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.