Rooster Tales and Other Roadway Hazards

 Rooster Tales and Other Roadway Hazards

Over my lifetime I’ve had several unusual occurrences while driving between Mill Run and Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. The last one happened over a year ago, not that a flat tire is an unusual event, but let me explain. I’d spent the day frying sausage at the Buckwheat and Sausage Festival for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department. All I wanted was to get off my feet and relax. Not long after I left the parking lot I began to feel the beginning of a flat. I was praying that I could make it through the less populated areas to Mill Run. It wasn’t to be. As I crossed the bridge below Falling Waters I felt it go completely flat. Bear Run Church and school house was next with a parking lot and a light to see what I was doing. I pulled in so the light shined on the flat. I managed to get the car jacked up, but due to a shoulder injury, I wasn’t able to loosen the wheel nuts. Just then a man in uniform (I assume he was a guard for the Conservancy) pulled in to see what I was doing. When I explained that I had a flat, he generously offered his assistance. I was so tired and so thankful.

One incident happened as I drove to the Buckwheat Festival years before. Crossing the crest of a hill there was a fawn standing in the middle of the highway. My eyes were focused on it and I missed seeing another fawn’s corpse on the road. I ran over it with a thump.

Another time I was driving to the Buckwheat festival, a rusted muffler had fallen from another car. It was in my lane. I was too close. Instead of swerving to miss it and possibly lose control of my car I straddled it. Of course it hung up on the underside of my car. The loud grating sparked brightly in the predawn darkness. I slowed planning to stop and it rolled loose as I pulled onto the berm.

I wasn’t heading to Ohiopyle, but I was visiting my brother-in-law David Morrison. As we were leaving his driveway that sloped upward it put us at eyelevel with the roadway, we heard a grating sound and waited to see what was coming. A car whizzed past with its “muffler” dragging. A huge rooster tail of sparks shot out the back. When it passed gasoline fumes flooded our car. It was the guy’s gas tank. David said, “Do you think we should follow him and let him know.” 

I said, “He knows something’s dragging and I don’t want to be anywhere near him if it blows.”

I Remember

 I Remember…

As I grew up there was a television program I Remember Mama. I can’t remember many of the episodes, but I can recall that they all centered on their Scandinavian family; day to day problems, familial love, and their integration into the American community. Black and white images still flicker across my brain, mostly still shots of their faces.

My memories of Christmas’s past do much of the same only in color. Cousins by the dozens would gather at my grandparent Ray and Rebecca Rugg Miner’s large rambling farm house in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The din and the laughter emerge from the cobwebs of my brain. Cookies of all kinds were toted in by my aunts for the occasion. My grandmother always made popcorn balls and would sometimes put the meats of butternuts in some of the syrup covered popcorn.

My grandfather, Ray was a short statured quiet man. A smile rarely left his face when he was surrounded by his raucous progeny. Now that I’ve aged, I understand that feeling. There are people who will not be here for Christmas again this year claimed either by distance or death. That saddens me, but there is still love that the Christmas season brings and eases those feelings.

My grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner was always busy. If she wasn’t cooking or baking, she was directing the aunts what to do or where to place the food. If she ran out of those, she shooed kids from under her feet. She was a larger framed person who had very few gray hairs until later in life.

Christmas at my grandparents’ Beck was more subdued. We went to their home in single family groups. As strict Pentecostals there was less decorating and less laughter, but the memories are still just as tender. The hardest thing was sitting on their old excelsior filled couch and chairs. The upholstery was scratchy and the seats were hard. It was difficult to sit while the adults talked without squirming. Usually, there were gifts for us, socks, a few dollars in a card, and maybe a piece of fruit.

When I married and began celebrating Christmas in my own home. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I tried to create memories for our own kids.  She was “worse” than I was at Christmas. We would be up late, wrapping gifts and putting them under the tree. It didn't matter what time it was that we went to bed, she would be awake at 5 a.m. or earlier and make noise until our kids would waken.

Cindy wouldn’t snoop… until the gift was wrapped. I could have placed a bag of unwrapped gifts on her side of the bed and they would be undisturbed until they were wrapped. She would make excursions to the tree to poke and prod, trying to find what she got for Christmas. It became my mission each year to disguise her gifts and make some challenges for her. I would wrap her panties around a cheap package of combs; hide jewelry in a Pringles can, or other unusual ways of camouflage.

The panties became a traditional gift for her. Struggling as most families do when first married, she walked by me, one side of her underwear came loose from the elastic and drooped. “I said, “You need to buy some new underwear.” She replied they were still okay to wear around the house. When she walked by me again, I grabbed the droop and finished ripping the material from the waistband. She said, “Now, you have to buy panties for me,” and so it became a Christmas tradition, underwear for her.

A ring I hid in the Pringles can came in a Lucite box. With her shaking, it came loose and rattled. Because of the gifts I disguised to stump her snooping, Cindy thought it was one of the kid games with the Bee Bees to shift into the holes of a picture. She tossed it back under the tree. It remained untouched until Christmas Day. It was the last gift she opened. Her eyes brightened, a smile spread across her face, and she mouthed, “Is it real?”

I guess that because the ring was real, Christmas and our love became more than real as well.

Queens of Clean

 Queens of Clean

I have met three women in my life that could have given Mr. Kleen a real run for his money. Clean was almost an obsession with each one of them. That habit was nearly to the point that there was nothing in their lives more important than to have a spotless house. I’ve told some of these stories before. This is only a few.

The first woman I’ll mention is Jean, an LPN at Frick Hospital whose habits of home cleanliness extended to her work. I’ve shared her numerous adventures in other postings. One tale was that she washed her full length white leather coat in her clothes washer. She had to stand on the top to pry the coat from the inside. Another of her cleaning escapades was that she would kneel on her basement floor to scrub the cracks with a toothbrush. She also would clean her house before thr cleaning lady would arrive. Jean took her own linens and cleaning supplies when she would go on vacation. There were similar incidents that happened at work. She thought nothing of placing a dirty child in a sink and scrubbing them clean. Sometimes her cleaning acts caused her to be reprimanded. She haas passed away and joined my aunts to keep the streets of gold in heaven shining and bright for sure.

Other women who I will mention are my aunts: Aunt Estella Strawderman and Aunt Helen Stahl. Aunt Helen had chores for each day of the week: Laundry, ironing, baking, etc, plus she would do a thorough “spring” cleaning of a different room in her house each day of the week. She was a pleasant jolly woman with a desire to provide the best home for her husband and six children.

One peculiarity she had was with her choices of colors. Each room of her house was painted a different color: turquoise, coral, and vibrant green. Her desires for bright colors may have been influenced by Anna Nichols Beck her mother and my grandmother.

My Aunt Estella was unbelievably clean. She worried when people visited her home. I’m sure that her cost of cleaning supplies rivaled her cost for food. When she washed dishes, she’d dry then wax her countertops. She laid rag rugs on her scrubbed floors and covered the rugs with newspapers. When her children visited with their family on Friday evening and left Sunday afternoon, she would wait nervously until one minute after midnight to wash the “dirty” linens. She didn’t want dirty linens in her house, but she also didn’t dare work on Sunday. She even waxed her exterior enamel painted front steps making them even more slippery.

These are my queens of clean.

Like a Freight Train

Like a Freight Train

Time is like a freight train hurtling faster and faster. It seems that each day something causes me to reevaluate my life. Age causes me to adjust what I do or when I can do and that upsets me. I once thought that I wouldn’t let my age limit my daily chores and alter my life, but time has a way of making the most determined person eat his words. Time has a way of wearing down even the tallest of mountains, bit by bit, grain by grain. My flesh is all too quickly wearing out and I’m developing a deep and intimate relationship with arthritis and diabetes. I’ve just spent two restless nights unable to find a comfortable position to sleep. Each time I tried to eliminate one ache another part of me says’ “That won’t work either, Buddy.” But like someone else has said, “If I didn’t wake up with pain, I’d think I was dead.”

The greatest thing is that I can look ahead to is a time where I will no longer have pain and not be limited by my flesh. It is a future event in my life where time has no meaning, where pain and sorrow will have no place. Heaven awaits behind huge pearly gates. Each gate is a giant pearl. Gold is so common that the streets are paved with it, only fit to be walked on. The walls are of brilliantly colored jewels.

When I look around and see the wonders displayed on the earth, I am unable to imagine what God has created in that eternal and heavenly city. It is a place where sin, death, and sorrow cannot enter in. It is a place where the corruption of rust and decay do not exist. So even though there are days when my aches and pains override the thoughts of my new body and I turn to ointments and medication for relief, I must not lose sight of the goal. I must not let the world continue to interfere with the sharing of the Good News to others.

The cost of our passage has already been paid. Daily we need to take time to more closely review the price God paid to redeem us from the grasp of death and eternal punishment. His only Son suffered terribly as He was humiliated, spat on, beaten. Although sinless He hung on a cross like the most common of criminals. Jesus bore it all so that sinful man could be reunited with God the Father. Remember that love each day as you wake. Christ died for you and me. There is no time like the present to accept Jesus as your Savior. 

Nun of My Business

 Nun of My Business

One evening when another nurse named Bill and I were working in the emergency department together three nuns were delivered to us from a nearby automobile accident. The ambulance crew hurried them one after another onto beds to have their injuries evaluated. These nuns were of the old order. They were dressed in the black full-length robes including the coif, wimple, and veil. In addition they were wearing chains, ropes, and plenty of undergarments concealed beneath.

Let me say this. Anyone who would make the decision to rape a nun either had no idea of what he is getting into or else has all the time in the world to achieve that goal. I could not believe the amount of clothing these women donned each and every day of their lives; that is until I actually started to undress them so I could examine them and get them into hospital issued gowns. It was a full fifteen minute endeavor before I saw any kind of bare flesh at all.

It was just like peeling an onion, layer after layer. Underneath the ankle-length robes were all manner of cloth folds. Every sort of binders, tee shirts, ropes, and safety pins must have added fifteen pounds of extra weight. It was a crazy patchwork quilt. After much diligence they were freed from their habits and tucked into one of our hospital gowns for examination by our doctor.

One of the registration clerks found out what we had done and was offended that men were undressing the nuns. There weren’t enough women to evaluate the nuns quickly and it was necessary for Bill and me to do a cursory examination of the nuns.

I told her, “I’m a professional” and I could “undress and examine a woman without seeing anymore than if she was wearing a bathing suit.” When it was necessary for me to help a woman undress, I would loosen and push down to the blouse to the top of her chest, then place the hospital gown over her. I’d finish removing the blouse, brazier, etc. while she was covered with the gown. I’d pull the gown over her then place a folded blanket or sheet across her middle to examine the rest of her chest, abdomen, and pelvis. Pulling the gown further down, I’d remove the slacks or skirt to examine the legs from the feet to the top of the thighs.

Once my evaluation was complete, I’d turn the examination over to the physician. The woman was covered at all times while preserving her dignity. I was just thankful that the nun’s injuries were only minor and that I didn’t have to figure out how to put all that clothing back into place.

Old Albums, Lost Memories

 Old Albums, Lost Memories

While I was looking for something else, I found an old album of photographs from my mother-in-law, Retha Johnson Morrison. It holds old photos of friends and relatives. Some I recognize and others, I have no idea who they are.

I wish that she would have written on the back side names and dates, now unless I can get someone to help they will remain nameless and probably be tossed out into the trash. I hope to label as many as I can or hide them until they become antiques and someone wants to safely store them for the beauty and strength seen in each person’s face.

Although there’s a place for colored pictures there is a special ambience to the black and white photos. The viewer is drawn by the expressions seen in the faces and not pulled aside by the color of their clothing or by colors of the background. Eyes are drawn to faces, the hair styles, and their clothing that draws viewers into the history of the moment.

It causes me to pause and try to imagine what it was like to have been living then. A time where manual labor jobs outweighed the clerical ones, small time farmers fed the nation as well as themselves, and American’s were free to worship as they chose. The wash was done by hand and dried outside all year long. There were vehicles with horse powered sleighs, wagons,single engine jobs topped with a saddle. Clothing was often hand sewn and worn until it was outgrown and passed down, or until it was too patched to be anything left but a rag.

Long distance was yelling across the street or valley or a written letter if you could afford a stamp. Telephones were just coming into vogue with party lines and the social media was found in the newspaper’s society page. Jobs were scarce, but we protected our borders. We welcomed others from distant lands and incorporated their heritage into ours. They came to become Americans not to change it into the system of government that they’d just left behind.

America is the land of hope and promise. It was a beacon for the poor and oppressed. They were welcomed if they entered legally, assimilating to the governing laws of America to became citizens of our nation.

I know that everything isn’t in black and white, but the shades of gray have become the norm not the foundation that our country was founded on and there’s no gray written in the words of our Constitution. It spells out exactly what states are responsible for and what each branch of government should do. It lists the limits of those powers. Let’s go back to the black and white of our forefathers.

Food For Thought

 Food For Thought

When I eat certain foods, I think of certain people. With old Mrs. Carrie Hall, my mom and dad’s neighbor, I think of her soft sugar cookies, strawberry pies, and her fresh baked bread. Another of my friend’s mom would use the tube biscuits, cut a donut hole, and fry them in bacon grease and oil mixture. While they were still hot, she would dredge them through a glaze of confectioner’s sugar and milk. They were as good as any donut made by any other company.

My grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner made the most delicious chicken salad. It consisted of chopped, boiled chicken, chicken broth, salt, pepper, and chopped dill pickle. She made this from the chickens culled from the flock at the end on the egg-laying season.

The pieces of chicken served at my grandmother Anna Nichols Beck came with the story of how the chicken at meals was divided when my dad was a child. The thing that I remember most was that my grandma always ate the back and tail of the chicken. She always said that she liked it, but I’ve always thought that it was the only part of the bird that was left once the chicken was divided.

My Aunt Rachel Miner Peck would make mashed potato/peanut butter fudge. All of us kids could hardly wait until it was ready to eat. My Aunt Cora Miner Hyatt drank her tea, straight, hot or cold, without cream or sugar.

 What got me thinking about food was what I made for lunch today. I made mashed potatoes, sauerkraut, and hot dogs. My Aunt Violet Miner Bottomly would cook hot dogs in the kraut and serve them with potatoes. She would cut hot dogs into wheel, bite sized chunks which made an impression on me.

At Aunt Ina Miner Nicholson’s home, she served fresh vegetables from her garden. The delicious, juicy tomatoes freshly picked and washed, green onions and sweet green bell peppers were served at each meal with whatever she and my mom cooked.

Aunt Cosey Miner Brothers had a large garden as well. She had a large family and needed it. What I remember was her hamburgers. She used bread crumbs, catsup, and onions to stretch the ground beef. It also enhanced the flavor, served on homemade buns.

Finally speaking of hamburgers, I think of my mom, Sybil Beck. One Sunday, she made hamburgers for the family, one for each. A platter of tomatoes, lettuce, and onions claimed the center of the table. Another saucer of sliced American cheese held another place of honor. Everyone built their sandwich and started to eat. Mom stacked lettuce, tomato, onion, and cheese on her bun. She took a bite and as she chewed, she saw that a burger was still on the serving platter. After swallowing, she asked, “Who didn’t get their burger?” All of a sudden, it hit her. She was the one who hadn’t picked up her burger. She’d concentrated so much with condiments that she forgot to pick up the patty. Every time she served hamburgers, someone would say, “Who forgot their hamburger?”

Getting Mooned

 Getting Mooned
The full moon lifeless at the end of the night,
Her round face softly red then disappears
Morning rays peek as she sinks out of sight
And golden sunshine spills as daybreak nears.
The moon rises to cross the darkened sky.
Silently she glides through gossamer clouds
As a chill winter wind pushes them by
She follows a path through star fed crowds.
Full moon glistens on newly fallen snow
She spreads her milky-white gossamer gown
Softly lighting serene beauties below
Crystal white snow wears its glistening crown.
Pearlescent moon fills the dark sky with light
Casting blue shadows on white drifts below.
Ivory orb hovers in its routine flight
Sharing tender caresses of its glow.
Full moon lights the pathway for each snowflake
As they tumble down from pillowy cloud.
It’s a real life snowglobe after a shake
Perfect shade of winter wrapped in a shroud.
Monthly the moon transitions through each phase
Each night she emerges with new attire
The crack of a smile to a full firm face
As she gazes down on city or shire.
She wakes and rises at twilight’s first hint.
Her sickle edge cuts through the dark of night.
She waltzes through the clouds with twinkling glint.
Sharing her ethreal silver white light.
The moon’s thin sliver of Cheshire cat smile
A moon-made slice in velvety night pie.
Darkness strengthens with no light to defile
When the sickle moon sets and says good-bye.

Premature Twins

 Premature Twins

Last evening at church, we were asked to pray for a premature infant. It only weighed one pound five ounces and was twelve inches long. The prayer request reminded me of something that happed to me as a U. S. Naval corpsman and stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. This was before I was discharged from the Navy and earned my bachelor’s degree in nursing. The naval station at Keflavik had a small hospital that was composed of two wards, an operating room, and an emergency room. The one ward was divided into private rooms and held obstetric patients and pediatrics and an occasional officer. The other area was an open ward for the enlisted men.

A pregnant woman was admitted again. She had several previous admissions for her pre-eclampsia. Pre-eclampsia is a condition where pregnant women have changes in their body that would cause their blood pressure to dangerously rise. It required bed rest to lower the woman’s blood pressure. Each time she came in, we would tease, “You’re going to have twins.” because her abdomen was so large.

She would respond, “No. No. My doctor assures me that there is only one.” At that time, we didn’t have sonograms or other tests. It was only by listening with a fetoscope to hear the infant’s heartbeat that we could monitor a child’s progress during the pregnancy.

I was working the daylight shift after she delivered the evening before. She had indeed delivered a set of twins. She had two daughters. I was planning to tease her about having twins, but when I went into her room, I was stopped in my tracks. She was crying.

I asked. “What’s wrong? Are you having pain?”

She gave a few more sobs before managing to answer, “If I had a little girl, I planned to name her Alice. Now I don’t know what to do. If I name one of them Alice, I know I will love that one more.”

Off the top of my head, I suggested, “Well….Why don’t you name them both something close, but not Alice? How about naming them something like Alicia and Allison?”

She stopped crying, saying those names softly to herself. Those were the names she used with her new little girls. Neither name was Alice, but both were close to her cherished name.

About a month later she contacted me and I had the privilege of babysitting the girls while she and her husband had their first date night away from the twins. She said it was only fair, after all …I had named them.

Weekness How Time Flies

 Weekness How Time Hurries By

It amazes me how quickly time flies. The intern college student has almost finished his nine week intern program at our church. Nearly every summer our Pastor accepts the responsibility of taking a student from a Bible College and to mentor as they begin learning the skills necessary to be the pastor of a church. The amount of work that the pastor must handle increases with the size of the congregation and how active the church is serving in the community. The interaction with those in the surrounding area and the outreach of the church helps to determine the workload for the pastor. He needed to understand the skill of coordination.

The number of sermons the minister has to prepare for the number of services takes quite a bit of time. Our church has services Sunday morning and evening and also on Wednesday evening, so our Pastor needs the time to prepare three messages. If the pastor teaches a Sunday school class, that is another area of preparation. This work doesn’t include the time necessary to create a program for Vacation Bible School, holiday presentations, and weddings or funerals that may unexpectedly turn up.

Our student intern, Mr. Wishert was able to preach, sing, and teach to different age groups. He was able to get the feel of the workload that is necessary to become a minister and the burden of sharing the Word of God.

It is truly amazing how speedily the nine weeks have passed. He has finished his assignment here and will be returning to classes in the state of Indiana to finish his senior year. It has been a pleasure to work with him for the Vacation Bible School props and decorations. Although my singing voice competes with a crow, I enjoy singing in our choir. Mr. Wishert’s voice and skill added much to the quality of our special numbers.

When he first arrived, it was a pleasure to have him join me for lunch at a nearby restaurant: a sort of a welcoming meal. This past Saturday was his last day here with us. He seems to be a dedicated young man and pray that he will be able to finish the classes for his senior year with vigor and ease. He was sharing the classes he will be facing during the coming terms. They aren’t easy by any means and he will need God guidance to help him accomplish his goals.

Not Saying No

 Not Saying No

When our kids asked for us to buy them something and my wife and I thought it was unnecessary or too expensive, we wouldn’t say no. We would offer them another option. If it was something that they really wanted we would give them a “down payment” and a chance to earn the rest of the money. They could do chores above and beyond their normal chores. The extra chores could be in the house, basement, or yard, depending what needed done at the time. (If a request was inappropriate, we would say no.)
One example was the time my son wanted a pair of “Reebok Air” basketball shoes. It was the fad and several kids either had a pair or said that they were getting a pair. He wanted the Reebok Airs too. Those shoes were the in thing and had an air bladder that could be pumped up to fit the feet snugly and were supposed to be more comfortable than other shoes.
At that time, a good pair of tennis shoes cost about twenty-five dollars and the Reeboks cost one hundred and twenty-five dollars. (My purse strings puckered at that thought.)
Andrew came to me saying, “Dad my old shoes are about worn out. They’re getting tight. I need a new pair of shoes.”
I looked and his shoes were worn and looked tight. “We’ll go to town on Saturday and get a new pair for you.”
“Dad?” he asked quietly. “Can I have a pair of the Reebok pumps?”
He brought the advertisement over to me. When I saw the price, I didn’t say no, but said, “A good pair of tennis shoes cost twenty-five dollars. I will give you two options. I will buy the regular shoes or I can give you the twenty-five dollars toward the Reeboks. If you do extra chores for me or your mom, you can earn the rest of the money for the shoes you want.”

“Okay Dad. Do you have any chores for me now?”

“Not now, but your mom and I will make a list.”

He was eager and worked diligently. Most chores earned a dollar to three dollars depending on how long and how hard he worked.

After about a week and a half, he came to me and said, “Okay Dad. Let’s go and buy the tennis shoes you offered to buy for me.”

I think there were three things that changed his mind. Earning the money was slower and harder than he thought, the second was his shoes did look shabby, and thirdly and probably the most influential factor was his shoes were getting more and more tight as his feet grew.

We climbed into the car and went shopping for shoes.

A Dark Time

 A Dark Time

    I began the task of sorting and tossing accumulated and collected items from my office/ computer room. As usual I don't get too far because I have to read some of my writings before I can toss anything. I am leery off throwing away an unfinished manuscript or an undeveloped idea. It's hard to think of new things to share. It upsets me when a thought briefly appears then evaporates before I can capture it on paper. That is why a thought written down on paper is often precious.

    One problem with reading is while reading the words of years past, the emotions can escape and  can pummel me. Those emotions that reemerge as I read past expressions.

    "The only light comes from flickering memories that loneliness allows to slip through chunks from my past to tease and tittiilate. The darkness is so much worse as those sparks fade to return like a punch in the gut. A cruel, savage blow meant to dishearten and to rob all joy and thankfulness."

    I stopped for now, but there's always tomorrow AND if not, it will bee left for my kids to do.

A Close Shave

 A Close Shave

Shaving! What a chore; day after day, week after week, year after year. It has been the bane of my life until I retired. After I retired, I could choose when I wanted to shave or if I decided not to shave. I’ve grown a beard and I’ve shaved it off.

I can’t remember shaving much in high school or the year after graduation when I worked at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania, but it became a daily chore in boot camp at the Naval Training Center at Great Lakes. As I progressed in rank, I was able to grow a full red beard while stationed in Keflavik, Iceland.

Back home, my Mother Sybil Miner Beck didn’t say much until about one month passed and she told me that my beard made her feel old. Sometime later I shaved it off. It took her nearly two weeks to notice that it was gone then we had to convince her that I had indeed shaved and that my beard had been missing for two weeks ago. When I was bare faced with slightly longer hair, my kids saw a photo and though I looked like Stephen Hyde from “The 70’s Show.”

After I married to Cindy Morrison Beck and as we raised our family, my face underwent a wide variety of phases; a mustache only, a Van Dyke style beard with mustache, and even a full beard with mustache. It was never as full as the trappers and sawyers from the television series.

One day as I transitioned from one style to another and was allowing my facial hair to reemerge, Cindy asked me why I didn’t keep my face shaved and smooth. I explained that when she shaved her legs and underarms etc. she shaved them all at once then had several weeks to a month before she had to shave again. I told her to divide the areas that she shaves into daily parcels to clear away her hair; a lower leg one day, the other lower leg the next, a thigh one day and the other the next, shaving the underarms for another day, but because it was such a small area, she could do both on the same day. She must have understood, because she never asked again.

Slowly my full red beard evolved into a Col. Sanders white beard, but not without a fight. The hairs at the corner of my mouth turned white while the rest stayed red. I looked like a cartoon fox. For several months I dyed the white red to match, but finally gave up.

I’ve shared the wearing of Col. Sanders’ attire when I visited PNC Park. I was featured on the Jumbo-tron and Root Sports, as well as posing for photos with other baseball fans.

Light in the Darkness

 Light in the Darkness

The world around us is becoming more confused and dangerous. In many cities a person takes his life into his own hands if he ventures out on the street, drives on a roadway, rides a subway, or goes shopping. Even when a person stays at home he isn’t safe from invasion and assault. The world is becoming increasingly corrupt. It’s becoming a place where good is branded as evil and evil is accepted as something good. The morals upon which our country was founded are being shifted and fading. Laws that once protected citizens and their rights are consistently being made weak or totally disregarded. Lawyers and judges are twisting our laws until the rules that once guarded the innocent citizen now offer more protection for the criminal than to the victim. The truths of the Bible upon which our justice system was based and our very Constitution was established are openly being disregarded as wickedness and is brazenly being accepted as truth.

Some men hide in the darkness hoping their sins won’t be found out, that their evil deeds won’t be exposed, and they will escape punishment for their criminal acts. They will be judged; if not here on earth, then at the Great White Judgment Throne. Although man tries to legislate morality, the sinful human nature will do everything it can to avoid the wages of their criminal deeds. They will use every trick and every subtle means to escape the responsibility of their acts. Civilization seems to be crumbling all around us. Anarchy and self aggrandizement seems to be flourishing, but one thing remains constant; it’s a light that shines brighter as darkness grows stronger.

The Bible says that the evil will only get worse, but do not be discouraged or lose hope. For those who believe in Christ, hope shines brightly. Our joy and peace cannot be dimmed by a world in which Satan seems to gain more power. Our hope is in God the Father through His Son Jesus Christ and He is the constant that guides us as we walk in the darkness. Our victory over Satan has been prophesied and sure. So no matter how dark and cruel this world becomes believers have the surety of the God’s redemptive promise. We understand that darkness is the absence of light. Jesus is the light of the world and as long as we allow that lamp to shine through us, we can be the reason for others to have hope. Keep your wick trimmed, your reservoir of oil filled, do not hide that light under a basket. Continue to share God’s love and His gift of salvation in a dark world.

Experience

Experience

After graduation from Connellsville Area High School, Connellsville, Pennsylvania, I was hired to work at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg. Walworth produced valves of different types and sizes. The parts were cast in its foundry, machined, assembled, and tested before the product was sent off to the customer. The valves were made of brass, steel, or stainless steel and came in sizes from two and a half inch to thirty-six inch, having ball or wedge closures.

My initial job was as a “hand trucker” hauling supplies or parts from one area of the plant to another. The hand truck was like a super, heavy duty toy wagon, its bed was of thick wood construction and the tongue was solid steel tee shape. When a position in the tool room opened up, I bid in and got that job. In the tool room, I was required to read blueprints, gather the tools needed for the machine operators, grind carbon tipped blanks to the exact angle, and to sharpen drills.

I was there for nearly nine months before I went off to boot camp in the United States Navy. I had the normal fears of starting something new that was unknown and bothersome. The first fear was just going in when I would be at a strange place at the Naval Station Great Lakes, Illinois in winter and even more distressing I would be there over the Christmas holiday. The second fear was that I had enlisted to be a corpsman in the middle of the Vietnam War. I didn’t want to kill anyone, but then again, I didn’t want to be killed myself.

I was shocked by the rapidity the military removed as much individuality as quickly as possible to form a unit that worked as one. All civilian possessions other than eyewear was packaged up and sent back home. Hair was clipped off, new clothing was issued for us to wear from the skin out.

To be honest I was feeling out of place. It was hard to get a grip on my new reality when it had changed so drastically. Then something good happened. The Navy removed all connections with home until a serendipitous, completely coincidental meeting. I was in line at the chow hall when I was greeted by a familiar face. It took me a few seconds to register who it was. His red hair had been reduced the stubble the length of plush on a stuffed animal like mine. It was Dave Baxter. He graduated high school with me. That chance meeting was the only time I saw him, but that incident did lift my spirits and began to feel more comfortable with boot camp

School Days

 School Days

            Several years ago I shared on Face Book an old black and white photograph of the fire that burned the old Poplar Run School. A huge column of black smoke rose as the tar paper roof melted in flames. The building was located between Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania where the Poplar Run Road intersects with Route 711. The school was located just below my parent’s place, Carl and Sybil Miner Beck.

            This one room, white-washed clapboard building had a hand hewn sandstone block foundation. Eight steps of the same stone were inserted into the earthen bank to create easy access down to the hollow of land where the school was nestled. There was just enough room for the teacher to park her car on the berm and still allow the flow of traffic on Route 711. Every weekday Miss Ora Woomer would descend those stairs to open the school.

On cold days she would start the fire in the pot bellied stove and on warn days, she would raise the windows to allow the air to circulate and cool the uninsulated building. Ora was a roly-poly, short woman with close cropped gray hair. She wore glasses but only when she was in the classroom. The heels of her black lace up shoes would tap loudly as she crossed the wooden floor.

            To one side of the school was the coal and kindling shed. It was the responsibility of the older boys to keep the coal scuttle filled and to see that there was kindling inside to start the fire for the next morning. At the rear of the building were the two adjoining privies, that were little more than latrines; one side for the girls and one for the boys. Peeping was discouraged, but it didn’t always deter the more curious children.

            Recess was always a much anticipated event where boys would often disappear into the woods that surrounded the school. It was mostly a game of cowboys and Indians. Occasionally, someone would get tied to a tree. They were unable to respond to the bell announcing that recess was over. When Ora discovered that a child was missing, she would send out a search party extending recess for nearly another hour until the “lost” child could be found.

            All of these stories were shared with me by the neighbor boys. If the Poplar Run School would have stayed open for one more year, I would have joined those who could claim that they attended a one room school house. I was taught by Miss Ora Woomer later as a teacher in third grade at the newly built Springfield Elementary School.

Keeping Promises

 Keeping Promises

I mentioned several things on my Facebook posts that needed follow up to tell the full story. I looked back through my previous Blogs and wasn’t able to find them. I have so many stored from the past. They’re listed under titles and sometimes I can’t find what I want. My titles are often obscure and don’t share the facts that are buried in the text.

There are two stories I wanted to share. The first was in response to a cartoon about a person that was too hot under a blanket, too cold without being covered, but with the body covered and one leg protruding it was “just right.” My wife Cindy Morrison Beck had the same attitude. She called her leg “her thermostat.” Most of the time, I had no problem, but in the middle of the winter, it would get icy cold. When it became too cold for her, she would draw it back under the covers and place it against my bare back. The shock can be a real eye-opener in the middle of the night. The worst part was that she would immediately stick her other “thermostat” out from under the blankets to cool. Oh how I miss that shock therapy.

The other story was a post saying, “Don’t tell me about your childhood problems, I was forced to watch Lawrence Welk as a kid.” Lawrence Welk was a staple of our house Saturday evenings. Just as sure as I knew the sun was going to come up in the morning, I was positive that my dad Carl Beck would sit in his swivel reclining rocker directly in front of our black and white television to enjoy the music then almost immediately fall asleep. I tried on many occasions to stealthily change the channel of that old television to anything that was more interesting than music of an accordion or “The Shrimp Boats are Coming.”

As soon as I would stealthily click the knob, my dad would sit upright and snort, “I’m watching that.” My hopes dashed, I’d return the channel back and we’d continue to watch Lawrence Welk. One time, I thought I’m going to prove Dad wrong and I slowly eased his swivel rocker to face away from the T. V. Great planning, then click…the chair bolted upright with Dad sputtering, “I was watch…” His voice faded to nothing when he saw that he wasn’t facing the set. He returned the chair to face the television and we watched Lawrence Welk. Needless to say, Dad wasn’t pleased and tried to kick my butt as I walked past. He missed and nearly fell out of his chair. Although I still don’t like to hear the bubbly music, Lawrence Welk continues to have a special memory for me.

Peculiarities

 Peculiarities

All of us have peculiarities in our personalities. It’s what creates our character, traits, and individualities. It’s the reason we are who we are. Just like our DNA determines our physical appearance, our oddities are what make us distinct and separates us one from another.

The peculiar person I am writing about today is my wife Cindy Morrison Beck’s grandmother Pearl Elizabeth Morrison. By the time I was introduced to Pearl’s husband, Benjamin Vincent Morrison was deceased and she was renting an old converted, clapboard-sided school on the Bear Run Conservancy in Mill Run, Pennsylvania. Her closest neighbor was Falling Water, the famous Kaufman home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

Pearl was a solidly built woman who had a tenacious mind and just as tenacious hold on life. She held her own views on life, even telling Cindy that I should “keep my shoes under my own table.” Pearl kept her home just so, hating to see anything out of place and if it didn’t fit what her imagination saw, she would cut, reshape, or repaint it to fit her liking. The value of things in her small home was sometimes reduced or destroyed by her alterations. She sawed the middle portion of an antique hutch and fastened it to its base before shellacking the entire thing in oak varnish. She cut flannel sheets in half to fit the cot where she slept at the side of her dining room while her bedrooms remained pristine.

 Another example of her tenacity was holding onto an idea that she hadn’t fully worked out of her system with her kid’s birth. She named one of her girls Elma Jean, but she wasn’t quite through with that combination because she named my father-in-law Elmer Eugene Morrison. He hated that name and chose to go by his nickname Bud. I can see why. Who’d want to carry a name so similar to his older sister? That’s almost as bad as a boy named Sue.

Pearl had a stroke which limited her mobility. When Cindy and I visited her in the hospital, she was proud to show us how the stroke had limited the ability to raise her right arm. I said to her, “I’m going to go to get the nurses.” When she asked why, I said, “I want to see if they can find a paint brush. I’ll bet you could lift it higher with a paint brush in it.” She knew that I had branded her with her tendency to paint things and she quickly caught the meaning. We had a good laugh.

Peculiarities? We all have them. Take a look at your own and have a good laugh.

One Hundred Plus years and Still Counting

 

One Hundred Plus Years and Still Counting

Due to the Covid scare and kerfuffle six years ago our annual Rugg reunion had to be canceled and rescheduled. The delay caused several of our ill and elderly not to have survived to see the one hundredth Rugg reunion. Each reunion has been held in honor of the oldest Rugg member. Several years ago was my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner's turn. This year it was in honor of Curtis Rugg.

One of those who passed away since then was Danny, our family historian. He was the keeper of the keys, the keeper of the lineage, the person who did the research on the beginnings and marked the trail of our family's arrival into the United States and their exploits.

I've written stories before about memories that I have of past reunions and tales of aunts, uncles, and grandparents. I'm not sure if they will make an impression on future generations, but I have written those remembrances for anyone who cares to read about them. I wish I would have listened more closely to my mom, dad, and others shared memories while I was a child. In the past no one took the time to write the stories down and now some are lost. Unless someone says something that sparks a tale and drags it to my memory, they will remain lost. That makes me sad and upset with myself that I hadn't listened more closely.

One hundred years is a long time to carry on a tradition. This recently past reunion should be 106. Some things have fallen to the wayside to be replaced by others. Gone is the huge crock of lemonade that sat on the end of saw horse tables. There is still the tradition of the potluck meal, now supplemented by “store bought” fried chicken. There are still a wide variety of foods and desserts that wait to be eaten.

The Rugg men have aged and can no longer play a game of baseball, but there is still a stream in which to wade. One thing hasn't changed, that is the joy of seeing the familiar faces of the family. They've aged, but they are now bringing their kids and grandchildren to share memories with them. It's wonderful to see the future generations that will hopefully carry on the tradition of reunions far into the future.

Seeing Clouds from Bothe Sides Now

Seeing Clouds from Both Sides Now

Recently I have been paying much more attention to the clouds that daily srurround my mountain home. In all types of weather and all times of the day, they lure my vision upward. As a kid I think I was more concerned with the physical things around me, the tangible things, the here and now things. The trees and the grass, flowers, and butterflies, bugs, and other creatures drew my attention.

When I grew into adulthood I began noticing clouds more. I watched as they darkened denoting a coming storm and causing me to be sure the car windows were closed up and the windows at home were closed down. Growing even older, I began to fly on planes. My first was the year I flew to Great Lakes for boot camp. I was so nervous that I don’t recall much of that flight, because my stomach was still recalling the speedy elevator rides in the Federal building in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. While I was in the United States Navy I flew from Great Lakes to and from Pennsylvania, to and from Orlando, Florida, to and from Iceland and back to Pennsylvania.

When I was much older, I flew from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Sacramento, California with a friend. By this time, I can remember the clouds being interspaced with clear spaces where I could see the earth below as the miles rolled by.

Over the past several years I have noticed the wide variety of clouds looking up at them. I’ve seen clouds that look like ostrich feathers and ones that look like solid walls of velvety white to thick angry grays. Clouds may scurry by looking like stringy, dirty threads or tumble along like snow-white fluffy sheep. The shapes are fluid sometimes oozing slowly into fantastic mythical beasts and other times shifting quickly into castles or bizarre dreamlike shapes.

These thought about clouds barely touches the imaginative nature of clouds, but when I stir in the wide color palette of the sunrise or sunset, my thoughts explode.  Grays may lighten into brilliant reds, glowing oranges, or richest golds. Black glowering clouds may be lit by intense lightning strikes or they may evolve into a thrilling rainbow arch. Each time I think I’ve seen the extent of what clouds can do, God proves me wrong and will show me something new.

 

Dual Citizenship

 Dual Citizenship

We are reading of people who hold dual citizenship where they live in one country, but have papers that allows them to have the benefits of another country, like Canada and the United States or Great Britain and Scotland. It’s not at all that uncommon no matter what country a person lives in to obtain dual citizenship. It’s worldwide. If a person accepts Jesus Christ as their Savior, they can live on earth, but have the assurance of a home in heaven. Christians have a dual citizenship. We are sojourners here on earth. The only way to obtain that duality is to accept Jesus as Savior. He’s the door. He’s the only way to enter into that heavenly land. He’s paid redemption’s price, freeing us from the debt of sin. He’s taken all our sins and carried them to Calvary.

The gift of dual citizenship is freely offered to all people on earth. It’s a gift of true love. Those who choose to accept this gift will gain a promised home in an eternal country that waits beyond the stars. The Bible gives us a glimpse of what awaits beyond the veil of death. It describes a peek into the glorious estates beyond huge pearly gates. The gift of eternally living there depends on whether or not the gift is accepted. Christ has paid the price for each man, woman, and child, but each person must accept that gift. The price has already been paid.

The only other option is the flipside of that dual heavenly citizenship is an unimaginable life. That refusal to accept the choice is to decide to suffer an eternal life of punishment and torture for sins we’ve committed in our past. It’s a place of torment, of fire, and darkness. It’s a place where bodies feel an unending amount of pain. There’s no relief, no rest, and no end of the fire. Hell was created for Lucifer and the angels who tried to usurp the power and authority of a holy God and Creator. But those who refuse to accept the gift of redemption choose to follow Satan into the pits of Hell.

There is a dual choice for a dual citizenship. Each person must make that choice. If you have already gained that eternal home in heaven, it’s an obligation to share the options with others who haven’t yet made that choice. If you haven’t yet decided and are reading this without making that choice, it’s not too late. Time is of the essence. Death or the second coming of Christ may happen at any second. Make the choice right now. Ask Jesus to come into your heart as Lord and Savior.

Deluge

 Deluge

The rain has been falling down in sheets. The constant roar of the drops on my roof seems to drown out any thoughts to write about other than the drumming of the water pouring from the heavens. It is a definite challenge to make any thoughts rise above the sound of the deluge. As I look back at stories that were told to me by my family, I can remember a powerful deluge and a flood in the area. The flood occurred in Melcroft, Pennsylvania in the year 1943. I was just talking with a u=one hundred-nine year old about it. I couldn’t remember what year the flood occurred, but he did. This older gentleman is a member of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. This remarkable man has all of his mental facilities and has a wonderful sense of recollection.

The reason I recall the story of the flood is because my Aunt Estella Beck Strawderman and her Daughter Shirley were caught up by the flood that occurred in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. They were washed away by the high water and tossed into a tree. Estella and Shirley managed to cling to the branches until they were seen and rescued.

After the flood, my Grandfather Edson Thomas Beck tore down the family farmhouse and built two smaller homes on the banks of Indian Creek in the town of Indian Head, Pennsylvania. The homes were constructed from reclaimed lumber taken from the old farmhouse.

Behind my parents Carl and Sybil Miner Beck’s house there was a small stream, runoff water from our natural spring. In the springtime melting snow caused it to overflow its banks and flood the lower part of the yard. Debris and trash from Route 711 would wash down and fill the stream. My dad would shovel the gravel, broken bottles, and other pieces of trash to reopen the channel. As kids we played in the stream, but we had to be careful of broken glass or sharp pieces of metal.

Several years ago, another torrential rain event caused flooding in the Mount Pleasant and Connellsville areas of Pennsylvania. Many streams rose rapidly, doing much damage locally. Lately there has been localized flooding, but more of the damages are being done by lightning and the wind.

Because Pittsburgh is a confluence of three rivers, the snow and ice that melt or intense rain storms in the southwestern Pennsylvania mountainside will cause flooding at the Point where the Monongehela and Allegheny Rivers join to form the Ohio Rivers.

Looking For Fireworks

Looking For Fireworks

My mom and dad’s house was situated halfway between the two small towns of Normalville and Indian Head, Pennsylvania. Both towns have volunteer fire departments because they are in different townships. Often they give each other back up for fires, accidents, or rescues. Both have street fairs where they sell food and have games to earn money for day to day operations of the departments, to buy new equipment, and for the upkeep of equipment and the buildings.

Each fire company held their street fairs on different weeks so they would not compete for customers. Every night there was some type of entertainment provided as well as offerings of food, beverages, and games of chance where players could win prizes or money. All of it was designed to entice people to come and to spend their money.

The foods offered were pizza, French fries, hot dogs, hamburgers, and funnel cakes. All sorts of sodas and strong coffee werethe drinks sold. A small carnival company would set up to offer rides for the children. Miniature cars and trucks that ran in a circle, a Ferris wheel, and a swing ride were the usual offerings. They also had booths that sold caramel apples, popcorn, and cotton candy and booths of ball toss, ring toss, and darts.

We had gone earlier in the week and my dad Carl said that we weren’t going the last night of the fair. The last night was the night the fire department set off the fireworks display.

When we heard the first few dull booms from the explosions from the rockets, being a fireworks lover, Dad couldn’t resist and went upstairs to the bedrooms to look. He was hoping he might glimpse some of the displays over the tops of the trees. The fireworks were only two miles away, he could hear the explosions. He surely should be able to see something.

It wasn’t very long until we heard a “Thump. Thump. Thump.”

Sybil Miner Beck, my mom said, “Kids, your dad is stomping on the floor. He must want us to go upstairs to see the fireworks. Let’s go before he gets upset with us.”

We left the family room and went into the living room. There at the bottom of the wooden stairs, Dad lay in a crumpled heap on his back and his butt. Dad had slipped and fallen.

What caused Dad to fall happened earlier in the day. My mom told my sister, Kathy to dust the steps and the living room furniture. Instead of doing the steps first with a clean dry cloth, she dusted the furniture with Pledge, and then wiped down the stairs. Pledge coated the steps with wax and had made the stairs treads slippery.

When Dad went upstairs, he was wearing socks on his feet. When he came down, the socks lost traction and his feet flew out from under him. He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. Only his pride was hurt.

Once we knew he was okay, we hurried out of the room to laugh. If he would have seen us even snicker the real fireworks would have started and we would have been in so much trouble.

Now Serving Watered Down Scotch

 Serving Watered Down Scotch

My wife Cindy Morrison Beck’s heritage was Scottish and I’m so thankful she’s no longer alive to see what is happening today. America’s Scotch/Irish forefathers fought, settled, and died for the land here in southwestern Pennsylvania against dangerous beasts, venomous serpents, inclement weather, indigenous people intent on destroying them, and often defying Great Britain’s kings. They carved their homes and farms out of a wilderness. Their safe places were called forts that were little more than bastions from which to fight. They built churches as sanctuaries to worship God as they chose, often ignoring restrictive decrees from their leaders.

They were not independence seeking people, they were just everyday folk who wanted to be left alone to raise their family and to create ways to make a living. They didn’t care that the king wore a wig, carried a snuff box, or sported high heels and stockings; they were too concerned with living from one day to the next.

With today’s men, the Scotsman’s kilt has been exchanged for a skirt, the sporran has been traded for a purse, stockings substituted for hose, and they’ve replaced their Ghillie brogues to wear the king’s high heels.

They’ve given away their God given rights to assemble and worship as they please. They are tracing their rights to bear arms for protection of self, family, property, and yes, even when freedom and liberty itself are taken away. They’re yielding their right of free speech and allowing pedophiles and mentally ill people to gain positions of power and influence.

As America‘s leaders become distanced from their people, they lose touch with reality just as King Rehoboam of Israel and as did King George of England when their subjects finally had enough and revolted. It’s becoming the same today with politicians in Washington DC. The elected officials in Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Harrisburg Pennsylvania believe they know what’s best, being fed the tainted view from cronies that surround them. They choose to make distorted and disastrous decisions. The voice of the general populace is being overridden by the Liberal media and self-aggrandizing sycophants.

They allow rioters and looters to ravage homes, businesses, and cities seemingly unaware and not caring about those who are injured and killed. They repeatedly attack our bastions of freedom, our rights, and the U.S. Constitution. They feel that it is their right to offer “safety” at the cost of increasing taxes and the destruction of the foundation for our liberty; the Constitution, the Bible and our ability to freely worship together. They are waging an all-out assault against our homes and families.

Gird yourselves with your kilts. Open your Bibles. Lift your claymores and stand firm against all encroaching evil.

Scents and Sensibilities

 Scents and Sensibilities

While I was tidying up the house again, I saw something that has been there for quite some time. It just became another part of the ordinary things that make up my house. (For those in southwest Pennsylvania, I was doing some redding up.) In a basket in my downstairs powder room, there is a bisque scent ball. It’s almost the size of a tennis ball. Its flat bottom had a small plastic plug and the top sported several small holes like a salt or pepper shaker. It was a pomander ball that was made to hold perfumed body powder and slowly release the scent over many months much like the electric room fresheners of today. Its smooth white surface has a several roses of pale pink with stems and green leaves. It sports a shiny braided gold thread through two of the holes on the top. The cord allows it to be hung in a closet or in an unobtrusive corner of a room. The “Wedgewood” brand and “Made in England” is stamped in pale green print to form a semicircle on the base.

This inexpensive little piece of clay holds a precious memory for me. Either for our first or second Christmas together, I bought it for my wife Cindy Morrison Beck. Neither of us had much money. She’d just graduated from California State University and I was a recent Penn State graduate. We’d just bought an acre of land and set up housekeeping in a used mobile home. The land was undeveloped and had to be prepared by scraping out a pad for the trailer and for the driveway. The trailer was towed from Casparis near Connellsville to our lot just outside of Normalville, Pennsylvania. We had to have the electric, telephone, and septic systems installed. Keeping ahead of the bills and paying the mortgage ate up much of our money.

I can’t recall whether I bought the ceramic ball from a mail order catalog or one of the party circuits selling knickknacks, but I thought it was a cute item. I even filled it with some of the bath powder Cindy used. It wasn’t a practical gift and that may be why it has lasted so long. I know Cindy stored it in her lingerie drawer for many years scenting her underclothing. Believe it or not, the ball has still retained a soft scent from the powder dumped inside over forty years ago. I just checked it and the scent is still potent.

The Ever Changing Climate

 The Ever Changing Climate

As much as I dislike the cold and snow now behind us, God has designed the change of seasons to suit Him. He didn’t consult me or things of this world would be really messed up. I don’t like the heat and humidity either, so I would be left with a world that would be quite boring. It would be not too hot, not too cold. There wouldn’t be any storms either but that isn’t the way God created the Earth. His Word says there will be seasons; a time for sowing and a time of reaping. Genesis 8:22 says, “While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.”

He describes cold, hoarfrost, and snow. Psalm 147:16-17, “He giveth snow like wool: he scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes. He casteth forth his ice like morsels: who can stand before his cold?”

God describes the earth as a sphere much to the chagrin of the flat-earthers. Isaiah 40:22, “It is he that sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers; that stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in:” He lays out the details of the cycle of water from the oceans to the clouds, then rain that flows down in rivers. Job 36:27, 28, “For he maketh small the drops of water: they pour down rain according to the vapour thereof: which the clouds do drop and distil upon man abundantly”

God appoints the sun to rule by day and moon and stars to rule the night, Psalms 136:7-9. Like a fine tuned watch He hung heavenly bodies in space and causeding them to orbit in a graceful ballet. He calls them by name, Psalm 147:4

By His voice God created the universe and all that’s within it. The precision of His creation is seen everywhere. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handywork.” Psalm 19:1. Even the atom was known. “Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things which do.” Hebrews 11:3 

Each part of His creation was specifically designed by Him to replicate itself. Each strand of DNA tells what a creature or plant will be. His Word shares that he made two sexes. “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created He him; male and female created He them.” Genesis 1:27

Foolishly mankind looks for answers everywhere but where the truth’s been plainly written for them thousands of years ago.

The Aftermath Classes

 The Aftermath Classes

I was asked to give a brief summary of my life after nursing school, my uniform, hat, and place that I worked. The following is what I wrote and I will use it today as my post. After I graduated from Connellsville Senior High School in 1967, I worked at a valve-making factory in South Greensburg, Pennsylvania called Walworth Company until I joined the Navy in 1968. Basic training, corps school, stationed in Orlando, Florida, then in Keflavik, Iceland before discharge. I got “early outs” to attend Pennsylvania State University in the nursing program, knocking off the four year BSN degree in three years, graduating in 1976.

The uniforms for the men were navy blue slacks and a white uniform top with the initials PSU embroidered on the pocket. Men didn’t have a cap to wear, but the women’s cap looked like a Melita coffee filter with a navy blue ribbon band, however that did not stop the females from harassing me. One day in clinical, the women revolted, went to the kitchen and attached an industrial sized coffee filter to my head with bobby pins. (I actually had thick hair then.) Our clinical was in an elderly care home, the old people loved it, and so I wore it the rest of the day. When I returned for the next clinical, I wasn’t wearing “my cap” and the women burses remembered and asked where mt cap was.I finally told them that “it was dirty. You know, I washed it and it fell apart.” They laughed and it was smooth sailing after that.

I received my degree in 1976 and was married shortly after that. My first job was at Monsour Hospital in Jeanette, but soon after found employment at H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. It was much closer and a more friendly atmosphere.

The first three years at Frick, I worked the 11-7 shift, where people go grump in the night. The next five years I was blessed with working in the emergency department with some wonderful physicians and other nurses. The rest of my career there before retiring after thirty-four years, I was blessed/ cursed with the position of a nursing supervisor and responsible for the entire hospital, working the off shifts and every other weekend.

Kiddie Land

 Kiddie Land

Who can remember from their days of childhood going to Idlewild Park with their parents bouncing with excitement as they headed toward Kiddie Land? There at entrance were two stone clad pillars and two steps down into the enchanted area of rides for children. A large placard clown wearing white costume, ruffled neck collar, a red nose, holding a bass drum that welcomed kids to this section of the park reserved just for children. Child sized, scaled down amusement rides that were similar to adult versions awaited. Near the entrance was a sleek white and silver electric bus or trolley that ran in a circle on tracks. Close by was a smaller version of a Ferris wheel with caged cars that lifted riders up and over the top, moving much slower than the adult ride.

There was a glossy green turtle that rolled up and down while traveling in a circle with several kids on its back. Another ride was miniature cars that circled on a wooden track, most cars were painted red with bright yellow steering wheels. They spun, but didn’t guide the cars. A fake pony pulling a small cart that barely wide enough for two, maybe three kids; its leather reins held by kids as the ponies rose up and down.

A bevy of boats with room for two kids in the front and two in the back moved through a shallow circular pond. Steering wheels in the boats kept little hands busy and out of the water as “motor boats” hummed along.

Kids had to be fastened into the “”airplanes” hanging from chains. The children pilots again had steering wheels, but an added attraction was the machine guns attached to the fuselage for the front pilots. The breeze as the planes whirled “air born” in a circle actually made the kid feel like he was flying.

But my favorite ride of all was the kiddie car ride. These carts drove along on tracks through a shady twisting two rail track. Each cart had a cranking gear that attached to wheels beneath the cart. The faster a child turned the crank, the faster the cart went. Sometimes the carts would jump the track when a larger kid was showing his or her strength. They would also move up behind a slower moving cart and assist it into moving faster.

 When there was a clear stretch of track close to the attendant at the finish line, a kid could with several quick pumps build up speed. The cart would almost bowl over the attendant trying to stop the hurtling cart with a stiff leg and a foot.

Ah, what memories.

Observations

Observations

Our Pastor Haasz took ill on Friday and Joshua our summer intern had to host and speak for the closing ceremonies of this year’s Vacation Bible School. I didn’t get to see or hear the closing message or the final skit. I was part of the scullery crew in the kitchen providing snacks for the kids who attended.

Our theme was nautical having the idea of “Sailing with Joy” and having Jesus as our Captain. As usual, Friday is a time for relatives of the kids to come and join in the festivities. Our gym is filled with games of skill for adults and for the youth in a carnival atmosphere, still having a nautical theme. Then folks are directed to the Fellowship Hall for snacks. Cookies, Ice cream Sundaes, fruit cups, drinks, and one of the yearly favorites- finger Jell-o was served.

Saturday evening my family gathered around a campfire to make mountain pies. The flavors available were Reuben sandwiches, pizza, and ham and cheese flavored pies. We had cherry pie filling for making dessert pies, but after the browned marshmallow and S’mores we were too full to open the cans of pie filling.

The rain held off and we had a wonderful evening of talking, laughing, and retelling off stories in celebration of Father’s Day.

Pastor was still ill Sunday morning and our intern filled in. He already was to have presented the morning message, so it came as no great surprise that he would be relied upon for the message. I was part of the male members of the choir to sing a version of a hymn “Stand Up for Jesus.” It was updated and stanzas rewritten by our pianist and choir director and our summer intern.

Sunday evening Pastor was still under the weather and our intern was again called upon to fill in. Joshua’s message was about the times of fear when the disciples were faced with the storms while they were sailing on the Sea of Galilee. The wind and waves surrounded by the darkness of the evening and the depth of the storms. He spoke of the need to rely on Christ in all things, but especially in times that we have fears.

He took the story from the book of Mark 4:35-41. While he read the passages, I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before. There were “other little ships” on the sea as well. I am curious. What happened to them? They faced the same storm. But they didn’t have Jesus with them. How did they deal with their fears? How do we deal with fear and do we share the need for Jesus with the “other little boats” that are around us each day, also caught in the storms of life?