What's Wrong

 

What’s Wrong
My kids love to hear the story that I tell about my wife and their mom Cindy Morison Beck. It happened while Cindy and I were still dating, but let me set the background before I start. Back then, Gabriel’s was a single building outlet for seconds of clothing, not the collection of stores that it has become. Many of these seconds would likely have been called thirds today. Each item of clothing had to be examined with an eagle’s eye for flaws. Some were minute like a snag, a slight dye problem, or tear in the cloth. Zippers had to be checked to be sure they functioned properly. There were a number of ways that an item could end up on the shelves or racks of the Gabriel’s store.
This incident occurred one summer afternoon between the times that Gabriel’s store was just two houses in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. They were connected by a covered passageway long before they first expanded to be Gabriel Brothers’ chain. Cindy and I had been dating for probably a year and we were sitting on the front porch swing at her home at Camp Christian in Mill Run, Pennsylvania. It was then I noticed something and said, “Did you get that blouse at Gabe’s?”
She asked, “Why?”
“The sleeves don’t match,” I said.
She scanned her blouse carefully trying to see what I’d seen; looking for obvious flaws. When she didn’t respond, I said, “The patterns are similar, but different.”
The configuration of the objects of the blouse’s design was exactly the same. Each one was about the size of a silver dollar. The design shapes were fromed of the same colors, in the same spots, and nearly the same pattern. The pale greens, lavenders, corals, and sandy yellows all had the same placement in the design, but one sleeve matched the material in the rest of the blouse with seashells, fish, a sea horse, a sand dollar, and waving seaweed while the other nonconforming sleeve was decorated with dragonflies, butterflies, flowers, and grass.
Let me say that Cindy must have worn the blouse for quite some time, it was nearly worn out and until then, no one else noticed. If she’d worn it for any of our dates before, I hadn’t noticed the difference until that afternoon. I’ll finish the story by saying I never saw Cindy wear that blouse again.

The beauty of Solomon's Temple

 The Beauty of Solomon’s Temple
I was reading passages in First Kings where Solomon listed the LORD’s design for the building of His temple in Jerusalem, Israel. His father David had already gathered much of the material necessary for its construction, but the actual task of following God’s blueprint fell onto the Solomon’s shoulders. Solomon gathered the cedars from Lebanon for the beams, pillars, and doors of the sanctuary. Many of those beams, pillars, and doors were covered in gold. The precious stones and the selected stones for the walls and floors were shaped and fashioned off site to remove the noise and dust from the temple.
The text lists the actual dimensions for the several porches and courts. There are verses that describe the pillars of brass and capiters for the pillars. He had artisans to make a “sea of molten brass” with knobs compassing the sea cast in two rows. Its brim was wrought like lilies and the “sea” stood on the backs of twelve brass oxen. On and on in multiple passages the text describes the wonders that the craftsmen wrought. It must have been outstanding to see. At one time Solomon’s Temple was considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It had to be an impressive sight because it drew kings, queens, and visitors from surrounding areas to come to Solomon’s court.
The Temple was designed as a place for the LORD to reside when He came to earth. I can’t help think that even though the temple as wondrous as, it could not compare to the glorious realms of heaven that God designed and shaped with His imagination and hands.
I can see in my mind’s eye God looking at Solomon’s temple like an earthly father seeing a preschooler’s first drawings with crayons. An earthly father may have no idea what the child has drawn, but he is thrilled that his child has used its time and talents to make something for him with its limited skill.
I can imagine that the LORD inspected the workmanship of the Temple with the eye of a Father seeing something that His child had crafted then dedicated and offered to Him as a gift. The Father was viewing the gift through the eyes of love for His child. The child’s love in the gift was what impressed the Father even though it did not have the quality of something that God could have created Himself. Our gifts of love although inadequate are what our heavenly Father sees.

On Labrador Bay

 

*On Labrador Bay

A red boat adrift on a foggy day

Alone and floating in a still wide bay

Water and sky blended to misty gray.

The beauty of Labrador on display

The only color drawing vagrant eye

From monochromatic ocean and sky.

The swoop and dive of screeching seagulls fly

Scene locked in memories of days gone by.

My brain has stored these thoughts to fill each page

They are safely locked somewhere in that cage

Present themselves, like actors on a stage.

The scenes are lost and blur as I age.

From the fantail of a docked cargo ship

Light explodes as sun reaches water’s lip

Colors of Labrador Bay amazes

When sun sets, lights dance each ripple blazes.

Sparkling copper and gold treasures appear

Now far away, those memories draw near.

 

These are the memories that still cling to my soul after

a missionarry trip wit my friends and my chilren.

Surprise Surprise Surprise

 Surprise Surprise Surprise
While putting in my 4 hours of volunteer work at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society, I was surprised at some of the facts that I uncovered as I sorted through some of the paper material that was still stored and barely accessible. It looked like a major undertaking and it was at first. Almost an entire box filled with notes, copies of deeds, wills, and service records had been gathered by one woman and her family donated them to the Society. The sad part was there is so much information buried there that wasn’t available to the public, but I’ve started to make a dent in sorting it and filingg them away.
I placed the deeds in one folder, the wills in another, and so on. When it came to the service records, many of which were from wives and children who were filing for benefits for their disabled or deceased loved one. With several sheets of information on each veteran from the War Between the States, the Civil War, I separated them into family names for easier access. That emptied one file. It was set in order.
Reading and deciphering the handwriting was absolutely necessary to ascertain their content. Some were requests from widows, some were from amputees, and some were from disabled men because of respiratory problems caused by untreated pneumonias. It was interesting, but the tales pulled at my heartstrings as I read the difficulties of those soldiers.
Perusing more deeds, I read about a man on his piece of property that he claimed saw an Indian (his term) crawl into an unheated outside oven for the purpose of attacking the unsuspecting family. The settler had no gun, but used a rail to beat the Indian to death. This was the frontier at that time.
I found one interesting note from the Revolutionary War. It wasn’t written at that time, but the information was written in the briefest form to preserve the information. What do the names Timothy Thayer, Deborah Sampson Gannett and Robert Shurtliff have in common? They are the same person. Deborah enlisted as Timothy Thayer, but failed to meet up with her company. Later, she donned man’s clothing, enlisting in Massachusetts under her Brother Robert’s name. She was wounded in the thigh in Tarrytown New York and treated it herself. It became infected and a doctor examined it, but kept her secret and wrote a medical discharge for her. The notes at the Society says that she enlisted twice to escape marrying the man her mother decided for her, but in a later search of other records I gleaned the date she joined was after the time she was married.

Reality and Cartoons Colide

 Reality and Cartoons Collide
When I tried to think of a topic to write about, two thoughts meshed. I decided to integrate them and make them my insight on life today. I was reminded of the black and white television cartoons of my youth and the reality of my aging body. The pain in my lower back from the shoveling of moving heavy rocks made me feel as though I had gone several rounds with Joe Palooka, the comic pages of the newspaper boxer. Putting aside my aches and pains, I began to recall other cartoons from my youth and the Sunday paper and on the elevision.
Dagwood and Blondie, Sad Sack, Beetle Bailey were old standbys. Dick Tracy, Prince Valiant, Felix the Cat, Lil Abner, Katzenjammer Kids captured the excitement and humor over a wide range of topics for us kids. Mutt and Jeff, Nancy and Sluggo, Heckle and Jeckle were couples that amused me. Their antics didn’t just entertain me they also taught me to read, although many of the actions on the page often didn’t need words.
The television introduced me to the animated characters of Tom Terrific, Mickey Mouse, Popeye the Sailor Man. All of the cartoons started in black and white. Adventure Time made the names Rodney and Knish, the Little Rascals, the Three Stooges famous to me. Kookla, Fran, and Ollie as well as Sherrie Lewis and Lamb Chop were puppets as well as Howdy Doody.
Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Daffy Duck, Pepe Le Pew, Porky Pig and Petunia, Foghorn Leghorn, Road Runner, Wylie Coyote, Sylvester and Tweety were all late comers. Caspar the Ghost and Spooky, Wendy the Witch introduced me to a gentle enchanted and supernatural world. These were the cartoons that captured my interest every Saturday morning and caused me to fight for the Sunday Pittsburgh Post Gazette funnies.
Today my writer’s creativity allowed my aging and abused body to be free and wander through the youthful, fruitful hallways of my brain. I hope that by sharing my memories, I have stirred a few of yours.

Banned From the County Courthouse

 Banned From the County Courthouse
Quite a few years back I answered a call for jury duty at the Fayette County Courthouse. As a citizen of the United States, I felt it was my responsibility to go. I was retired and didn’t have anything else exciting to do. I was blessed when I found the gate to the parking garage was open and was able to park for free. I made my way to the courthouse and entered a courtroom for roll call. I was amazed at the inefficiency of the officials. Instead of someone checking people as they entered, marking them on the roster, and assigning a juror badge number, the juror pool sat and waited until the room was full. One by one the names were called and given badges. It was more than an hour wasted while I sat on those hard oak benches irritating my patience and sciatic nerve.
Our group was assigned to report to another courtroom. Again we sat on hard oak seats for another hour. The ache in my back worsened and my foot began to go numb. After the judge sat on his dais and lawyers made one plea deal after another, we were excused to wait in the hall. By then it was lunchtime and we were dismissed to find food nearby. When I returned my pain had worsened. I hunted the office of the woman in charge of the jurors and told her about my problem with the progressive numbness in my foot. She said if I stayed until three PM, she would excuse me from jury duty.
While I was talking with her, I mentioned, “The last time I was here, the prosecutor didn’t do his job.” She looked startled. So I shared, “The accused stole an air conditioner for the aluminum but the prosecutor failed to say whether it was commercial or home model and whether it was even functioning. We could only judge the accused with scrap metal prices for the aluminum.”
At three I left AND would you believe it, the very next week, I received another jury duty summons. I sent back a scathing letter telling the courthouse that they could send the sheriff and all his deputies, but I wasn’t coming back. I explained that I’d already been there and my sciatica problem. They sent a return letter saying it was no longer necessary for me to serve as a juror. I’d been banned.
Because my address is Acme, I also get jury summons from Westmoreland County. When I received one from Westmoreland, I returned it saying I lived in Fayette. When they responded I needed a doctor’s excuse, I phoned them. The reason for the continuing snafu is the list is generated in Harrisburg. Enough said.

Visiting a Widow

 Visiting a Widow
When my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was alive and we went shopping together at Pechin’s in Dunbat, Pennsylvania we would buy some extra fruit for a friend who lived along our driving route home. We knew the woman before she lost her husband and would sometimes we would stop to visit for about half an hour.
I knew the couple as a child from the old clapboard, one room church in Clinton Pennsylvania. Ahe and her husband were good friends with my dad and mom. As I mayured from childhood, they became my friends as well. He was a thin man with a ready smile and she was a sweet woman who laughed easily.
Because they lived along the Springfield Pike, it became natural for us to stop when my wife and I saw them on their porch. From those visits my wife and our children grew to know them as well. We were always welcome and they seemed to enjoy our children. Our children became comfortable with them almost as much as with their grandparents.
It was hard to explain to our kids when her husband died. We didn’t take them to the funeral home. We didn’t think it was appropriate for them and would have been a distraction to other mourners. It was difficult to stop at her home, but we needed for her to believe we hadn’t abandoned her. It was more awkward for my wife and me, but our children continued where they were before her husband’s death, climbing onto her lap and playing.
It slowly evolved for us to buy some extra fruit: a bunch of bananas and a container or two of whatever fruit that looked good. That might be a bag of apples, a tray of oranges or a container of pears or tangerines.
She never said that she needed the fruit, but was always thankful. Cindy and I knew that she could use it, because after her husband’s demise, she took on jobs cleaning other people’s homes and became a sitter for sick clients at night.
When we moved fro Normalville, we didn’t drive by her home nearly as often, but we would occasionally make the detour so we could visit. She slowly aged and her family moved her into the same nursing home as my dad. We could visit more often. She remembered us and still called me Tommy when we would stop and talk with her. She and my father are gone now, but the pleasant memories linger.

A Memorial on Memorial Day

 A Memorial on Memorial Day
The United States of America set aside an entire day to honor those brave men and women who marched off to war knowing full well what might be asked of them and they still left home to protect their home, family, and country. There might have been a person with stray thoughts of glory, but I’m sure that all of those thoughts evaporated at the first taste of battle, of seeing the carnage of war, or of watching fellow soldiers falling dead around them. As the sounds of bombs falling, guns being fired and the screams of pain from the wonded, and moans of dying assaulted thir ears. Thoughts of home and hearth became more intense and more important to them and yet they continued to advance through the jungles, onto the beaches, and travel in ships and planes to stop the tide of oppression.
I would like to honor the brave men and women who sacrificed all to allow America to remain free and to break the grasp of despots of the past.  I was going to write about a close friend and honor him, but expanded it to include all the military men and women who gave their lives to preserve freedom in the Unuted States.
My friend and I were playmates as children and grew up together. We spent summers together at is grandmother’s home. He was canscripted to fight the war in Vietnam, the war that wasn’t a war. He was killed in action. When I heard the news I felt crushed and heartbroken. I was the same age. I was a corpsman in the Inited States Navy. But by the hand of God, I was spared the Hell that was Vietnam. I was relegated to care for those who sacrificed body parts, who were maimed and wounded when they returned home. I was responsible to help mend their broken bodies.
I searched for him on Google to be sure to spell in correctly. I knew his name, but I had never actually seen it written. As the screen popped up, I felt my chest tighten as I scrolled down through the names. Fifty-eight thousand men and women died in just that war. The weight of that number pressed down on me as names flitted by. Not too far down that list I found what I was searching for: Earl Duane Barkley, Sgt. Army, Indian Head, PA.
Since then, the bridge in his nearby hometown now is honored by being named in honor of him. Thank you for your service and sacrifice.

Getting Out

Getting Out
Saturday I went hunting wheen my brother Ken called and asked if I wanted to try hunting for a deer. Saturday, old people could hunt with a rifle for antlerless deer. I accepted. I have been much too sedentary lately. My dad Edson Carl Beck would say, “You need to get outside and get the stink blown off you.” I really needed the time away from my computer and television. I have been spendingg too much time inside.
My brother has a small mobile hunting blind. It is handbuilt on a trailer with a door on one wall and three windows on the remaining three others, allowing an unrestricted view of the terrain. An office chair on wheels make the perch comfortable and the hunter is able to scoot around inside to have access to shoot out any window when a deer should wander into view.
I’d hunted from the hunting blind before and was comfortable once I had been dropped off and settled with my rifle at my side. It was still dark outside and I loaded my gun in the dark. Once done, I sat in the darkness waiting for the sun to rise. The weather was chill. It was silent with no breeze, no bird sounds, and no movement at all.
Slowly the morning sun crept over the distant horizen to my left to cover the valley below me. The dark terrain evolved into shapes before gaining any color at all. Gradually I could see the pale vapor cloud that came out of my nose as I exhaled. Eventually birds began to stir around me wakened from their sleep and their small cheeps and peeps greeted my ears. The air was still otherwise. There was no wind, not even the sligtest puff of a breeze. As I rearranged myself in the chair, it would groan under my weight.
The sun climbed higher and the golden aspen trees began to glow in the diffuse light enhanced by a crystal robe of frost. They looked bright among some dark evergreen trees. It was a beautiful sight. Brown weed carpet and occasional thorn trees covered the field that spread from the building to disappear at the feet of the woods and I began my watch for a deer. The minutes passed into hours and nothing appeared other than the birds I was once graced by the arrival of a brilliantly fearthered cardinal. Its bright red plumage was intense against the green leaves that remained on the bush.
Empty handed I returned to my car and drove back home, but it wasn’t wasted time. It was a needed vacation from myself. 

It's Remarkable

 Remarkable

It has been fascinating to watch the skies at sunrise, sunset, and the hours in between. I have been drawn upward by the sun, clouds, moon and stars. I can be enticed even on the days when the sun refuses to shine and a vast panorama of clouds seethe and churn darkly. Occasionally the clouds are charged with twists of lightning, stirred by the deep rumbles of thunder. Sometimes the ground vibrates beneath my feet as the lightning flashes dance close causing the earth to quiver in response to the roar of thunder.

Sometimes the clouds are only a misty veil. It stirs, just thick enough to play a game of hide-n-seek with distant mountain tops. Sometimes the clouds sag low wrapping the trees and bushes with a damp blanket of fog to cover the ground with its thick blanket of cotton. When the cloud rolls away, the grass is covered with dew that sparkles as the sun or the moon rises.

The moon appears as a celestial orb, full faced and bright or as thin slices. The calendar shaves away the moon in slivers to make sickles of light. The moon evolves into the smile of a Cheshire cat or into fishhooks that snag stars in the dark night sky. Slowly stars fade as night ends and the sun begins its rise. This is where another remarkable fantasy begins. The sun’s rays pierce the darkness and dance on the passing clouds. Pale yellow light cuddles with the surface of the clouds. The light intensifies, turning the rosy glow into colors of glorious orange-gold or into a blazing hot red hue. Then the sun itself rises. It shows its brilliant face above the horizon then the clouds reclaim their virginity, white and pure.

The clouds scurry across the sky pushed by prevailing breezes. The sky’s color may vary from a pale milky hue to a deep azure blue. The wind swirls the clouds like creamer in a cup of coffee. The sun continues its journey overhead. Its path marked by shadows that the light paints on the earth beneath. Hour by hour shadows lengthen as it nears the end of the day and the time for the sun to put on its pajamas and go to sleep. The sun leaves goodbye kisses on the clouds to create fantastic scenes of light and as it settles in for the night. The sunset colors rival the morning’s sunrise, but in reverse. As the light lessens and the sun finally slips below the horizon, I sometimes think that we are looking at the underside of heaven, what will our actual view of heaven be like? It’s too grand for me to imagine.

Aging

 

The Chair

The old man sits in a chair by the door

waiting for someone who's been there before.

His skin is as thin as rice paper page,

drooping face speckled with spots of his age.

Drowsy head bobbing with white hair askew,

as light leaves the sky and lawn fills with dew

No headlights appear and shaking his head

Weary he rises and shuffles to bed

The old man sits by the door in a chair

no children or friends come visit him there.

Stirring as thoughts of them surface and rise.

With muscles twitching he opens his eyes,

through rheumy lenses and limited view

he sees youth passing, amazed how time flew.

The door remains closed, sealed tightly with rust.

The chair's now empty, filled only with dust.

 

 

The Sink Window

The old woman stands and leans on the sink,

she stares through windows to look and to think

Her steps now falter on knees filled with pain.

Wistfully her eyes stare down the long lane.

Wrinkles map her face. Age spots back her hands

wearying quickly from daily demands

No family’s seen, she turns and shakes her head,

closing the curtains she hobbles to bed.

The old woman wakes and on the sink leans,

her body is bent, face lined with ravines.

She stares at her hands, once supple and sure,

resting on the sink, misshapen and sore.

Puckered lips sag into a toothless frown.

Her youth’s flown away and her clock’s wound down.

The curtains are closed as stray breezes sigh,

The windows are dark. The sink is now dry.

 

 

The Problem

Children are caught in personal affairs

no time for one who sits alone in chairs,

no time to give them, and no time to think

of someone who waits and stands at the sink.

Busy with family everyday

not recognizing how time slips away.

Someday you will be waiting for a call,

wanting affection, no matter how small.

Quickly the children grow and leave the nest,

lifetime spouses die and are laid to rest.

Embers of hope weaken and barely glows

when no one calls and no one shows.

Traveling salesmen are greeted with glee.

The “Witnesses” invited in for tea.

It will happen much sooner than you think,

It will be you with the chair or the sink.

Masquerades

 Masquerades
There was a time as I was growing up that Halloween was little more than dressing up and taking on the persona of a scarecrow, a hobo, a princess, a cowboy, a bride, an Indian, or even a clown. I’m not talking about the scary live-in-a-storm-drain clown, but the classic ones like seen in a circus. One of the easiest costumes of all was being a ghost by using an old sheet with holes cut out for the eyes.
The decorations for Halloween were mostly dried corn stalks arranged and tied into shocks with pumpkins at its feet or maybe some old clothing stuffed with newspapers sitting in a lawn chair on the front porch. But today, the decorations have expanded to the point that many people have spent more to decorate than at Christmas. So, what’s the problem? Halloween is just another holiday, right?
Not so. it’s a celebration of the dark things in the world: a celebration of the evil things that go bump in the night; demons, skeletons, monsters, ghosts, vampires, witches, and even Satan himself. Costumes have gone from spooky to overly bloody and gory. Homes have light displays; mechanical blow up decorations, and front yards filled with Styrofoam tombstone cemeteries. Skeletons climb over cobweb covered porches to rest on rooftops. Skeleton horses pull horse-drawn coach hearses. I’ve seen plastic cat skeletons and rats for sale at Wal-Mart. I can hardly wait for skeleton dogs to join them on the shelves.
Even trick-or-treat night has a sinister past. Druid priests would go door to door to collect tribute and if the homeowner refused, the priests would refuse to bless the house and not chase away unwelcome spirits. The Celts believed that the dead returned to earth at the festival of Samhain, which is celebrated on the night of October 31st. Bonfires and sacrifices to the dead were offered. The Celts would disguise themselves in costumes of animal skins to drive away the phantom visitors. The priests would perform “blessings” in exchange for food and drink. Later people began to dress as ghosts, demons, or other malevolent beings. This custom evolved and is considered the precursor of trick-or-treating.
Too often the celebration of this season overshadows and swallows up the next holiday, Thanksgiving. The blessings of God are lost in the evils of Halloween. Our gratefulness is deferred by the rush toward the Christmas holiday. Christmas celebrates the birth of Jesus the Christ child; the Light of the world and our gratefulness at the birth of our Savior should outshine the darkness of Halloween.

Halloween Boo Boos

 Halloween Boo Boos
I was remembering several scenarios of a time when I worked in the emergency department of H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania and this one stood out. One Halloween, Dr. Vandy was on duty in the emergency room when a young man presented himself with both of his hands injured. It was one of the Flinn boys. For some reason Dr. Vandy had always called the brothers “The Flying Flinns.”
We quite frequently treated the Flinn boys for various injuries. It wasn’t that they were abused, but accidents just seemed to seek them out then find them. They looked a lot alike. They were two peas in a pod, except they weren’t green. Each man had sandy red hair and a wide scattering of freckles spread over their faces.
When we looked at the presenting Flinn boy’s hands, they were abraded, bruised, and scraped. The doctor ordered x-rays. While we were cleaning both of his hands and waiting for the x-ray tech, he began to share his tale.
“I was working at a haunted house tonight. I had huge rubber feet, rubber hands and a big, bushy wig that partially covered my face.”
We could see that the clothing he was wearing were old and tattered with red paint smeared on them to simulate blood.
“Two obviously gay guys came into the maze of the house. All of us tried our hardest to really scare them.  I could hear them coming closer down the darkened hallway. The one was saying, ‘Oh, Franzie! I’m so scared! Franzie, hold me, I’m so scared!’ and I thought, ‘Here’s where I get them.’ Just as they reached the doorway to come into my room, I slapped both of my hands on the door frame in frontt of their faces and howled as loud as I could. I heard ‘OH, FRANZIE!!’ and the guy slammed the door on my fingers. Now, I really did scream. I had a reason to yell. My hollering must have scared them, because they ran through my room and disappeared into the darkness beyond. Now I’m here to see whether or not they broke my hands.”
When the x-ray films came back, He only had a small non-displaced fracture. We dressed his wounds, splinted the finger, and sent him home. It took all we could do to keep from laughing while we were treating him. The Flinn kid was obviously in pain, but what a story he can tell his grandkids.

Barbecued Bears Balls

 Barbequed Bear Balls
I made barbecued meatballs for lunch at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and it reminded me of my first wild game banquet. My brother Kenneth Beck had a spare ticket and asked if I wanted to go. Just like most Saturday nights, I was free and readily accepted. I had no idea what to expect. It was all new to me. Before this, the only wild game I’d ever eaten were the animals my dad killed or venison that I killed during deer season.
The first things on the menu were trays of hors d’oeuvres of cheeses, deer sausage, homemade pickles, pickled peppers, and a variety of crackers. The next course offered were soups, regular chili, venison chili, white bean moose soup, turtle soup, squirrel & navy bean soup, or wild mushroom soup. I sampled the turtle soup and the squirrel bean soup.
The next round of foods that was shared was the main course, fresh cloverleaf buns, small buttered potatoes, and green beans. Then there were the display of meats: elk meatloaf, slices of venison roast, wild turkey, bear goulash, venison meatloaf, some type of sausage in sauerkraut, and the barbequed bear balls. The bear meat had been ground up, rolled into meat balls, and cooked in a barbeque sauce.
I didn’t try the sauerkraut and sausage and I wasn’t impressed with the bear goulash. I didn’t like the flavor of the spices that were used in it and I didn’t like the bear meat’s mushy consistency.
A large urn of coffee and several coolers of iced water and lemon Blend graced a small table at the end of the line to wet our whistles and clear palates between the different meats.
Another small table was festooned and piled high with a plethora of desserts:. Cakes of all flavors with their varied icings, small muffins of banana bread, and a few cookies. All were bundled in individual clear plastic containers. It made them easy to select and to carry back to your table.
Door prizes and other ticket prizes for T shirts, car care products, cash prizes, framed pictures, appliances, and several guns were given out to people with matching ticket numbers.
I remember sitting at my computer typing on my computer with a full round gut. At that time, I prayed that the food had settled. The foods must have called a truce, because I had a quiet night of sleep and the herds of wild game didn’t fight for territorial rights during the middle of the night.

Over the River and Through the Woods

Over the River and Through the Woods

Friday and Saturday were both fry days. I fried sausage for the annual Buckwheat, Pancake, and Sausage Festival as a volunteer to support the Ohiopyle & Stewart Volunteer Fire Department. It is their biggest fundraising event for their fire department. It’s an annual event I have worked for nearly fifty years. My father-in-law twisted my arm when I was dating his daughter Cindy Morrison. I must have passed muster, because I eventually married her. I am aging and this year, I fried sausage only on Friday with my son Andrew.

The drive from my home takes almost twenty minutes. Many of the spots along the road are filled with memories. I shared my memories with my son as we drove to Ohiopyle. Some of these places have disappeared or changed. The one that is most noticeable is the metal truss bridge that spanned the Mill Run Reservoir. It was narrow and because of the metalwork overhead, it was damaged by several taller trucks. The new span is wider and has no metalwork overhead. It is smooth and sleek, but lacks any architectural detail or history.

The drive to Ohiopyle consists of a series of hills and curves. It seems to wend its way down into Ohiopyle. The early morning drive was beautiful. Patches of fog often hid the colors of the autumn hued leaves. The fog also veiled the rising sun into a blurry spot of light giving the fog surroundings an ethereal feel. Most of the fog curled in the dips and hollows of the road like a cat curling to sleep. The wall of fog would suddenly disappear and the bright robes of the autumn leaves would appear glistening with dew in the soft sunlight. The oak and maple trees were wearing their finest coats. The poplar trees had shed most of their leaves standing tall and stately with their bared limbs raised toward the sky.

Situated close to the road is the church and school house at Bear Run Conservancy. It is near the entrance to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. My wife’s grandmother, Pearl Jackson Morrison lived in the school house until she died. The Conservancy has returned it to it’s original construction, removing a garage and closed in side porch.

Another notable site along the route is the church that was part of the movie, “Four Weddings and a Funeral.” The changes made by s\the state parks have robbed Ohiopyle of its sleepy little village and natural beauty, but it still stirs memories of that time. 

Shine On

 Shine On
I thought I’d share one day I had to myself when I visited a place I would visit around Christmastime to shop for gifts for my wife. I’d not visited for several years. It once was a Red & White store on Route 30 just west of Ligonier. After the store closed, it became an antique/flea market. It was a wonderful place to stroll through and take in all of the items from the past. Anything and everything gathered on the shelves. It was a marvelous building to wander through, trying to decide if it was something I wanted, needed, or could afford.
I climbed into my car and dreamed of exploring the store and browsing through the accumulated oddities. The trip through the gray drizzle did little to dampen my anticipation. When I got to the location the entire building was missing. It had been torn down. My heart fell. I turned around and drove back into Ligonier to satisfy another craving. I ate lunch at Ruthies, a small diner to the east of Ligonier on Route 30. I wasn’t disappointed. The food was great, but now Ruthies is gone too, claimed by fire.
I went home, deciding to rest and allow my food to digest. Feet up, I snapped on the television. The program Moonshiners popped up. It was a program I hadn’t seen before and watched it to the end. It did bring to my attention of an incident that happened years ago while Connellsville Senior High School. In chemistry class lab my lab partner and I were to do a distillation project. I knew that I had some elderberry juice that I concocted was still there in my parent’s basement smelling a bit yeasty. Perfect. I smuggled it into school and then into the classroom.
After setting up the Bunsen burner and the glass tubing necessry for the “distillery” I eased the lid off the jar and poured the elderberry juice into the glass still pot, fired up the Bunsen burner, and waited. Controlling the heat was difficult. The temperature would fluctuate, but soon we had some distillate dripping from the coil and collecting in a beaker. Because we were unsure of the “purity” of the distillate, we decided to run it through the still a second time.
We controlled the heat much better and soon the liquid flowed clear as water. My partner said, “Do you think we should try it?” But before I could answer out instructor said, “I’ll take that boys.” So we never knew if we ever achieved liquor, what proof it was, or if it was palatable.

Given the Boot

Given the Boot
Seeing a photo of myself that my daughter Anna Beck Prinkey posted for Veteran’s Day, dredged up some memories from that time. The photo was from boot camp at Great Lakes Naval Facility. I saw the face of a nerdy teenaged boy looking back at me with dark rimmed glasses. The memory was of the chaos after emerging from the bus on the base. My emotions were already in turmoil, I’d just flown for the first time from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to O’Hare airport Illinois. I’d just celebrated Thanksgiving at home and knew I’d be away from home for Christmas. Gathered with other confused kids in a large hall we were hustled from one spot to another; gathering shoes, underwear, clothing and a duffle bag. The group was then herded into a barber shop where we were shorn. The clippers flew over my head. As I ran my hand over the stubble, I was reminded of a plush stuffed animal. What a strange sensation. I’d only had a crew cut twice in my life. My dad deemed it necessary, and I hated it. I believe that is why I still wear a cap today.
I mentioned in past posts that the commander of our sister company was a real hard nose. The “Soon-to- be sailors” under his leadership were so angry with his constant derision, they made plans to kill him. If they did, we as their sister company would be kept in boot camp FOREVER or at least until things were sorted out. A goodly number of our company and theirs were black kids, many from the south. Our company thought we’d have to break the tension to salvage our training. Everyone in our company stripped the sheets and pillow case from their beds. Wrapped in the sheets with the pillow case tilted back on our heads so our faces would be recognized, we marched down the aisle of out sister company’s barracks.
The men of our sister company were at first shocked, but as they began to distinguish familiar faces they began to laugh. We were used to marching together and were easily recognized. The mounting tension was broken and we graduated on time.
Another thought that was almost like an oasis in the confusion and myriad of new experiences, routines, and faces was in the first week of basic training, I was in line at the chow hall. One of the men “slinging hash” was a guy with whom I graduated high school. That was the only time I ever saw him, but it was just a bit of normalcy that I needed in the madness of boot camp.

Back to School

Back to School
This is the time of year that kid’s and parent’s thoughts turn to getting ready for the new school year. Most of the children have some reluctance and most of the parents have mixed feelings of relief and anxiety. The first day of school may be the child’s first ride on a school bus, meeting a new teacher, or wearing the new school clothing.
Near the end of summer I would hear the cicadas rasping their songs in the heat. There was nothing to dread from these small creatures, but as a child, I developed an unsettled feeling of angst when they would began their concert. I knew my summer freedom was nearly over and the routine of schooldays would soon begin. Days of reading, math, and spelling, months of history, science, and geography, and nearly a full year of penmanship, hard seated desks, and other not-too-polite kids lay ahead. It also meant recess, lunches, and making new friends.
Going back to school always meant going to the Gabriel’s store with my mom Sybil Miner Beck to shop for clothing. My first recollection of that store was its location in Uniontown, Pennsylvania. It waas coposed of two housesthat were conjoined by built-in walkways. Bins and tables were full of jumbled pants, shirts, and other items that had to be sorted through to find “seconds” that were still in wearable shape. Several years later, the store moved to a larger much roomier building, but the need to examine the clothing was real: checking for missing buttons, working zippers, tears, and to be sure that there were no major flaws.
Then came the role reversal, I got married to my wife Cindy Morrison Beck and we had three children of our own. School days meant something completely different, but then again, my wife was a school teacher. She taught at the private Christian school where our children were enrolled. School days meant visiting stores for school supplies and new clothing. The entire family would make the traditional pilgrimage to Gabriel Brothers to shop for school clothes or to the J. C. Penny outlet in Columbus, Ohio.
Gabriel’s has now expanded to have multiple stores. Growing up people called the original two stores Gabe’s. Apparently, the owners of the stores heard the public’s nickname for them and have changed the signage renaming the stores Gabe’s. The tradition of going to Gabe.s has been lost, but now as an adult when I hear the cicadas and the school days draw near, the sound always stirs thoughts of the old conjoined houses and shopping at Gabe’s for school clothes.=

Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent (Namely Me)

Names Have Been Changed to Protect the Innocent (Namely Me)
With Halloween coming closer, I thought I would share this brush with this spooky season. It really isn’t a ghost story, but it will have to do.
I may have shared this incident before but I still laugh when I think of it. Because it is in the same vein I will tell it anyway. While I was employed at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania,  I had just taken the body of a deceased person to the morgue. I, placed the cart in the cooler and was finishing the paper work in the log, when I heard voices in the storeroom through a connecting vent high on the wall. It was our maintenance man, Franz and Niecie, one of our female central supply techs. They were retrieving a bariatric bed. Bariatric beds are oversized beds for the larger patients. The bed had always been stored directly beneath the vent in the storage room next door.
I moved across the morgue until I was underneath the vent. I cupped my hands around my mouth and making a funnel I moaned, “W-O-O-O-O-O-O! W-O-O-O-O-O!”
They immediately stopped talking. Then I heard Niecie ask, “Franz, did you hear that?!”
When Franz didn’t answer right away, she persisted, “Did you hear that?”
Franz said “Yes! Yes I did.”
“What was that?” She asked.
I heard Franz shush her.
They were quiet and I could tell they were listening. So I waited. When I heard them start to move the bed in the next room, again I moaned, “W-O-O-O-O-O! W-O-O-O-O-O!”
Niecie said, “Let’s get out of here!” I heard the supply room door pop open and the wheels of the bed rolled out of the room at a high rate of speed.
Later I met Franz in the hallway and told him what I had done. He laughed and said, “I didn’t know what that noise was. I knew the morgue was next door, so I thought at first it could have been a ghost. The second time you moaned, Neicie’s eyes bugged out. She grabbed my arm and almost climbed up onto my shoulders. I think she would have if I would have let her.”
            We never told Neicie and if you read this, I apologize.

Like Father Like Son

Like Father Like Son
My father-in-law, Elmer “Bud” Morrison was a man who used his hands and his brain equally well, creating solutions to problems that arose. He was caretaker and handyman for Kentuck Knob, the Frank Lloyd home of I. N. Hagan our local ice cream producer. The house is located near Chalk Hill, Pennsylvania overlooking the Youghiogheny River gorge. The house is designated as a National Historical Landmark. Bud later became the caretaker of Camp Christian which is located near Mill Run, Pennsylvania. The camp used to be called Killarny Park and was a retreat for people who came from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to vacation. Before that it was also a summer camp called Red Feather.
Several churches from Pittsburgh purchased the camp for a summer camp and as a retreat for the people of their congregations. It was also a summer camp many of the youth of Pittsburgh. Bud also worked for the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation repairing roads and keeping them maintained.
During the summer, he drove the heavy-weight road roller and in the winter he drove snow plows that kept our roads passable. Both positions were very demanding physically the vibrations of the roller wore out his hips and the “on call” work of the winter’s plowing and lack of sleep would tire him especially when he was compelled to work the long twelve hours shifts if the weather was bad and the snow fell heavily.
His son Kevin has always been one who enjoys working with his hands and given time, he can stare a hole in a wall and get things done. Mechanical things are second nature to him. He has worked at Lennox Glass Company and as a sanitation driver. Now, he has decided to step into his father’s shoes. He is one of those people that drag themselves out at all hours of the day and night to keep our roads clear, to allow us to travel in relative safety during the winter months. He drove a snowplow like his father. He has now retired and lives in Mull Run with his lovely wife Beverly Crider Morrison.

Recognizing Miracles

 Recognizing Miracles
Have you ever taken the time to stand back and really look at the time as the day passes by or by reviewing the occurrences at the end of the day and evaluating what has happened? Small incidents will appear that can only be described as miracles. They will often emerge from the jumbled thoughts of the day if you look for them. Pick out each oasis of blessing, take note of them, and thank God for those precious moments. It may be as small as finding the spot where you placed your phone or getting a call or a text from someone unexpected. How about bumping into someone that you haven’t seen in ages while you’re out shopping? What about when a stranger holds the door open for you and gives a cheerful greeting? How about when you’re in a hurry and the traffic is molasses slow, you’re grousing about how you’re going to be late, yet a mile down the road there’s an accident from which the delay has saved you.
There are times that you miscount the stair treads and stumble almost falling but are able to catch yourself. Older people break more easily and the recovery from a near-fall is both a blessing and a miracle. Sometimes daily chores sap your strength and you’re absolutely sure that there’s no way to continue, but a sudden burst of energy carries you through. That certainly could be considered a miracle.
You may not consider having a flat tire while you’re driving is a blessing, but if it would have occurred a mile ahead or a mile back, it could have been disastrous and put you in jeopardy. You may find a parking spot near the front door of a business while it’s raining. What about leaving the house and forgetting your checkbook or the shopping list and returning home only to find you left the stove on or you receive an important phone call as soon as you step inside, coincidence? I prefer to think of them as miracles. Maybe they aren’t the size of the parting of the Red Sea, but they are blessings none-the-less that God has sent your way. Have you ever been the recipient of a “pay it forward” or finding money in your dryer, in a jacket pocket, or on the ground…manna from heaven.
Take the time to review your day. Look for the blessings and be truly grateful for each and every one of those God-given miracles.

Hoo Wee

Hoo Wee
I slept well then woke up much earlier than my normal get-out-of-bed time. When I didn’t have to make a bathroom run, I rolled over to make myself more comfortable and went back to sleep. Bad idea. Because I’m retired and I had nothing pressing in the early hour of the day, it was no maajor problem. Not only did I sleep longer than I wanted to do, but I had a weird dream. It is that dream I want to describe.
My close neighbor Fred Brown who has been dead for several years was opening a medical clinic. He was never a doctor, but was a grocer who did butchering of animals on the side. He would occasionally make a “drawing salve” from the renderings of animal scraps, but that was as close to a physician that he came. His clinic although close to my house within easy walking distance was at the end of a narrow rock-filled debris laden roaadway. (This may have been caused because of the scenes of flooding and severe damages tto roads from southern Utah. The racing, raging water making short work of the roads leaving only destroyed and rock strewn highways.)
My dad was driving me there. (My dad Carl Beck has also been dead for several years.) There was no parking lot and if he had not been driving a pickup truck, I never would havee made it. Dad drove slowly over the fit-for-ATV traffic, I’m sure I would never have made it. The “Parking lot” was a grassy field with water running through it and no path to the building. I made it inside. I was wet to midcalf.
Inside was a tiny waiting area. Three older women were there. I was greeted by a beautiful young lady. Smooth face and dark, short cut hair, pale skin, and lovely smile. I offered her my photocopy of my medications. She refused saying, “We have nothing to do with BlueCross.”
Later this young gal asked, “Had I ever tried hemp?” I was surprised and said, “No.”
She came out of the “office area” and fetched a small plastic box filled with hard thin spaghetti sticks that rattled when she shook it. Opening it she took a piece out and fastened into my slowly thinning hair. This ended my visit to Fred Brown’s neighborhood clinic, but I sure wish I had the phone number of the young receptionist. LOL 

Autumn Chill

 Autumn Chill
The bright sunny days of summer have somehow slipped away. It’s yielded to slightly cooler days and even chillier nights. An extra blanket feels more comfortable when I allow my bedroom window to be cracked open in an otherwise stuffy room. I’ve decided to bring out the flannel sheets; washing and air drying them to remove the stale stored smell. I also need to wash my king sized, hand-sewn patchwork quilt. It’s in the tumbling block pattern. The material is recycled double knit fabric, yarn-knotted to a flannel sheet. Almost every diamond shaped piece has a family story attached to it. The blocks were at one time, someone’s skirt, pants, shirt or blouse. They are easily recognizable by the color or the print pattern. Each block reconnects to a page in my brain’s book of family memories.
This year the usual apples that hang on the trees in the back yard were missing. The birds have no apples to eat and the horses in the pasture behind my house got no treats. I’m thankful that I don’t have to make applesauce, apple butter, or apple schnitz this year. I still have some in my freezer and canned in my cold cellar from last year. There were none to gather a few of better ones to pare, slice, and freeze someor I may keep a few of the grimes golden to eat. There were none to fall or damaged to share with the bees or chop them when I mow my lawn.
It seems each time I attempt to downsize, I end up storing something else. To those people who say a person can’t take belongings with them to the grave, I’m sure my kids will make room in my coffin. Just teasing, my kids are sorting through some things and getting rid of some of the clutter. Too bad it only ends up with minimal results.
I have one room in my house I describe as decorated in early depression. There are old tools and enamel pots that hang on the walls. They’re too good to throw away, but no longer used for cooking or for work. I have several old photographs hanging to keep the room from looking like a hoarder’s hideaway. Because I’m thinking about getting a smaller house, I keep the Christmas decorations in that room rather than lugging them to the attic. The tub that has the artificial tree is huge and heavy.
The leaves are beginning to turn and it will soon be time to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department’s Sausage and Buckwheat Festival. This year it will be held October, 11, 12, and 13. I’m waiting for my call to join the ranks. I have volunteered for nearly fifty years, working my way up from dishwasher, to cake fryer, and finally to frying sausage.

The Cream of the Crop

The Cream of the Crop

My Grandfather Raymond Miner Owned a small farm just outside of the village of Indian Head, Pennsylvania with my Grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. There they raised their eight children, two boys and six girls. On the farm he usually had two work horses and two milk cows. He raised two hogs, a bull or steer to butcher at the end of the year, and two flocks of chickens, one for eggs and one for meat. Granddad worked the farm during the day and would work in the coal mines at night to feed and clothe his family.

Like most small farms he owned a cream separator. After hand-milking the cows, he would pour the raw milk into the large stainless steel chamber on the top of the machine. Initially the machine was turned by a hand crank before he installed a small electric motor to its side. The motor would spin an internal bowl at thousands of revolutions per minute. The warm, filtered raw milk was poured into the center of the metal spinning bowl and the process would begin. Located inside the bowl was a stack of cone shaped discs where the discs would spin the liquid into thin layers that helped to separate the components of lighter cream and denser skim milk by centrifugal force. The heavier skim milk was forced outward against the outer wall while the lighter cream clustered near the middle. Separate internal channels directed the two liquids out of the machine through two distinct spouts which were collected in separate buckets for cooking, selling, or churning.

Besides the daily chore of cooking and cleaning Grandma would sort and sell the eggs, bake bread, pies, and cookies, and churn butter. She would look in catalogs, see clothing fashions then cut out patterns using her mind and newspapers to stitch in-style clothing for the girls. She would sew clothes for the family (except bib overalls for Granddad), weed the garden, cut and shape squares for her quilts. Very little went to waste. Scraps of food went into a vat to feed the hogs, old scraps of worn clothing became designs in her quilts, and empty tin cans, fruit crates, scraps of lumber often were changed into toys or Christmas decorations.

Fee Fie Fo Fum I Smell

 Fee Fie Fo Fum I Smell

Since my fall with my head injury in 2020, I have had a lingering after effect of phantom smells. The odors I would smell was hot plastic or car exhaust fumes. The hot plastic smells sent me through my house on a futile safari searching for the source. The exhaust fumes I Ignored because I recognized that were no engines running nearby.
Since then the smells have evolved. They have ranged from food cooking to cleaning supplies to odd smells that I don’t recognize. The odors will change from day to day and sometimes several times per day. Somedays it becomes an entire orchestra of aromas that assaults my senses. The shifting smells don’t allow my mind to adjust and ignore the varying smells.
The changing smells are just a slight inconvenience compared to the effects that could have happened with the two bleeds in my brain. So many bad things could have resulted from my fall. The two worst things that could have occurred would have been stroke-like symptoms or having actual seizures. Either one would have limited my ability to drive or my ability to walk. I am thankful that those things haven’t happened.
One other symptom from my fall is a lack of concentration at times. On occasion I can’t recall a word that I want to use and I have to pause and think of an alternative word. Names are the most difficult to resurrect when I meet someone. I am so embarrassed when I can’t recall their name. Sometimes I wander off topic and will almost interrupt the person speaking because I fear that I might forget what I want to say while listening to them. I don’t mean to be rude and I don’t think my ideas are better than the speaker, so I do get embarrassed at times.
Yesterday I was attacked by chlorine bleach smells and an aroma of cooking food. What opposites. Whatever was cooking smelled absolutely delicious, filling my house with spicy aromas and I have to cook for myself. What a disappointment. I’m never sure whether visitors are greeted with a stinky house or not.

Wearying Weekend

Wearying Weekend
It was another weekend when I had a blank Slate. I had nothing planned, then it expanded as quickly as a Mylar balloon being filled with helium at a dollar store…PSSST. Last weekend I volunteered to be docent at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. This has become a point of debate among our members. Right now there are only three members who regularly cover the need to be open on Saturdays and to put in time keeping the doors open for our workday of Wednesday. It becomes a bit stressful at times.
One duty of being docent is to answer phone inquiries. A local Christian school wanted to tour our facility with about 20 students after visiting the nearby Flax Scutching and their presentation of the old time art of harvesting and making linen thread from the flax plant. The flax was grown by our ancestors to gain those fibers. The fibers were used to weave linen material for clothing. After the flax is grown, it is beaten to separate the fibers, combed into strands then those fibers are wound through a spinning wheel to make the thread. These yearly presentations draw crowds. These kids were to get an early tour. They contacted CRHS and made ready for them Friday, I even bought apples as souvenirs.
Three members came so we could make small groups to show them around our facility. They were a “no show” and the Societies effort was in vain. They didn’t call to cancel and after waiting for over an hour, we closed shop and went home. While I was out, I got a haircut.
Back home, I’d barely settled down when another member called. She was working the Society’s booth at the flax pavilion on Saturday. It was another annual event for the Society. Due to a last minute invitation from the Scutching’s personnel it was a hurriedly put together coverage creating a display. She asked if I was going to relieve her and friend after her four hour shift. I couldn’t say no, she is 91 and her friend will be 102 this December.
I actually went in early because of their ages. I was unsure of how well they would tolerate their four hour shift. They tolerated the event quite well but seemed glad to see me. When my shift was over I carried the money box with money from selling our cookbooks and lock it up at our showroom.
Sunday was church and Sunday school. My son Andrew and his wife Renee Largent Beck stopped by for supper and to share items I’d gathered from a nearby thrift store. (A croquet set, horse shoes, and pegs, a blaze orange hunting suit, etc.)
Sunday evening was choir practice, learning the music for the Christmas program then Sunday evening services. I was quite busy this weekend when this week’s dance card seemed bare just a few days ago.

Going for Groceries

 Going for Groceries
When people mention grocery shopping to me in the Connellsville area, most of us older folk remember the old Pechin’s Market. It was located in Dunbar, Pennsylvania and the collection of rambling add-on buildings spanned generations and a small creek. It was a place where shoppers never knew where a certain product would be on display and the meat was fresh and reasonably priced. It was so reasonably priced that people often followed the meat cart on hands and knees as it emerged.
Usually two people shopped together as one grabbed the packages of meat, the other person caught the package as it flew through the air and placed it in the shopping cart where the person guarded it. Yes, I said guarded it as with many other products. If a person stepped away from their cart and someone saw something they needed, they would take it out and put it in their own cart instead of looking for it. The hubbub over the meat cart was similar to vultures picking clean the bones of some sort of animal, occurring many times before the meat supply reached the display cases. It was a place where it was necessary to shop in pairs. One had to be on the alert at all times riding shotgun on the cart to prevent others from removing things in your cart.
Pechin’s parking lot was just shy of a war zone. The potholes looked as if it was a battlefield with mortar holes holding hands. Cars parked wherever they thought they could squeeze in, often without rhyme or reason. Most often two rows allowed easier access and egress, but sometimes a third row started trapping some cars. It happened to me. It was summer. I didn’t want what I bought to thaw or spoil I paced at my car, while waiting and fuming. When the guy who had started the correct row came out and got in his car, I knew I could escape. I reached into one of my bags and shared a bottle of ketchup with the person who created the third row…on his windshield. I smiled and drove away.
I also wanted to talk about another market, the one that sat across the street from Guiermo Reyes’ barber shop and the Showboat Lounge in Connellsville, Pennsylvania. The store was called the Market Basket. My Mom Sybil Miner Beck and my Dad Carl Beck used to shop there when I was very young, I can hardly remember anything about in other than the outside of the building and the parking lot. I can’t remember going inside even once. It may have been that Mom shopped inside while Dad and I remained in the car.

Keys

 Keys
There was a time in history that a man’s home could be made secure with a peg above a door latch or by withdrawing a leather thong back inside of the cabin, but no longer. Slowly men created ever more ingenious ways with various contraptions. Securing the home for valuables was the main reason. As mankind became less of hunter-gatherers and settled down as farmers, they accumulated more things. They were less likely to travel and less likely to have their belongings light enough to transport. As houses, furniture, cooking areas, and bedding became stationary, they needed to be protected from marauding animals, weather, and other human beings.
People gathered more and more things in homes, barns, or storage areas that were of value or necessity and doors became important. Doors needed to be made secure more that a latch could afford. The latch slowly evolved into increasingly more integral inventions. Some created locks had a wooden key to turn the hidden tumblers. They were replaced by metal contrivances and used a metal key to open the lock.
I can remember growing up, the door to our house was locked and could be opened by a skeleton key. Even though we rarely locked our doors, it gave a false feeling of security. Why, because those keys were basically universal. Everyone in the neighborhood had the same key for their home’s door also. If you lost your key, I imagine that you could go next door and borrow theirs. But then again, we rarely locked our doors.
Locks evolved with each door needing separate keys. Can you remember having one key for the front door or the back of the house or the garage and one for the ignition and one for the glove-box of your car and trunk? Locking your keys inside happened only rarely.
Now keys have been replaced by key-fobs. The computer in the car tells the auto whether the key-fob is inside of the vehicle. The push button starter will not respond without the fob being present.
The doors of homes today can be accessed by your cell phone. The phone can be used to turn on or off lights. The phone can open the garage door. I imagine you could even program your phone to have a cup of coffee ready for you when you arrive at home.
I now have my own copy of the key to the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society building. As recording secretary, I needed access to the building and because I volunteer to be docent a key was necessary. I am to open the Society for a group of school students Friday for a private tour.

Choices Chances and Changes

 Choices Chances and Changes

Just thinking back over the seventy odd years of my life and recalling incidents when I’ve made choices, good or bad that have affected me greatly. Many of those choices have been small ones, but have made a great impact for me and my family. Some choices make a large impact on others around me and some choices that I’ve made I will never know how they might have changed a stranger’s life.

When I am out and away from home, I always try to present a happy image. I’ve said in the past, “If I’m in a bad mood, I don’t leave home. Nobody wants to deal with a grumpy old man.” There are times when I am not in a good mood and have a doctor’s appointment, car repairs, or meetings, so I psyche myself up to smile and be courteous. Why? Because I can recall times in my past where I have not been polite or allowed my sarcastic humor to sour a friendship or a relationship. It’s not pleasant to reflect on those things, but perhaps those reviews of myself have caused changes and improved me; at least I hope they have.

I’ll be driving to Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania for needed follow-op CT to be done. Since Frick Hospital was my old stomping grounds, that’s where I usually go for x-rays and blood draws at the outpatient department. If my testing requires fasting, I will stop for breakfast after the phlebotomists are done with me. I used to eat at the Frick coffee shop, but since the “mother ship” has taken over, remodeled, and removed the cooks, I choose to stop at the Valley Dairy. Breakfasts there are reasonable and good. The other day I had breakfast there I didn’t feel like cooking. I noticed two gentlemen having breakfast as well. I couldn’t help but overhear their conservative views and mentally agreed with what they said, although I didn’t speak to them.

They were there again yesterday after my blood draw. I ordered sausage gravy, biscuits, home fries, and a cup of tea. A serendipitous moment occurred when they left before me and paid my bill. The server had been confused that morning making extra steps for herself. I even loaned her my pen when I heard her mutter, “I don’t have a pen.” When I tried to pay my bill, she said the two strangers had already paid it. She told me that gentlemen often did it. The coincidence of it happening on the same day I was writing about small choices changing another’s outlook was almost miraculous. Thank you gentlemen, whoever you are 

Nothing But the Truth

 Nothing But the Truth

I’ve been reading a book of short autobiographies. One story that captured my attention was of the British entrepreneur Joseph Caplan. He struggled to make a fortune and through a series of unforeseen events, he lost it all. The beginnings of his trouble occurred when he hired a prominent political figure named Jeremy to sit on the board of directorship for one of his enterprises. Political enemies of Jeremy targeted him with the intent to bring him down. These men began a concerted attack by scandalizing Jeremy’s past. They turned his private life into a public disgrace. The press joined them, having a field day exposing Jeremy’s past indiscretions. The press soon included Joseph’s businesses and finally Joseph himself became “guilty” as well.

The attacks on Jeremy continued and the names of Joseph’s companies soon filled the tabloids. Joseph’s name was never mentioned of course, but his businesses were constantly front page news. The continual reports of “guilt by association” painted Joseph with the same brush as Jeremy. The scandal of Jeremy’s past whetted an all-consuming public appetite that caused Joseph’s enterprises to collapse.

Joseph’s myriad businesses were dissolved by liquidators and his assets were slowly sold for a fraction of their value to pay creditors and keep food on his table. The innuendos of the press blamed him for all of the losses. With only the view of the press, the public believed the stories. The legal inquiries that followed were prolonged and humiliating for Joseph and his family.

Reporters pressured Joseph for interviews. At first, he eagerly accepted their requests, naively believing he could clear his name by sharing facts of his innocence with them. He gave hundreds of interviews, but none were ever published. Instead of reporting with truthful stories, the press only wanted photographs of Joseph, his family, his home, and his car. It was the kind of things that the public enjoyed reading. Then when Joseph refused to give any more interviews, unscrupulous reporters created their own stories filled with innuendos, misrepresentations, and outright lies.

Much of what happened to Joseph Caplan in the 1970s, still continues today. Many of the present day reporters from newspapers, radio, and television are lacking in integrity. They’ve become mere commentators, regurgitating someone else’s thoughts. They mouth scripts of the parent company and try to foist those views on the public. Reporters no longer do their own research for facts, nor dig for the truth behind events. There is no honest presentation of their findings. The entirety of the media is no longer content to present the facts and allow the public to make their own decisions.

Not Surprised Covid Time

 Not Surprised Covid Time

An older friend of mine said, “If you’re out and about can you grab some things for me. I need toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and peaches.” Immediately, I thought, “Good luck on that.” This was in the height of the Covid confusion. But then I thought I wouldn’t need to go out for several days and surely things will start to settle down by then and there should be no problem. I saw a post that said, certain stores would reserve their opening hour at each branch for the elderly. I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could find her requests.
I almost titled this post as “Mission Impossible,” but decided to give it a college try. I stopped at three stores; two were chain companies and one was a local vendor. I wasn’t surprised that the stores were empty of those products. Many bare shelves greeted me. What good is it to allow the elderly in to shop early when shelves are bare? Is this a taste of Socialism? When I commented about the missing products, I understood the frustration of the clerk. Perhaps she thought I was another complaining customer. When I mentioned “That’s just crazy, I’m surprised that these people don’t attack the truck drivers making deliveries.”
A disgusted look crossed the clerk’s face and she shared, “I was unpacking a carton of toilet paper. I was attacked by customers who rushed me and took the packages before I could put them on the shelves.”
I commented I was a retired nurse, and I understood. I had to daily deal with the public as well. Some of them were nearly as crazed as this.
I’m not surprised that people have gotten so fearful and greedy. After the Great Depression, parents tried to give their children things that they never had growing up; things that were too scarce or too expensive. The following generations got used to having what they needed which then evolved into always getting what they wanted,. They often had no respect to the parents who birthed them, loved them, and gave them the things they have.
As Christians, we need to be the salt and light of the world. We need to show to others the love of Christ and not be fearful in this fear-packed world. We need to reach out to others in distress. Although we Christians are living in this world, we are not to be of this world. Our treasures lie in heaven and not here on earth. All that is not done for the honor and glory of God is but chaff to be blown away or stubble that will be burned, and yes that includes rolls of toilet paper.