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.