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.