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.