no idea why the government doesn’t add thirty minutes to spring and remove thirty minutes in the autumn. Eliminate the disruption that interferes with our lives twice a year.
This year the changing of time is especially painful. Not only will I lose an hour of sleep, but I will rip another page off my calendar. It is my birthday and I will tic off another year as I “celebrate” the passing of time. I will be one year older, not necessarily wiser. I will pass into the age where I can be officially labeled as “antique.” I will be seventy-six. Proud of becoming that age, only because I have lived and endured it long enough to have reached that milestone.
I look back at the many incidents that I survived to reach this age. Only the grace of God has allowed me passage into old age. I have had reasonably good health and God has led me through the times of difficulties. I’ve not always been a faithful servant, but God has always been faithful to me.
There is a time just ahead where I won’t have to battle against time. God’s promise will be to gather me into His arms and to dwell eternally in the Promised Land. There is a mansion there waiting for me. It is a place where time has no meaning. A place where no pain, no sickness, no sin, no tears can enter in. The battle has already been fought and Jesus is the victor.

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.