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.

Seniority or Senility

 Seniority or Senility

To some who are asking the question of seniority or senility is like asking “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” To some people seniority and senility almost mean the same thing. It isn’t so, but some days one is the shadow of the other and could be easily mistaken for the other. When a person gets up and goes into another room when the destination is only a few feet away and the person forgets what they went into another room to get, it becomes irritating, frustrating, and worrisome. The only thing worse is when the forgetfulness becomes a habit.

My most recent event is just a little different, but it ran in a similar vein. I was ensconsed in my recliner downstairs when my phone reminded me that I had a dental appointment. I had to change out of my comfy pajama bottoms and sweatshirt. My jeans and dress shirt were upstairs, so I hoisted myself from my recliner and hurried up the steps. I had to empty my pockets from my slacks and transfer the contents of my pockets into my jeans and don a clean shirt. I gathered my wallet, keys, coins and checkbook tucking them into my jeans pockets.

Now comes my confusion. I reached for my cell phone. I usually toss it on my bed while changing my pants. I wanted to slide it into my shirt pocket and I couldn’t find it. I retraced my steps in all of the rooms upstairs then went back down stairs and hunted through all the rooms: living room, kitchen, and dining room. I had no luck. I knew that it was no use to dial my cell from the house phone. I always put my cell phone on vibrate when I am in church. I had my cell phone on vibrate only.

Thhe sad thing was that I remembered I had it in my hand as I went upstairs, so I walked back upstairs to continue the search. I was still having no luck and began asking God to help me. I ddn’t want to leave the house without my phone. I was on the verge of leaving home without my lifeline when I felt a sneeze coming on. I reached into my back pocket and there that little rascal was hiding with my handkerchief. I’d slipped it into my jeans without remembering. It was in my pants pocket and not in my shirt pocket where I usually keep it.

I guess that is better than putting something in away for “safe” keeping and then being unable to remember where that safe place is.

Va-va-va-voom

 Va-va-va-voom

Recalling the time I attended a weekend wedding at a Russian Orthodox Catholic Church. I’ve never had to deal with anything like it before and pray that I never will again. I described the inside of the sanctuary of yellow brick before. It was perched on the side of a steep hill, after all it is Pittsburgh. The parking was limited and I parked in the priest’s driveway at the rectory. After all, he was going to be busy for awhile. The bridesmaid’s dresses varied a bit, but all wore black with slits up the side showing thighs. The groomsmen wore black, some with black neck ties and some with red bowties. The priest wore a silver patterned robe. The bride wore a lovely form-fitting white lace gown. Although there was no music, all seemed normal until the priest began the litany describing the virality of biblical men and the fertility of biblical women. I’m sure he would have mentioned the name of Mary’s mother if he’d known her name. The cantor (not Eddie Cantor) continued in the same vein with his off key chant. Each time the priest said “Amen” I prayed it was the end and each time he mentioned, “Mercy,” ending the litany would have been merciful. But no, he droned on.

There was one young lady in the audience who was wearing a bright red, form-fitting soft material dress. The most remarkable thing about her was she was tall. Her long straight dark hair only accentuated her height. The hem of her skirt swept up into a V slightly higher than mid thigh. I commented to my friend, “Who’s the girl wearing the red glove?” It was that tight.

The videographer had his case beside me and I teasingly said, “Did you bring enough batteries.” He said that he is a non-practicing Russian Orthodox and the ceremony we were watching was a condensed version. When the priest retreated behind the saloon doors, I teased my friend that the priest must have been upset that we clapped instead of ringing the bell-clad wands and now was getting for some sacramental wines.

There was about two hours between the ceremony and the reception. We visited with my friend’s friend’s house. At the reception I couldn’t help but notice that the girl with the red glove dress had changed into a dark green dress that shimmered like satin. It was again form-fitting, accentuating her height and shape. Only one other person drew as much attention that she did. A man wore a bright orange and black suit with jack o’lanterns emblazoned on it.

Plane and Simple

Plane and Simple

I can barely remember my first flight in an airplane. It was a very short flight from the Connellsville Airport in a small plane, probably something like a piper cub. It couldn’t have been much bigger. I remember there was just enough room for the pilot, my dad and for me. It was some special occasion when the airport and pilot were selling rides.

The second flight was in a commercial jet shortly after my induction into the Navy. The memory of the ride in an elevator at the Federal Building in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania was much more stomach lurching to experience than the actual flight to Great Lakes Naval Training Center for boot camp. I was already nervous, but when the elevator lurched upward or dropped downward, I almost lost my lunch.

After boot camp and corps school, I flew to Orlando, Florida. It was my first assignment at the Naval Hospital. It and was before Disneyland opened. The airport was a small L-shaped building with metal gates at each end that pulled down and locked overnight, much like stores at the mall. Orlando didn’t have much of a draw for tourism at that time.

I made several flights home to Pennsylvania during my two year assignment in Orlando, but there was nothing really memorable about them, but when in Florida I was on the lookout for license plates from Pennsylvania. On one trip home I remember my parents driving me home from the airport and thinking to myself, “Wow, there’s another plate from Pennsylvania.” Then I thought, “You dummy. We’re in Pennsylvania.”

The next memorable flight for me was from Florida to Keflavik, Iceland with a layover in St. John’s, Newfoundland. In Iceland a group of corpsmen were fortunate enough to hook up with a physician who needed flight hours to get his commercial license. We’d pool our money to rent a plane and the doctor would fly us at no charge. After flying in jets, the first flight felt as though the smaller plane wasn’t travelling fast enough to stay aloft and felt as though it would surely fall out of the sky. We flew to several places on the island, even crossing over the Arctic Circle to get my “blue nose” certificate. I was also able to fly to several destinations on the island in military transports delivering supplies.

I flew to Philadelphia to be discharged. The heat and humidity in the barracks lacked air conditioning and in August was almost unbearable after the 60 degree weather in Iceland. I was so glad to catch the plane to Pittsburgh and home.

Since then I’ve flown to California with a friend and to Arizona for my son Andrew’s wedding and to Texas. 

Come Blow Your Horn

 Come Blow Your Horn

I am not usually a person who blows my own horn, but as a writer and author, I do need to sell myself to sell my finished product. I’ve written for a long time, well over forty years, but because of a challenge to write a detective story to share in another writers group I wouldn’t have been published. A woman who was just starting a publishing company heard my story and suggested that I write some more tales about the retired homicide detective, Tommy Two Shoes. Because of her insistence, I now have four books with Thomas Minerd, retired Pittsburgh Police Department detective mystery books, each book is a compilation of short stories which makes it easy to pick up and put back down as it’s read.
My last book, The Walls Came Tumbling Down is a full length novel about Rahab, a Canaanite prostitute, how she met, fell in love with an enemy and married a devout Jewish man, Salmon. Their union is mentioned in later pages of the Bible.
Mary Kaufman, the new librarian for the Mt. Pleasant Public Library suggested to a couple of reporters that it might make a good story to interview Fred Adams and myself as local authors. Well, I did an interview on this last day of August. I was able to share some of my writing history and my nursing career. I was also able to introduce the newest novel to be out soon, Addie.
She seemed genuinely intrigued that I had no specific genre or subject that I liked to write about. I told her, “Whatever project I was working on was my favorite at that time:” poetry, Haiku, children’s books, love stories, and of course mysteries. She asked if I planned to write more Tommy Two Shoes stories. I was truthful and said I was burned out, but had several stories started. Tommy isn’t dead yet.
I explained that I haven’t made much money, but it pleases me when people read what I write. I told her most people say the mysteries are page turners. I did have one complaint about The Walls. They said it was too slow. Compared to the multiple short stories, it would be. The short stories have the entire tale shared within 20 pages or so, versus 200.
I have several readers who read the books before I have them published to look for weak areas, misspellings, or things that aren’t clear. One reader of Addie said, “Wow, I didn’t see that coming.” I think it is one of my better writings. Now, all I need is an agent to promote my books so I won’t have to blow my own horn.

Have You Ever

 Have You Ever

I saw a questionnaire my niece Jennifer Potosky added to Facebook. It was a challenge of sorts. I had nothing else in mind to write about and thought answering the questions posted would make a great share in my BlogSpot. It would tie together several stories I’ve already shared earlier.

The first question was, “Have you broken a bone?” Only one, my little toe, I’d been outside shoveling snow. Coming came inside, my fogged glasses caused me to misjudge a doorway, and I caught my little toe. A bit of tape solved the problem.

Did I ever fire a gun? Yes, I hunt and I have and shot some target practice, although not as much as my brother Ken.

Have I ever done skydiving…no, nor will I ever bungee jump. Until I turned 50, heights never bothered me. I had several episodes of an off-balance feeling. Now climbing onto the roof of my house is enough.

I’ve ridden in a limo, swam in the ocean, and gotten a massage, but I’ve never gotten a tattoo, had braces, or given birth. I’ve ridden a horse, ridden a train, and got a speeding ticket. I’ve watched Star Wars, eaten sushi, and dyed my hair. Let me explain the last item. When an accident victim was spitting blood over everything and everyone, I unwittingly used peroxide to clean the clots from my hair.

I haven’t scuba dived, but as a fireman wearing masks and air tanks were uncomfortable. I’ve been camping and shared many stories about our church’s tenting trip out west.

I will admit, I’ve eaten some food that’s fallen to the floor at home. The cat wouldn’t so I had to. I’ve once zip lined and have swung on ropes jumping into a creek’s swimming hole. That’s where I’ve skinny dipped with other kids after a baseball game when hot and tired.

Have I ever traveled out of country? While in the US Navy I was stationed in Iceland. Later in life I traveled into Canada as far north as Nain, Labrador. I’ve ridden in ambulances caring for a person inside and being cared for.

This question makes me laugh. Have you ever been on television? Yes. I dressed as Col. Sanders at a Pittsburgh Pirate game. White jacket, pants, shirt, fedora, and a black bowtie, I was in full regalia. Root sports television did some shots of me and I was on the Jumbotron.

Lastly, I’ve been on a cruise in Canada and have fished off Cape Canaveral in Florida. The only thing that has been pierced was my arm. As a kid, my brother tossed an ice pick off my parent’s house roof. What have you ever?

Noses

 Noses

I was watching one of the wilderness television programs from the Arctic and the captioning for the different characters would display across the television screen the locations of their homes, Kiwalik, Eagle, Huslia, Brushkana, Nenana, etc. But it also gave reference of their homes to the Arctic Circle, So many miles above or below the Circle. It caused me to think of the year that I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland as a corpsman in the Naval Hospital there.

Keflavik is located 63.9998 degrees north and 22.5583 degrees west between the North Atlantic Ocean and the Norwegian Sea. The currant of the Gulf Stream wends its way north becoming the North Atlantic Current. Because of this anomaly Iceland is much warmer than its location or name would suggest. Winter’s average temperature is 32 degrees Fahrenheit and summer’s average 55 to 60 degrees Fahrenheit in southern Iceland.

I know someone is asking by now where the “Nose” title comes into the story. No, the people of Iceland are not Eskimo and don’t rub noses, but travelers who cross the Arctic Circle above the northernmost part of the island can earn the title of “blue nose” in the Navy. I’m not sure if the same holds true to the other branches of the military.

I was blessed enough to have been friends with a doctor who wanted to log flight hours to earn his commercial pilot’s license. Several other corpsmen and I wanted to see more of Iceland and the doctor was willing to fly us for free if we paid for the plane’s rental costs. It was a small plane and if I remember correctly, it carried 4 people, 3 passengers and the pilot. We puddle jumped to many places on the island flying over huge waterfalls and glaciers. To the south we flew to the volcanic island of Surtsey. The doctor even enticed us to fly with him to Akueryi at the northern tip of Iceland so we could win a “Blue Nose” certificate. He flew over the island of Grimsey deciding not to attempt a landing because of the huge number of birds. One hit from a bird in a light plane and we’d all have been swimming in the frigid waters of the Greenland Sea.

Our return to Keflavik was a bit scary. Clouds rolled in thick and low. It limited the doctor’s ability of visual flight. The doctor was learning still the controls each time he flew. Several times we flew low enough to follow a road below us. He knew we were heading south and knew the road would eventually lead us to habitation. We made it back safely, but politely refused to fly to Scotland when he suggested that.

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.