Ice Cold Swimming Hole

 Ice Cold Swimming Hole

When my brother Ken and I were in our preteen and early teen years we would walk with the neighbor boys an eighth of a mile to a deep spot in the waters of Poplar Run. It was a spot under the bridge between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania along Route 711. The waters that fed this stream emanated from underground springs and the melt off of the winter’s snow and ice. The creek for the most part, flowed through shaded wooded areas where sunlight only filtered through the leaves and branches of huge trees and laurel bushes that lined its banks. The swift flowing water stayed cold all year long.

Each year a basic dare progressed into an annual challenge, we would make the trek to get into the frigid water beneath the bridge before the end of April. We weren’t quite the Polar Bear club, but it wasn’t a sunny day on the beach either.

Beneath the bridge along one side of the stream was a sand and rock stretch of beach. Before we would make our first timorous exploration into the water we would build a fire. We already knew that the water would be cold. We gathered driftwood to keep the fire going as we swam. It would be the difference between salvation and hypothermia. It would be needed.

Under the bridge the stream made a turn where the current created the deep swimming hole. The deepest part of the hole was in the shade of the bridge, so there was no heating of the water on the trip from the melted snow to our pool.

Once the fire was built and going well, we stripped down to our white briefs and crept to the water’s edge. We knew what awaited us. There was always the test of toes, praying that a miracle would have happened and the water had been somehow transformed to become warm. We hoped against all hope that it wouldn’t be as cold as it invariably was.

Each of us had our own way of getting into the water to finally immerse ourselves in the icy flow. Some of eased in; toes, ankles, calves, mid thighs, and then the part that took your breath away: the family jewels. It was no use going slow any longer and we’d dive in. No use prolonging the agony. Others were more daring and took the plunge, popping out of the water with a savage scream that echoed from the high arched walls of the concrete bridge.

One thing that was the same for all of the swimmers after we had taken the plunge and the few strokes back to shore we raced for the fire to get warm. Huddled and shivering we crouched close to the red hot coals, squatting on our haunches and holding our quivering arms to our chest as we sought more body heat. We added more wood to dry ourselves and to try to get warm before hypothermia could set in.

Once we warmed a bit, we would open a sleeve of saltines and toast them one at a time on a forked stick by holding the cracker over the hot coals. Retrieving the plastic knife we had hidden, we would smear some of the oleo from the stick “butter” onto the toasted cracker and have a feast until the last crumb was devoured.

It was a time of male bravado and bonding. About this time, we were dry and warm. Climbing back into our clothes we would head for home. All through the summer we would return to swim. When the dog days of summer and its hot sweltering temperatures engulfed our world, the swimming hole would become an oasis and refuge with its cool, refreshing water and not the springtime place that tested our manhood.

The Name Game

 The Name Game

I can remember many years ago when my kids were much younger and my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was still alive, the kids would ask me; what can we get you for Christmas? I would tell them that I wanted the preprinted return labels: labels that came in a self-adhesive roll. Some brands of the labels had a wet and stick, while others had a peel and stick. But the one thing that all of the labels had was the name, street address, state, and zip code.

For some reason they never bought any labels for me. I don’t know why I detested taking the time to hand write my name and my address in the upper left-hand corner of envelopes, but I did. There were advertisements everywhere offering the preprinted return labels. Nearly every newspaper advertisement bundles offered them for sale. Many magazines ran an advertisement somewhere inside or the back cover wanting you to take advantage of a sale price to purchase them.

I’m a frugal guy. My kids have interpreted that word to mean cheap. My salary for two weeks as a nurse back then, is what a nurse now makes in a day. Times have certainly changed. Often it was a struggle to pay the mortgage on a house, the payments on a car, taxes, and utilities. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck taught at a private Christian school to pay for our kids’ tuition. It was my salary that kept a roof over our heads, food on the table, and shoes on our feet.

I was surprised that the bank recognized my signature when Cindy passed away. I was on night shift and Cindy often signed my name on my check to deposit it. Banks were often not open when my eyes were. She also wrote the checks to pay the bills. That was a new responsibility I had to carry when she passed away.

Suddenly every charity seeking donations began sending preprinted, self sticking name and address labels in their solicitation mail. Now I have all the name/address labels I need. Even if I live to be one hundred years old, I’ll never run out of labels and Heaven forbid if I ever change address. What will I do with the excess labels? The frugal part of me will not want to toss them out.

With Some Memories Comes Sadness

 With Some Memories Comes Sadness

As I tidy my computer room/ office I found several cards, letters, and notes that stirred many wonderful and achingly poignant memories. Most of them were sad with an occasional smile stirred into the mix. I said tidied, because there are still stacks of photos, notes, folders, and manuscripts of tales and poetry to go through. Some surfaces are still lined with dust.

I decided to get rid of old Christmas cards, birthday cards, and thank you cards that will have no meaning for others, but a valentine card signed by my granddaughters Celine and Moriah was reason for a pleasant memories stack of cards that I’m keeping. There are more cards and letters from loved ones that I will keep as well. The oldest was from a fellow corpsman and friend I met in Orlando Florida. Although he was a raging Liberal hippie, we became friends. He was reassigned to Field Medical Training School to be with Marines, during the Vietnam Conflict. He wrote me with his address and when I wrote back. I used his full name, Charles Felix Scott. His return mail thanked me for letting everyone AND God know, including fellow Marines that his middle name was Felix. Sorry Scotty. If you see this, write back. I’ve lost contact with you.

The next card and letter was from Cousin Liz Nicholson Moore. She was the daughter of Oliver and Ina Miner Nicholson. We were about the same age and always liked to be around each other until her family moved to Ohio. We still kept close with letters and cards. She has since passed away. The hardest thought for me to bear was when I sent a letter at Christmas to her and received a card with the obituary notive from her husband telling me that she’d died several months before. I still get choked up thinking about it.

The last card and letter inside was from a former Pastor and dear friend. His birthday and mine were close dates in March. We’d go to lunch and hit places that had annual book sales. He was an avid reader and bibliophile. He was also a Missionary to South Korea and left our church to teach Bible students to be missionaries at a college in North Carolina. Even after he moved, we would visit at least once a year. I’d always find a book that I knew he would enjoy. He was a dedicated servant of God with a desire to the reach the lost people in Madagascar so remote he would need to be flown in by helicopter. On the day before his departure, he died and is sorely missed. Good bye Pastor Norm.

I can’t read any of those letters for now; there is too much sadness there.

Look to the Sky

 Look to the Sky

In the past few days, the sky has been so intensely beautiful, I can’t express in words the vivid colors and design I’ve seen. Even Bob Ross with his happy little “wet on wet” painting techniques would be hard pressed to even come close to the excellent paintings of light that God has put on display. I take photographs of the most impressive and share them on Facebook, but they only stir memories of skies that I have seen in my past.

One such sky was while camping at The Great Sand Dunes of Colorado. As we arrived, vast arches of rainbows greeted us. There were three rainbows that slowly dissolved into one, growing brighter as they joined together. Later that night as we set up camp there were no lights for miles. The sky was a velvety black. Huge glistening stars hung just out of reach above our heads. A rain storm swept in with a dazzling lightning display. The air became even clearer and stars became more pronounced after the storm thundered by. The rain seemed to clean the air and polish the stars.

I’m also reminded of the hues of the sky and its reflection in the ocean at the northern tip of Newfoundland. While aboard the Northern Ranger the sky melded into the water of the bay almost becoming one. Only the position of our ship moored there gave definition to the location of the water.

The sunrises and sunsets from my home have been so very impressive. The colors have been so intense that they almost seem artificial. The smorgasbord of passing clouds adds even more interest to phenomenal designs in the sky. The skies’ palette is covered with pastel hues to brilliant primary colors. That boggles my mind. The old adage comes to my mind “A picture paints a thousand words.” But mu descriptions fail miserably at describing the beauty and colors of the sunrises and sunsets.

I like to think that this is the underside of Heaven and if the bottom of Heaven is this wonderful, I can’t imagine what Heaven will be like. I am at a loss for words to try and describe what Heaven will actually look like. I do know the Bible describes Heaven as being filled with jewels and having streets of gold. Heaven’s gates are huge pearls. It’s an eternal place where moth and rust can’t destroy. It is too great a thought for my human mind to comprehend.

 

Rainy Days ad Mondays Always Gets Me Down

 Rainy Days ad Mondays Always Gets Me Down

Even with the increasing daylight hours, the rain always makes me feel sluggish and sort of depressed at the beginning of the week. It makes me want to hide inside even knowing that spring is just around the corner. I’m glad that I have retired and don’t have to go out when the winter winds blow and snow falls. I won’t say I like the rain and sleet, but I guess it is better than the cold ice and snow.

I do have a metal roof and have heard others say how much they like to hear the rain falling on the roof, but with the windows closed, all I hear is thunder and the dull roar of a barrage of raindrops pounding on the roof. There are no sounds of music as the drops dance on the metal roof.

When the rains make everything soggy and water filled, it really makes me want to remain inside where I am dry and warm. When mankind started to build shelters I’m sure his wife wanted to be warm and dry as well. He would do all that he could to keep the rain, wind, and snow outside and to keep her happy and have their dwelling snug and secure. They had to carry water from a stream or spring for cooking and drinking. I’m also sure that fetching in the water day after day became more and more burdensome, so the woman of the house probably shared the desire to have water brought into the house with pipes and a pump. After years of wanting to keep water out of the house, now it became a luxury, then a necessity to have water brought into the house and a way to allow it to escape. Need I mention the need to go outside to use the privy?

Well, it’s Monday again and wondering if the sun will pierce the early morning mist with a golden glow. Even though the temperature is predicted to drop from yesterday’s sunny warm feeling and turn into another bone chilling wintery day, I have some small chores to do around the house. I am thankful that I can stay inside warm and dry and still get them done.

Feelings of Loneliness

 Feelings of Loneliness

I recently had a night when some those sharp pangs of a deep and painful soul wrenching episode of loneliness appeared. It’s a feeling that every widow and widower will get at some time in their lives after the death of their spouse. It also occurs with every person who has gone through a divorce. That feeling doesn’t happen frequently now for me, but when it happens it’s a real lowdown feeling. When I face an empty bed, empty arms, and it seems as though my very soul is empty.

This time that emptiness has been compounded. In the last few days I’ve driven several places and lately I have been listening to an oldie’s station on my car radio. I don’t recall how many songs were about being alone, loneliness, or being lonely. Some only hinted about those feelings of “The Last Dance” while in other lyrics, the teens were separated by death. One after another sad words filled my car: “Are you lonely tonight,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” “Tell Laura I Love Her,” and on and on. “Only The Lonely,” “I Am…I Said,” and “Dancing on My Own,” each one slipped through the speakers of my radio.

I can’t think of the names of the many other songs, but their sadness filled my car on the air waves. Many songs were jazz selections or the blues. One was “The Thrill is Gone.” When I had the lonelies attack, I thought about writing my blog about the feelings of loneliness, but then thought not. The subject was too depressing. I decided to let it pass like I do when those thoughts about being alone appear, but after three days of constantly being bombarded by listening to “being lonely” music, I was prodded to write about it.

Like I said, this feeling doesn’t happen often. I have friends that I lean on and God is always there, however the physical intimacy of a spouse isn’t present. That need remains buried, lurking beneath the busyness of daytime chores, appointments, and the many daily things that press that need done. I find it’s the nights that press close and there is no one to talk with that reveals the emptiness.

Excess Baggage

 Excess Baggage

While stationed in Orlando, Florida, I became friends with Lt. Chris, a Naval Episcopalian chaplain. He drove an ancient pale blue Peugeot. He was the type of a person who made friends no matter where he was. One of those friends was the widow of a merchant marine captain. The captain fetched souvenirs from all over the world and the widow was down-sizing. She was moving to a smaller home and told Chris that she wanted him to have something by which to remember her. She gave him a huge bronze incense burner. It was not a small one that might sit on a desk, but it stood over six feet tall.

Chris had a silver tongue and could cajole a monkey out of his fleas. He talked me and another corpsman into going with him to collect it in the U. S. Navy’s two and a half ton truck. If I’d known the size of it before I got to the widow’s house, I would have run the other way.

The incense burner was constructed of three large sections and several smaller pieces. The base was three feet in diameter. Each segment tapered smaller until the top piece formed a rounded dome. It had a bold relief oriental motif of entwined vines and dragons with removable leaf-shaped platforms to hold the incense. If it hadn’t been in sections we could never have moved it. There were no bolts to hold it together. Its raised lip fitted inside of the piece belpw it and its weight held it in place. The weight kept each piece secure.

The size and weight of the base alone made it difficult to handle. Lifting it into the bed of the truck was gut wrenching. I thought for sure I would have a hernia before we got it loaded. The middle section was actually the heaviest, but its smaller size made it easier to lift. We struggled to remove each piece from her home without damaging her walls, hardwood floors, or doors. The only way to remove it was to carry it through a shaded garden and down a long walkway to the truck.

Now that Chris had it, he needed a place to store it. Claiming the huge incense burner was unusual, but this was the real gist of the story. Chris talked the commanding officer of the hospital into keeping it in his office. The bronze tower was so heavy; we had to place a 3/4 inch thick square of plywood beneath it to prevent its weight from crashing through the floor behind his desk. I felt sorry for myself at having to lift and transport it, but I pitied any sailor assigned to clean and polish it.

Old Postcards

 Old Postcards

In the past I’ve shared old postcards that were left to me by my mother-in-law, Retha Morrison. Some were sent to her while others were bought traveling with my father-in-law, Bud. After Bud died, she gathered more as she travelled with her best friends, Conrad and Dorothy Auel. Conrad and Dorothy lived in Sheridan, Pennsylvania. They were great friends. They met at Camp Christian, near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. Bud was the caretaker and Retha did much of the cooking.

Sadly, all of those people are gone and I miss them terribly.

But back to the postcards, there are well over five hundred cards some postmarked and sent while others remain unsent. The earliest card that I’ve found was 1938, but I haven’t looked at al of them yet. What I once posted on Facebook had been a condensation of a camping trip for our church with the teenage kids. It was an experience that I look back on fondly.

There were things that we saw and things we shared that I will never experience again, even if I should live another hundred years. Two of the most lasting memories centered around Sundays and the two different church services that we had.

The first was at King’s Creek Campground in Utah. We actually had the service on a Saturday night, because we had to get up early for the Sunday journey. It was an open air service in an amphitheater with tall evergreen tree walls and a starry sky roof arching high overhead. It was a feeling of closeness to God that I haven’t felt since then.

The other memorable Sunday was the one following our tour of Yellowstone Park, Wyoming was our overnight stay in a small church. It was located in Wapiti Valley, Wyoming. The word wapiti means white rump according to one definition, describing an elk.

The church was built from the timber and boulders that were removed from the site where it was build. The mountains surrounding it, only enhanced its beauty. Inside, were the heads of several antlered elk hanging on the walls beneath high, wooden, cathedral ceilings and over the doors. It was s if the members were paying special attention to one of God’s creations for which the valley and church were named and we were allowed to sleep in the basement and cook inside, instead of having to set up camp to stay overnight.

We would run late if we stayed for Sunday morning service, but how could we refuse to such gracious hosts and I am glad that we did. The most memorable incidents that I can remember were the sharing of music and the collection of the offering.

Unusual memories? Not really. Our group was the special music and the “passing of the hat” was literal. When the ushers collected the offering, they used two white Stetsons as collection plates. It isn’t a memory that will quickly fade, for me and the rest of our troupe.

Should I

 Should I ?

I woke and was unsure what I should write about this morning. Several thoughts came to mind. One was pushing me to write about the rheumatoid arthritis that my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner developed in her old age. That disease caused her hands and feet to be misshapen. The joints became gnarled and painful. Her knees became large and deformed causing her stance to be bowlegged. The effect of the disease causes me pain and to a much lesser degree deformity.

The second is married to the first. This weather swings stir the arthritis to increase the aching in my joints. The cold intensifies the discomfort and sharpens its edge. I feel so blessed when the sun shines and the warmth interrupts the cold and snow.

For some reason a random thought of the dream I had last night lingers. I rarely remember the content of my dreams unless it happens right before I wake. I dreamed that I was helping a friend from Frick Hospital where I worked before retirement. She was sorting through clothing to be resold at a church bazaar. I had been working outside and came inside to help. I was wearing shorts and a Tee shirt that were filthy and filled with sweat. In my dream I thought that I could find something I could wear and change into some clothes that were more fitting, but no. She had taken all the clothes off the racks. They were jumbled together. She decided that the clothes needed to be separated differently.

I am picking through different piles, putting them on hangers then replacing them onto the racks. For some reason I intended to attend a church service adding to the haste to find something clean to wear. I can remember a though that filled my head, “If I can’t find something clean to wear, I will have to go to church in filthy, stinky shorts and a Tee shirt. That thought spurred my frantic search for something to wear. I found a pair of gray slacks. But they were ladies and much too long in the legs, but they were clean and I tried them on…then I woke. I have no idea if I kept them or not or whether I made it to the church service.

On thing I am sure of is that the arthritis is still here

Paying It Forward

 Paying It Forward

Monday morning I went to get my blood drawn as part of a trial medication study. Although I had to stop taking the meds earlier because of side effects from the medication, they wanted to keep me as a “normal” control patient. The reason I stayed in the study was that I was getting paid for having three tubes of blood drawn two times each month. All I needed to do was to fast overnight, be weighed, have my blood pressure checked, and then sit still for the blood draw. This appointment I had to answer a questionnaire. Once I was released, I drove to Valley Dairy restaurant to eat. After my food arrived I took my daily medications.

Monday was my birthday and no one was there to help me celebrate. I was feeling just a little bit down. As I sat there a tall black man came in and sat at a table near mine. He nodded and said “Good morning” his smile spreading across his face. He was a complete stranger, but his friendliness made me take notice. When I finished eating my food I decided to pay for his breakfast. I walked to the cashier to where my server was standing. I handed him my bill and cash asking him to cover the cost of the other man’s bill and keep the rest as his tip.

My next stop was Ollies. While “springing ahead” this weekend resetting my bathroom clock I was clumsy enough to drop it and the hands popped loose, useless. It had bitten the dust. It was no longer able to keep the time. I needed a few groceries and stopped at Aldi’s before heading home.

Once home I washed a load of clothing and dried them before folding and storing them away. I sat in my recliner and the boob tube claimed the rest of the day.

It wasn’t an exciting way to spend my birthday, but I’m still alive and kicking. My kids said they would celebrate another day when we can all get together.

All in all it wasn’t a bad day and I had that good feeling of anonymously paying it ahead.

Weekend Whirlwind

 Weekend Whirlwind

The weekend flew by. So much to do and so much completed. Friday was the unloading and setting up of the equipment to assemble the Gospel of Romans and St. John into booklets to be sent to missionaries in Ukraine. They will distribute the booklets to the citizens of Ukraine. The Ukrainians only had a sloppy translation of those books or they had to read and rely on a more reliable Russian translation. It was a real dilemma, to read the poorly translated Ukrainian Word of God or to read the Bible in the enemy’s language.

Seedline has been printing and sharing the Word of God in the Ukrainian language for several years now. The missionaries who are in Ukraine have been requesting more copies for the people who are fearful and in need of encouragement. They are seeking hope and the peace in a time of war that only can be found in Jesus to fill the weary soul.

Friday evening we unloaded the heavy cutting/trimmer machine, the boxes of covers, the printed copies of the Scripture, eighteen stapling machines, and the aluminum folding trays. We placed them onto our tables. As soon as the machines were set up, we began to fold the covers so they would be ready to receive the printed texts. Those assembled covers and texts were then passed on to the people who were manning the stapling machines. Once the booklets were stapled, they were stacked in piles of ten and cut by the huge blade in the trimming machine. The finished booklets were then stacked and sealed in boxes ready to be shipped in large metal shipping containers.

We started the project Friday evening at five-thirty as soon as the supplies were unloaded and set up. We worked until eight pm. We folded nearly three of the four boxes of covers only to start again at eight-thirty on Saturday morning. As one table finished their tasks, the workers moved to other tables to stuff, staple, and trim the assembled booklets. By eleven am everything was complete. Machines were reloaded and the boxes of Scripture were placed back into the trailer.

Sunday morning the Seedline director and the new assistant described the depth of the Seedline program and all the components of their ministry. The men also preached a sermon and spoke at Sunday school before heading home to Milford, Ohio.

Sunday evening I attended the Sunday evening services. I was glad to get home and prop up my feet.

Seeds of Hope

 Seeds of Hope

Dan Gill, a dear friend and an ambassador for the Seedline Ministry out of Milford, Ohio has been bringing the equipment and printed Gospel of John and Romans to our church for eight years. It has been a wonderful set of experiences to see him and the church form an exciting bond of friendship. He and his wife have driven a huge trailer filled with the heavy equipment, and supplies to allow our church to assemble the precious Word of God in so many languages to be distributed throughout the world. I’ve mentioned many of the languages before and some are translations that I cannot mention because of the fierce resistance to the Word of God. Satan has set these strongholds, but God has created ways to allow the lost in those countries to hear His voice. Many of these countries once welcomed missionaries, but now will imprison and kill the faithful who desire to share the Gospel or even are found in prayer to God, the Creator of the universe.

Dan shared that he and his wife Kelly has been coming to our church since 2015. The first year our church assembled 5,000 copies of John and Romans. We had problems learning the ins and outs. The fluorescent lighting caused the staplers to malfunction and the assembly project was done in the darkened cafeteria with a scattering of lights. Over the years we moved the assembly line (and staplers) to the gym where Mercury overhead lighting didn’t interfere. This year our total was 12,000 and the numbers in the eight years totaled 243,310 copies in multiple languages.

Form the Seedline research, it is estimated that in the third world countries, seven people will read each copy and one person will understand and be saved and will come to know Christ as their Savior. Our 12,000 copies this year is part of a shipment of 350,000 the will be loaded into shipping containers and sent to missionaries who have requested them. They were bound for Croatia. Dan spoke that Sunday morning on John 17. He shared the entire chapter, comparing it as the extended version of the Lord’s Prayer. He and his wife are coming back this week with their equipment for another assembly project. We’re not sure which language yet, but it is always enjoyable and we know that it helps to spread the Word of God.

Up and Down and All Around

 Up and Down and All Around

Maybe because I have slowed down just a bit from my youth or maybe my artist’s eye is capturing more of the beauty in my surroundings, but I have really been impressed with the sky filled with clouds, sunrises, and sunsets. I’ve looked more closely at the intricate delicate beauty of flowering plants. The rich colors and subtle hues my eye sees doesn’t translate to the camera’s eye. I struggle to describe what I see. It is never as precise even when it becomes a photo on my cell phone. I try to capture and share these landscapes, but wish I could share the intensity of the scene that I see.

My home is located in the mountains of southwestern Pennsylvania. It sports a wide panorama of surrounding tree clad hillsides. This time of years those various trees wear a variety of colors in a patchwork design. These Chestnut Ridge Mountains are but hills compared to the Rockies or the Grand Tetons that I’ve visited, but Pennsylvania remains my home. On three sides of my home I have open views of each sunrise, each sunset, and the many storms that roll from the west in massive thunderheads interspersed with flashes of lightning.

Because I live in a rural area, there is a perfusion of wildflowers and the many flowers planted by my wife Cindy Morrison Beck. One wildflower that was my wife’s favorite flower is the daisy. Fresh, plain, and innocent, its white petals form a tight circle around an egg yolk yellow center. The irises and the snowball bush have bloomed. The blossoms of my apple trees, the black berry, raspberry, and strawberry blossoms all are faded and the fruit is formed and been picked.

If I look, there is always something new for me to see. Have I slowed down enough to take the time to see? Have I gained the wisdom to really look around and interpret what I see? Often when I drive I am surprised with a sudden eye widening view. It stirs my artist heart and I wonder if I could ever capture the sights I was seeing with paint or with camera. Photographs capture only a small part of the things my eyes see. But I try.

Preserving the Past

Preserving the Past

My writing as a blogger didn’t start out that way. I began to write stories about my family to preserve the history of my kinfolk, my life as a kid, and my schooling, Later it evolved into me sharing my time in the Navy, my time in college, and my career as a nurse. Most of the tales were recollections of specific characters, incidents, or happenings. I started out writing every day. That became too burdensome and I had to back off posting three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I usually dredge a post I’ve written about incidents of the Miner clan for the National Minard, Minor, Miner Group to share with cousins every Thursday.

I’ve allowed my chores to back up because I also edit the newsletter “Down Memory Lane” for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and with the help of other members, the autumn and winter edition is ready to be printed and mailed out. Sometimes it’s difficult to find local history to fill the eight pages. Sometimes it follows a theme and sometimes it’s filled with tales and oral histories that have been shared and stored in our archives.

So many of the artifacts, local family histories, maps, news articles, books, and paperwork are either on display or readily available for the community to stop in and view or to look for something specific about family members or incidents. We also archive obituaries to assist beginner or advanced genealogists in their search for their past.

Yesterday, I was able to finish several of the postponed chores and I am looking for several more work-concentrated days like that where I am actually eliminating the unfinished tasks. My firewood is finally stacked. I got a load of coal delivered and I’m breaking apart some old pallets that have been cluttering my yard. I have rolled up my hoses before the coming freeze and I’ve raked up and dumped some of the tree bark debris left from the dump spot of my firewood.

It’s soon time for me to take off my flannel sheets. It was nice to crawl between the warm flannel sheets and I am looking forward to the time I can slip between cool cotton sheets in the summer. I’m planning on replacing storm door’s windows with the screens to allow the warmth and scents of spring to replace my home’s stale trapped air. There is still much to do. Winter, please go somewhere else.

Remembering Versus Imagination

 Remembering Versus Imagination

I often alternate the stories of my recollections and expressing my ideas of fantasy when I write. I try to keep them separate but occasionally my real life occurrences manage to wander over to be woven into the plot of a story or two. One example was a trip driving through the northeastern states of America, the provinces of southeastern Canada, and a voyage on a ship named the “Northern Ranger.” The voyage traveled the length of the Newfoundland/ Labrador coast. It became the basis for a story I wrote for the Greensburg Writers Group. The members were to write a tale to include their favorite sleuth and his/her muse. The compilation of stories that were written were included in a book that was to have amateur detectives getting involved solving a crime while on vacation. My sleuth was Luigi Garibaldi, a professional gambler attempting to escape the wrath of a cuckolded casino owner. While aboard the ship he reluctantly became involved as a witness of a smuggling ring and a murder.

My several day voyage on the Northern Ranger gave me insight to the activities of the shipboard routine and the knowledge of the many small towns, fishing villages, and ports where the ship stopped to load and to unload its cargo. I described the scenery that I saw so well that a fellow writer said I should write travel brochures. I still haven’t figured out whether she was paying me a compliment or not.

In the books of the Tommy Two-Shoes series my trips to West Virginia and the ride on the trains there became an integral part of several chapters of these mysteries. Again the experience added flavor and helped to shape the direction of the story.

In my book titled “Addie” my familiarity of the local terrain of the hillsides of Confluence, Pennsylvania and land between to Mt. Pleasant was essential for the plot. I am barely old enough to remember the things of the 1940’s. But I used things of that time period to keep the historicity of the era correct although the plot was fictional. It’s often necessary for me to do research to keep my fictional writings believable. My readers expect the plot to have a foot in reality. Places, food, weapons must have details that are correct. An example of one small detail I researched in the book “Addie” was, when was wax paper invented? Or was the topography and details of the terrain from Confluence to Connellsville and Mt. Pleasant correct.

Tears On My Pillow

 

Tears on My Pillow

In 1958 the lyrics of “Tears on My Pillow” were written by Sylvester Bradford and Al Lewis. Anthony Gourdine, Little Anthony was the lead vocalist who first recorded it with his Do-whop group “The Imperials.” The lyrics are about a person with a broken heart and an unrequited love. When we look back in our lives, we can remember some tears that we’ve shed. There have been tears of joy; perhaps at the birth of a child or receiving a wedding proposal. Perhaps you’ve shed tears at your wedding or some other enormously happy event in your life. There were also episodes of sadness caused by the death of a loved one or a major catastrophe in your life. These are tears of sorrow.

Different types of tears have distinctly different compositions. Contrasting chemicals are released by our tear ducts composing tears that are specifically designed to fit the occasion. Many times when we cry the flow of tears will cleanse our bodies and souls of the emotions that caused us to cry in the first place. Empathetic friends will understand this. And that’s why true friends will generously offer a shoulder to cry on. They volunteer to share burdens that are being carried. They will support you, pray with you, and hold you up when you’re weak or celebrate and share your joy. There are also tears of gratitude. The Bible shares the emotion by a woman who was a sinner. She was forgiven of her sins and in gratitude washed the feet of Jesus with her tears.

The Bible has a lot to say about tears and even more about crying. The word cry or varied tenses of the word appears 434 times. The words tear or tears appears 49 times and wept or weeping is mentioned 41 times. Jesus himself wept. The shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” It occurred at the death of His friend Lazarus. Although Jesus knew he would raise Lazarus from the dead, He sorrowed at the sadness of Martha and Mary, sisters of Lazarus to share their grief.

The Bible says God gathers our tears in a bottle (Psalm 56:8) and Psalm 126:5 says, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”  The bible also says that He will wipe away our tears (Revelation 7:17) and that there will be no crying in Heaven (Revelation 21:4.)

1 Corinthians 15:55-57 “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Thursday Worse Day

 Thursday Worse Day

There is the saying if you want to hear God laugh, say, “Tomorrow a have plans.” I had several errands that I wanted to complete and get them out of the way. They weren’t the looked for “bucket list” type of chores, but were things that I allowed to pile up with the intent of doing them in one trip.

The one chore I needed to do was to replace the marine battery for the sump pump system for my basement. The pump functioned as long as the electricity was on. The Marine battery would allow the pump to work if the electric power should be interrupted for any reason. I disconnected the battery and loaded it into the trunk of my car.

My first chore was to drop off the unused trial medications at the center. I decided that since I felt that I was having side effects from the medications, I was going to withdraw from the study. That done; I drove to the National Tire & Battery store. That’s where I bought it. Making the turn into NTB I ran over the curb. The turn was sharp with other vehicles parked along the drive. inside, I found that the battery had six months on the warranty, but NTB had been purchased by another company and they no longer carried marine batteries. No one in the area sold the marine batteries from the Interstate Battery Company. The closest Interstate Company was forty-five minutes away.

A worker approached and asked if the battery was in the white Chevrolet Malibu with the flat front tire. “I said I hope not. I hadn’t driven in with one.” It was and I had to buy a replacement tire. I couldn’t replace it with the donut spare. NTB replaced the tire. With my wallet almost $150.00 lighter, I drove right across the street to the NAPA store.

Of course, they didn’t honor the warranty for the Interstate battery, but they did have a marine battery. Now I needed to make the decision whether to drive to the nearest Interstate Battery store or should I purchase the NAPA brand of marine battery. I had the money and not the time to make the drive. Back at home, I reattached the battery to my sump pump.

At home I found on my answering machine my electric company left a message. They wanted payment for my bill. The line was busy and couldn’t get through to explain that I’d sent the payment a week earlier, so I phoned the next morning. I explained that it was another USPS higher prices and less service. I said that the old excuse of the “check’s in the mail” was indeed what was happening. I wasn’t going to stop payment on a check and issue a phone payment. I will call again Monday to see if they received my check.

Oldsters Listening to Old Song Memories

 

Oldsters Listening to Old Song Memories

Several years ago I attended an event sponsored by the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society held at Brady’s Restaurant in Acme, Pennsylvania. Good food and entertainment was the recipe for the day. The evening started with buffet style food. Salads delivered to our table after the blessing the food was given. Stuffed chicken breast, ham slice, mashed potatoes, gravy, thick egg noodles, green beans, and a selection of pies and cake started the evening’s affair. The wait staff was attentive. After finishing the meal, two female singers tag-teamed the audience with renditions of classic songs, two women of Glitzando: Cathi Rhodes and Diane Paul.

I’m not quite at the age yet to have remembered all of the songs first hand, but my mother Sybil Beck would often sing parts of these older songs that coincided with something that had been said. Most of the tunes were very familiar to me. That trait is something that I still have sharing a story, a joke, or a chorus that parallels someone’s talking point. My daughters must have the same gene.

My table was at the edge of their performing area and I sat with several of my writing friends, a gentleman from the historical society, Bernie and his wife. It was a pleasant group of people and we chatted as we ate our meals.

It was time for the performance and Bernie became the master of ceremonies introducing the ladies. Apparently he’d previously been in theater productions with the two singers. Several times throughout the evening, the performers selected people from the audience to be on stage with them. It was to enhance their presence and to get the audience to be more engaged.

Of course, I being a ham joined them for two of their audience participation tunes. They had other persons who were coaxed onto the stage with them. It was during their patriotic segment a special man was lured to join them. Cathi read part of a past newsletter from the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society honoring this 94 year old veteran, Tom Dix. His survival from a minesweeper that was sunk during WWII was nothing less than a miracle. Of the 91 crewmembers, only he and 60 others survived.

The rest of the evening was filled with song and laughter. It passed all too quickly. I made my way home after shaking hands, giving hugs, and saying good night to many other familiar faces who’d attended the event.

No Respect

 

No Respect

Rodney Dangerfield used the line, “I don’t get no respect.” It is unfortunately sad but true, that today some people have no respect for cemeteries, memorials, and the Stars and Stripes of the American flag. I saw a photo of the Vietnam Memorial where it had been defaced with spray paint from a graffiti pervert. I’ve seen photos of cemeteries where warped-minded people have driven vehicles through them damaging the grounds and the headstones of loved ones who have passed on. Almost daily, I see and hear of reports where the American flag is trod upon or burned.

What is wrong with these people? They may not like America, but that is no reason to try to destroy a country that allows them to voice their dissent. There is no reason to desecrate the resting place of people who have worked hard all of their lives to provide a system where even indigent folk have a chance to live above the rest of the world’s poverty level. There is no reason to deface the memorial of brave men and women who fought in a war that their government has said they must. You may not agree that there was a just cause for the fighting, but those heroes fought because they were asked to do so.

America has asked her citizens to fight for freedom since its inception. The wars have claimed many lives and that in itself is sad, but the fact that some people ignore and denigrate those lives which were lost are the lowest type of people and should have no right to a claim to be Americans. Rights are not earned by being responsible. They are guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States. Unfortunately, our rights are being ignored and eroded every day.

This year we celebrate two hundred and fifty years of the birthday of our independence and the establishment of our nation. We should be proud of that fact and proud that we are free and still have those God given rights.

What Is It

 

What Is It

I’m trying to understand what’s going on with my body. Small changes are creeping in. Over the past week or so, my balance has ben off just a bit. It’s not anything major, but I must be a little more careful with walking, turning, and leaning over. I don’t feel as stable on my feet recently.

Yesterday aching in my joints have become more pronounced. My knees and hips have decided to hurt evem when not being used. I find that even sitting in a chair I may need to reposition myself to relieve the deep aching in my hips especially. I’ve been trying to believe that it’s a part of aging, but I am beginning to doubt that.

I almost lost my balance reaching for something and had to catch myself to prevent a fall I jammed my deformed “arthritic” finger into a wooden cupboard. That intensified the usual ache in my pinky finger to a much higher level.

Last night I had a serial dream. I know that I woke several times to reposition my aching joints, but fell back to sleep only to dream again. The dream was odd, not just because it was a long-running dream, but also because it was vivid and I couldn’t remember much about it. I can recall the color green and the feeling that I was being tossed and buffeted. What was the cause of the turmoil, I have no idea, but waking this morning my muscles ached. The muscles that ached weren’t just my arms and legs as if I had done a long day’s work, but even the muscles across my belly.

About a month ago I started to take a trial medication. Because of my history of cardiac problems, the nurse who is responsible for the trial studies thought I might be a good candidate for this study. Now I’m trying to sort out if my aching joints, my muscle pain, and the disequilibrium are the side effects of the medication or whether something else is happening.

I’ll call my nurse handler later today to see if I should continue with the trial or stop taking the medications.

What Is It

What Is It
I’m trying to understand what’s going on with my body. Small changes are creeping in. Over the past week or so, my balance has ben off just a bit. It’s not anything major, but I must be a little more careful with walking, turning, and leaning over. I don’t feel as stable on my feet recently.
Yesterday aching in my joints have become more pronounced. My knees and hips have decided to hurt even when not being used. I find that even sitting in a chair I may need to reposition myself to relieve the deep aching in my hips especially. I’ve been trying to believe that It’s a part of aging, but I am beginning to doubt that.
I almost lost my balance reaching for something and had to catch myself to prevent a fall I jammed my deformed “arthritic” finger into a wooden cupboard. That intensified the usual ache in my pinky finger to a much higher level.
Last night I had a serial dream. I know that I woke several times to reposition my aching joints, but fell back to sleep only to dream again. The dream was odd, not just because it was a long-running dream, but also because it was vivid but I can’t remember much about it. I can recall the color green and the feeling that I was being tossed and buffeted. What was the cause of the turmoil, I have no idea, but waking this morning my muscles ached. The muscles that ached weren’t just my arms and legs as if I had done a long day’s work, but even the muscles across my belly.
About a month ago I started to take a trial medication. Because of my history of cardiac problems, the nurse who is responsible for the trial studies thought I might be a good candidate for this study. Now I’m trying to sort out if my aching joints, my muscle pain, and the disequilibrium are the side effects of the medication or whether something else is happening.

I’ll call my nurse handler later today to see if I should continue with the trial or stop taking the medications. 

Everyday Patriots

 Everyday Patriots

We run into everyday patriots everywhere. They surround us: when we shop, when we go out to eat, or when we go to church. These people are for the most part go about their business everyday without thought of the important ideals they uphold. From farmers to food service workers, from truckers to teachers, from healthcare workers to hairdressers; all contribute to the fabric of society. We literally bump into them as we go to work, come home from work, and when we go on vacation. We may meet them because we have problems. If we need someone to repair a leaky roof or a leaky faucet, we can find them. In times of disaster or extreme weather conditions, we have utility linesmen, we have those who drive the snow plow trucks, and we have the National Guards. If we need emergency care they come to us: firemen, police, ambulance drivers, and paramedics. These men and women work, earn money, pay taxes, and create a stable environment. They form a national entity, a form of government, a national language, and core values that hold us as a country together.

An everyday patriot may be a farmer who daily works his farm, the postman who faithfully delivers the mail, the person who delivers fresh bread to the grocery store, the person who provides the produce at a roadside stand, or stocks the snacks in our minimarts. They are the folks who grease the gears and keep the cogs engaged that supply our daily needs. They are the checkout cashiers. They are the men and women who fill the shelves. They may be the butchers, the bakers, and the candlestick makers. They could be our vehicle’s mechanics. They could be the janitors who clean the schools or job sites. They could be mothers, grandmothers, fathers, or grandfathers. They can be the people who we meet on the streets walking their dogs.

These everyday patriots are not superheroes in bold costumes, they are everyday patriots. They work, vote, raise their families, and make a community. They can be neighbors, workmates, and even strangers who do some kind deed or show a courtesy. They do their best to create a better world and share it with others. So I say, hooray to our everyday patriots and heroes. May God continue to bless their daily efforts to keep America strong and independent.

Gone

 

Gone

I saw a post showing an aisle in a variety store lined with boxes stacked upon boxes of plastic model boats, planes, and cars. In most stores today, I am lucky to see one small shelf in the huge toy section that has a smattering of these onetime glorious representations of the real things. Gone are the enamel paints and the plastic glue that gave a person a buzz if inhaled for a long periods of time. The selection that remains today is so limited, it barely stirs the imagination of a boy or girl to spend their money for the model.

At one time there was a penny candy counter at the front of almost every country Mom and Pop store. Its wide glass-faced case was often smeared by the noses of children peering inside, trying to decide what to buy with their penny or nickel. The storekeeper would reach into the cavern below and withdraw a small, brown paper sack. A practiced flick of the wrist and it opened, waiting to be filled with the child’s choices. Peppermint sticks, licorice whips, wax lips, candy cigarettes, gum balls, fire balls, chewy caramels, Black Jack, and various suckers with colors that enticed through clear cellophane wrappings or were alluring in their brightly hued paper wrappers. A child’s decision became tantalizingly and deliciously sweet. The grocer’s hand moved to hover over the display, waiting for the child’s final choices. If the child had enough money, there were three cent chocolate Lunch Bars that are now history, too. Once selections were made, the little bag was twisted shut and handed to an eagerly awaiting child.

Cap pistols with strips of exploding caps have been all but banned from use today. Using a pointed finger pretending it’s a pistol can get a kid kicked out of school. The innocence of a buss on a cheek can land a boy or girl in trouble if a teacher so deems it. Hot chocolate and slices of buttered toast to start the school day are long gone. Even the wonderful flavorful school lunches have faded into nutritious nothings.

Wood shop, music, art, and home economics have been replaced by forages into climate change and social justice. The Pledge of Allegiance, Bible reading, and a time of prayer have lost their zeal and have fallen into disuse. If a man displays gentlemanly traits like opening a door for a female, often they are scourged.

Writing letters and post cards have lost their appeal, giving way to selfies, texts, and e-mails. At least greeting cards still hold some importance, although e-cards are making an inroad on that once popular more permanent method of showing that you care.

Blessings Served Cold

 

Blessings Served Cold

The last two cold snaps wear me down. I dislike cold weather more and more as I age. Speaking of age, I just found out that I was trying to make myself a year older. I claimed that I was 77 instead of 76. I guess my mental facilities are slipping. But I will catch up this year in March when I become 77.

It has been my habit ever since I married and had children to keep my driveway open in case of an emergency. So, even as I have aged, I have continued to shovel the snow out of my driveway. I really enjoy the quiet time with the snow silently falling around me. The snow is usually easily removed, even the wetter and heavier. Because of the direction of the wind, snow blows into road and the snowplows clear the drifts and fill the end of my driveway, often three feet deep and about eight feet wide. They solidly pack the ice and snow. It doubles the amount of work for me.

Twice I’ve been blessed to have someone stop, taking pity on me and plow that snow plug out of my drive. The first was several days ago. The guy slowed, cranked down his truck window, and asked if he could help. I had barely started to clear the drive and was thrilled to have someone volunteer to help. In about five minutes, my drive was widened and completely cleared. He refused any payment, saying his boss told him to drive around and look for people who needed their driveways cleaned.

This past Saturday I was out early shoveling a three inch layer of snow and the taller layer of snow at the end of my drive. I spent half an hour outside. The gusts of icy cold wind made my eyeballs feel like they were frozen and my nose poured like a river when I came inside.

Several hours later I looked out my living room window and saw that the snowplows had again plugged the opening of my driveway, 3 feet high deeply pushing it back into my drive. It covered the width of my drive. I felt so discouraged, but knew it needed to get done. Saturday evenings several men from our church gather to pray for each other and for a revival in our church.

Reluctantly I climbed into my heavy clothing to go outside. The wind was still blowing and cold. No sooner did I dig the first scoop before a gentleman in a dark gray truck stopped and asked if he could plow my drive. I was blessed and so thrilled I could have danced. My driveway was cleared and my eyes didn’t have time to freeze.

Places I've Been

 

Places I Have Been

Before my stint in the Navy, the only places that I visited were with my parents. My dad Carl Beck was even more frugal than I am and we spent his vacations visiting relatives. The longest trip was to Florida to visit my aunt and Uncle Helen and Jake Stahl in Orlando. Shorter trips included visiting my aunt and uncle, Cora and Fred Hyatt in Sheridan, Illinois and to see my aunt and uncle, Ina and “Nicky” Nicholson in Millersport, Ohio.

For my time while in service to my country, I started basic training and Naval Corps School at Great Lakes training center in Illinois, spending the winter there. Then I was sent to Orlando, Florida from the chill of the north to the heat of Florida. My next assignment was to Keflavik, Iceland and travelled from the hot humid south to a chilly 60 degree weather.

After taking nursing curiculum at the Fayette campus of Penn State, I was assigned classes at State College, Pennsylvania. After graduating, I found employment at Monsour Hospital then at Frick Hospital. After my marriage to Cindy Morrison, our next trip was to visit her relatives in Jamestown, New York. We also made a short trip into Canada before heading home. Cindy felt ill while we drove home. It was our introduction to parenthood. Cindy was pregnant with our first. Only my craving for greasy hamburgers alerted us to our later two pregnancies, but that’s another story.

Family vacations included Sea World, the Knoxville World’s Fair, a visit to Murfreesboro, Tennessee and to “The Wilds” church camp in North Carolina. The next major trip for me and the family was to “the Wilds of the Rockies.” It was part of the tenting trip out west with seventeen teens, seven adults, touring multiple national parks for seventeen days.

My next major trip was to Newfoundland/ Labrador Canada, driving most of the way then riding a ship to Nain and returning to Newfoundland. A trip to Cottonwood, Arizona for my son Andrew’s wedding to Renee Largent was next. Later my son moved to Amarillo. That was my next long distance travel.

I joined a friend on a trip to Elkins, West Virginia to ride the train to the ghost town of Spruce. I travelled with the same friend across the southern border of Pennsylvania, up the east side, back across the northern counties, finally returning home along the western border of our state. Fifteen days of waterfalls, battlefields, and hotels wore me out. I’ve been pretty much a homebody since then. I’m just wondering it’s time for another escape vacation.

Being Schoole on Lunches

 Being Schooled on Lunches

I decided to make toast and hot chocolate milk like I ate during my elementary school days. I can remember that for thirty-five cents I could get two slices of toast and a mug of cocoa when I arrived at school on those frigid winter mornings. The hot cholate was served with curls of steam rising from the frothy rich chocolate milk. Two slices of hot golden brown toast was slathered in real butter and served on a plate. My tasty recreation was only a pale recreation of the memory, but it has sent me down memory lane to other school lunch favorites.
What made the next meal special wasn’t the macaroni covered in meat sauce, but was the small side salad and the large bun. The bun was tall, warm, and filled with a fresh-baked yeasty flavor. It was served with cold pats of golden butter.
None of these foods stir a connoisseur’s palate, but as a kid certain menus caused me to look ahead with anticipation. A sloppy Joe was one of them. It was just a store-bought burger but filled with a savory ground beef, onions, and a sauce rich with spices. The bun was filled by the “lunch lady” with a scoop just before it was placed on my tray. Napkins and a bib was almost a necessity before sitting down to enjoy this staple.
The next two items that were served on a revolving menu weren’t very fancy but were always favorites with my classmates. The first was grilled cheese and tomato soup. To many it’s no big deal, but with many kids, me included, it was an oasis of hot food that filled our bellies in the middle of the day that were empty or could face a cold sandwich. The hot, greasy sandwich filled with gooey American cheese and the flavorful tomato soup seemed to make the day go much better.
The final food item wasn’t necessarily my favorite, but seemed to impress many of the other students was pizza. It was tasty and filling with its layers of baked dough, tangy tomato sauce, topped with a melted topping of Mozzarella cheese. It definitely a crowd pleaser, but it wasn’t my favorite.
It’s strange as I look back at my food covered selections; I have no impressions of the desserts the cooks shared. I do have a vague memory of cookies or cake but not of their flavors. Isn’t that strange?

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

 By the Light of the Silvery Moon

This was the first line of a song that was sung by Doris Day. My mom Sybil Miner Beck would sometimes sing a line or two as was her habit with any song. I don’t know if I am becoming overly sentimental or whether I am just noticing things more acutely, but the moonlight on the snow seems exceptionally beautiful. The shadows cast by a full moon makes silhouettes of bare tree branches. They somehow appear more hauntingly romantic in the moonlight. The dark specter of limbs on the silver-blue snow is more impressive than the same shadows drawn by the sun.
I like to see the bright moonlight tracing tree branches coated with snow or ice. Snow is given a glow with a bluish sheen and the icy crystals shine with a silver gleam that comes from somewhere deep inside of a clear cold shell.
This is one of the many winter’s scenes that will entice me to stop, take a second look, and possibly a third look happens when the brilliant sheen of the moonlight slides across a pond or lake to create a luminescent pathway. The moon’s rays form a straight road that points its shining fingers back at its creator, the moon.
One specific incident that captured my imagination occurred on a night as I drove along Route 130, near the little town of Unity, Pennsylvania. The moon was exceptionally bright. I was paying only slight attention to the beauty that lay all around me. I was concentrating on the road and the driving conditions when I was assaulted by an inspiring vision. It was so enchanting.
A small barn set back from the edge of the road at one end of a field. It was bathed in pearlescent light of the full moon. It glowed as though it had been formed from silver. Its rough board sides shone even more brightly than the smooth blue snow reflecting the moon’s soft glow that surrounded it. The snow covered roof and cupola were framed by the black velvety sky and the night’s white starred gems. The scene is still firmly lodged in my head, after all of these years. I am trying to share that vision with you, but I feel my words are woefully inadequate to express the awe and beauty that I experienced so many winter nights ago.

Severe Cabin Fever

 Severe Cabin Fever

The ssavage wind, the deep cold, and the massive snow dump has held me captive inside of my home for too many days. I’ve spent longer times alone, but I could go outside. The wind chill has driven me inside and I’ve had to look at the walls inside of my home for twenty-four hours of the day. The fact that darkness descends so early intensifies the isolation until it becomes almost unbearable. My cell phone has kept me connected to the outside world, but it wasn’t the person to person interaction that I needed. When I worked at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania, that is one reason I hated answering the phone and would much rather walk a few steps to talk with someone in person.

I was pleased to leave my house for Wednesday night prayer services even for a few hours and interact with real people. The church attendance was a little thin, but the time together worshipping was pleasant nonetheless. On my trip to and from, the wind nipped at my ears, but the earflaps on my hat cancelled the sting.

Thursday the cabin fever was still unabated. It still clung tightly to my brain and I drove to Mount Pleasant, Pennsylvania. My destination was questionable. It was to go Walmart. My desire to shop at Walmart shows how severely cabin fever had affected me.

Acttually it was great. On my way through the parking lot, I began to talk with other wayward winter adventurers. The ability to actually talk with another human being was thrilling. I shared one of my business cards with a man and woman. I also gave them a testimonial biblical tract of a friend who had survived a severe auto accident.

Inside as I negotiated the aisles and selected the items on my grocery list, I talked with several others. As usual I bumped into a few people I had worked with at the hospital and shared my business card and testimonial tracts with others. I had a wonderful time. I even offered to reach items for vertically challenged people.

Earlier I thought as I drove from my home to do my shopping, the snow lined roadways were reminiscent of the winters of my youth. The winters were marked by piles of snow pushed aside along the berms of the road and snow stacked high at the sides of driveways and parking lots. As a kid, I don’t remember the cold bothering me as much today’s frigid temperatures, but the sight of the snow lined roadways drew me back.

Busted

 Busted

My dad, Edson Carl Beck used to tease that if he had a million dollars, (That was when a million dollars really meant something) that he would buy a new butt. His had a hoe and a crack in it. It was a saying he would often spoof us kids with. I am late posting toddy. I am scatterbrained today. With the cold and snow I have been spending time outside keeping up with the snow and the wind. The cold is a little more intense than I like, but there isn’t much I can do except complain to the Global Warmer liars.

I will keep this post short, but not too sweet. Monday morning early I was carrying a load of dirty towels and washcloths to the basement to toss them in the washer. As I descended the stairs from the second floor, I fell about 3.5 feet to thee wooden floor when the wall I was leaning on ran out. There is no railing on that side. I thought I knew better, but just wasn’t thinking.

Well, I bounced my butt and lower back on the floor before the back of my head ricocheted off the floor too. That scared me because of the previous brain bleeds in 2015. Scary. I collected my self and did a self exam. All my parts were still attached, but I sat in my recliner to recuperate. I was able later to finish my wash, but more slowly.

I am still feeling the after effects from a stiff neck and soreness when I walk in an area between my sacrum and my coccyx. A spot I can do nothing about except enjoy my heating pad and ibuprophen. I’m a little late with my post. So sorry. Stay warm and safe.

Eggs-actly

 

Eggs-Actly

I’d like to share some stories that were brought to my recollection; all clustered around one word, eggs. The first is about a portrait of my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. It was a time when travelling photographers sold their talent door to door. I am glad that he stopped at my grandparent’s big farmhouse and cajoled my grandmother into sitting for a portrait. His pitch was that he would take the photograph and return with it in several weeks. Grandma could view it and if she wasn’t satisfied with it, she could refuse to buy it. As the story goes, grandma had no intention to buy it, but with a clean blouse and jacket with a small brooch. He departed after Gram’s photo was taken.

Several weeks later, the salesman returned with a tinted black and white portrait in an oval frame. It was a quality product with her youthful visage peering from the picture. Raven hair, dark eyes, and a subtle hint of a smile had been enhanced by the rosy tint on her cheeks and lips. When Gram said she didn’t have the money to buy it, the salesman continued his spiel by saying it was okay if she didn’t want to buy it, because he could sell it to a bar owner to hang for the bar’s patrons to view. Gram was appalled by the thought and managed to gather enough money from her egg and butter sales to pay for it. Because of this young man’s persistence and amusing lie, that portrait now hangs in my entryway, the one thing that I managed to get when Gram “Broke up housekeeping.”

The next egg story occurred and the Miner farm. The front porch on the large farmhouse was concrete and cinderblock half walls and pillars. There was the expected dark green painted swing, several Adirondack chairs, and porch boxes of flowers.  It was a great place to hide colored eggs at Easter time, a game that happened when several cousins gathered. Gram put a stop to the hide-and-seek game when she and Great-Aunt Rose sitting on the swing began to smell something rotten. One misplaced egg had fallen down inside the cinderblock pillar and forgotten.

The last story is about my brother Ken and a cousin (she will remain anonymous to avoid embarrassment) went into my Aunt Rachel’s chicken coop. They reappeared later looking like pieces of French toast. For some unexplained reason, they decided to raid several nests and toss their eggs at the ceiling. They were both covered in the scrambled drippings. My Aunt and my Mom were not happy.

Snow-filled Memories

 Snow-filled Memories

As I drove from my home just outside of the village of White, Pennsylvania to Indian Head, I began to recall the many times I’d driven the same twisting wooded lane that is called Poplar Run in the snow. No matter the time of year the drive is always beautiful. The snow hanging heavy on the bare branches of beech, oak, and maple, made lacey patterns that glistened in the sunlight or at night they sparkled in the headlights of my car. Mountain laurel still line the banks of Poplar Run. Their dark glossy leaves in vivid contrast with the white snow.
The most beautiful sight of all was the young pines rising on a steep slope with their feathery branches heavily laden with newly fallen snow. They seemed to spread their arms wide to collect as many of the flakes as they could hold and then wrap themselves in a thick white quilt. They’re much older now with fewer needles, but at one time in their prime they wore heavy dark green coats. That wondrous sight would suddenly pop into view when I made the sharp turn. It was as though a visual feast was spread out just for me. I knew it was there, but its beauty always appeared suddenly. It was the darkness of the branches gracefully sagging beneath the weight of the new-fallen snow. It was the surprise I enjoyed even as a child riding in the back seat of my parent’s Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s car. My views were often hampered by sharing the backseat with my brother Ken and sister Kathy, but it was always enjoyable.
Other roads that my dad drove gave me a different memory. I recall times when I had to press my face against the car window to look upward to see the bright blue sky over the top of the drifted and plowed high banks of snow.
Another snowy memory was of my dad. He hated to be late. His mantra was, “If you’re not early, you’re late.” One Sunday morning we tried three different routes to get to church during a snow storm. The roads were covered in snow and very slippery. As Dad pulled into the parking lot of the old white clapboard Clinton Church of God, the music was already playing for the first hymn. Dad said, “Get back into the car kids” and he drove us home. I’m sure that God wouldn’t have minded, but Dad was a stickler for being punctual.
This year snow has been coming in surges interspaced with softened warm interludes, but being jerked back into reality, we face an onslaught of heavy winds and snow this weekend. Stay safe.

Insulbrick

 Insulbrick

Insulbrick covered many of the homes in western Pennsylvania homes. Many of the raw-lumber constructed homes were built without insulation. Homeowners chose to use this tar impregnated fiber paper to seal cracks and to add a layer of insulation to their houses. The tarpaper was frequently coated with brown, gray, or the most favorite color red minerals. The minerals were applied in patterns of brick or cut stone. Insulbrick came in rolls like tar paper roofing and was nailed to the house.
I can remember the house that my mom Sybil Miner Beck and my dad Edson Carl Beck bought. It had thick brown Insulbrick paper covering it. The house was little more than a cottage with half of a basement. My father and his father Edson Thomas Beck slowly expanded it over the years to accommodate our families’ needs. Our neighbors’ house was covered in Insulbrick but in the gray cut-stone pattern.
Other buildings I can remember were the ones my grandfather Edson Thomas Beck helped to build. My grandfather’s home in Indian Head, Pennsylvania was covered in the brown Insulbrick, while my aunt and uncle, Estella and Melvin Strawderman’s house next door. It was covered in the red brick mineral paper.
The last two Insulbrick covered buildings I remember are churches. One was located just at the edge of the coal mining town of Melcroft, Pennsylvania. It was situated along Route 711 on the right driving from Indian Head. I can’t remember its name, but it was a two story Pentecostal church that had theater seats. It had fold down theater seats, because once it had been a theater. My grandfather preached there often.
The other Insulbrick clad building that I fondly remember. Mt. Hope was another Pentecostal church. It was one that my Grandfather Beck helped to build. It was covered in red Insulbrick tar paper. As a lay speaker, he preached many sermons there. The church was located along Route 31 driving from Jones Mills to Somerset. The building still stands near the summit, but is now covered in boards and was a pizza joint the last I knew.