Managing a Manger

Today, I decided to break out of my lazy mode and get busy. I got up early and was able to get an eight point buck. Taking it to my brother’s place, we skinned it and hung it to cool in one of the out buildings. While we skinning it, I got a call from my daughter that there had been a cancellation and if I could go at 10:45, they could fit me in. I said yes and went with blood stains and mud spattered jeans.

When I got home, I began the renovation of a plywood manger scene. I had cutouts of Mary holding Jesus, a standing Joseph, two sheep, and the manger. I made them about twenty-five years ago. They decorated my yard each Christmas, but stopped when they began to fade and get worn looking. They have been tucked in my basement for almost fifteen years.

They weren’t good enough to display and because they were handmade by me, I couldn’t throw them out. I’ve been eying them for most of last week and decided it was time to refurbish them and stake them out for this Christmas season.

One sheep was beyond repair and I used my jigsaw to cut another. Spreading them out in the basement, I went from one to another repainting the figures. The hues weren’t quite the same, but it wasn’t necessary to match them, I painted over them with the new colors. The original palette was chosen from small amounts of the leftover cans of paint that I hadn’t thrown away.

Mary is sitting, holding a swaddled baby Jesus. Her dark hair and dark blue robe, highlights the holy infant. Joseph is standing holding his staff in brown and green robes, his face vivid against his black hair and beard. The two sheep are painted white with black faces, one is lying down and the other is standing.

Tomorrow, I hope to build a triangular background to support Mary and Joseph. They are taller and need support to stay erect in the wind. I’ll fasten them to the triangle to be more solid and to remain standing against the wind. At the apex, I have a light up star and two solar spotlights to illuminate the scene.

Weather or Not

There was one time when the weather or no matter how I was feeling, I would have gone buck hunting this morning, but several things changed my mind. The first was that I awoke with diarrhea and stomach cramps. The second was that this year I would be hunting alone. My hunting partner got his deer in archery season and it isn’t nearly as much fun as hunting with friends.

Another reason is that my granddaughter Hannah is visiting. I love the time I can spend with my grandkids. A final reason is that I have an appointment to have my lawn mower serviced before I park it for the winter.

The weather in past hunts has ranged from weather similar to today’s rain and fog to cold and blustery. One winter, it was so cold that the water bottles we had in our pockets froze. We had to build a fire and set them beside it to partially thaw.

I always carry something to build a fire. Matches are essential as a fire starter. The other thing is that I carry either Tootsie Roll or Bit-O-Honey miniatures. They serve a dual purpose. They are good to eat and they are wrapped in waxed paper. The waxed paper makes a great fire starter and will burn hot enough to get damp slivers of wood to burn.

I have so many great memories of hunting with my grandfather, brother, and father. Memories of wading thigh-high snow, sitting quietly and listening for movement, and treading through the woods often come to mind. I think of my dad who was upset because he thought someone was sitting in his favorite spot. Later he found that someone had left their orange hat behind after using it on a behind.

Other memories include seeing poopcicles on low hanging branches. Drips marked the spot my dad had visited and vacated, or should I say evacuated. I have memories of marching up and down steep hillsides, riding a four-wheeler and the freezing from the below zero temperature, as well as days of sunshine and light snow.

Then there are the acts of butchering and cutting up our own deer. I find it more preferable than taking it to a shop where I am not sure how long they will keep it, how clean the facility is, if I am getting the same deer or the same amount of meat that you gave, and by doing it myself, I know who to blame if there is hair on it. The final reason is that I cut the meat away from the bone, because venison bones are more fragile, will shatter, and I hate splinters.

Good memories can be made in all types of weather, whether good or bad.

 

All Around the Table

Yesterday, after the overgrazing on the Thanksgiving foods, we sat around my sister Kathy’s table and sorted through most of the photographs that my mom, Sybil, and my dad, Carl had saved and stored. Even though they aren’t there any longer to enjoy the meal, we felt them close as we looked at the photos. There were photos of past generations and ones of those who have grown to adults now.

School pictures, those awkward bookmarks in each life, separated one growth spurt from another. They showed the “in” fashion of the time, hair styles, and glasses. These are pictures that make us smile now, but to “fit in” was desperate stuff, back then.

We found one photo of my great-grandfather Austin Beck and several of my great-grandfather Rugg. I remember him and a great uncle Wesley. There were other old photos of Great-uncles and great-aunts as well as photos of my Granddad Beck and Anna, my grandmother Beck together. We found some of my Granddad Raymond Miner and some of my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner.

Some photos of young people that are no longer here, but passed. I think those were the hardest, most of them were just into their early, early adult years. The pictures were in no specific order and the randomness of finding the sad ones among the amusing and funny increased the impact of both.

 

My sister, Kathy, said that she had the same expression on every photo, “Get away. I don’t want my picture taken” even the one in the frilly dress. One photo (black and white, of course) was of her with a hat on drooping down over her eyes as she played with Mom’s purses.

Some were of all three, my pigeon-toed stance prominent on many. Some were of just my brother Ken and me, playing in the yard or sitting on Dad’s car.

Many were gifts of wedding pictures and graduations. We decided to pass them along to family members who will cherish them more than we will. Maybe they will display them instead of locking them away in an attic.

Memories and stories floated around the table as did the aromas of our meal just past. Memories are meant to share.

Thanksgivings at Home

As I look back, I cannot remember any special moment or memory that stands out in my mind celebrating Thanksgiving at my parent’s house. I am unsure why, but imagine that it is because there is no major celebration attached to it. There is no giving and receiving of cards as on Valentine’s Day. There are no fireworks and picnics as on Independence Day. There aren’t any scary costumes or passing out of treats like at Halloween and Thanksgiving is tucked between Halloween and Christmas. Retailers push the Christmas sales closely after Halloween and smother the thankful holiday. Then there is the celebration of the New Year.

I am sure that the other holidays have something to do with Thanksgiving being a less appreciated holiday. Much goes reason goes back to the belief in a divine being, the provider of all of our blessings. Without a belief in God, to whom are we thankful? Do we thank ourselves or are we only thankful to agencies and to the government for a free meal and handouts? When a society isn’t thankful to God and only places demands, it will not long last. God judges the people who push Him aside and are not grateful for all of the things that He has done for them.

I believe the reason that I do not have outstanding memories is that they all blur together. The warm feelings of food, family, and friendship meld into one pleasant memory. Sitting around a table laden with food, I share the memories of the family, strengthening those ties. Our laughter fills the room as full as the aromas of the turkey, dressing (Mom always called it stuffing, whether in or out of the bird.), and the spices of the pies and cookies.

 

It isn’t that I’m not thankful for my blessings, but the celebration was the low-key joining of our hearts that blended one Thanksgiving celebration into another. Each year became a block in my life and love is the cement that binds the years into one.

November to Remember

I thought that October was going to be my busy month, and it was, but November has been a whirlwind. October has traditionally been a busy month in my calendar book. I was glad when it slipped into my past and was looking forward to winding down and living a slower pace. Was I wrong! I have felt so very busy. I belong to three writers groups, an organization to support artists in the area, church work days, and finishing my shed.

My shed about did me in. I sprained my ankle and it still gives me fits intermittently. I have been babying it and taking ibuprophen. This month of November has kept me busy to say the least. I’ve gone to my meetings and still have a few to look forward to, I was an escort to a wedding party by a fine lady. I think that she wanted someone who would drive for her in Pittsburgh. It was her grandson’s wedding, how could I refuse?

The ceremony was in Morningside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania at the Catholic church of St. Raphael. The groom was proudly wearing his Navy dress blues and his bride a lacey, sparkling gown. The colors of the stained glass permeated the sanctuary as the sun dropped lower on the horizon. As an escort to the groom’s grandmother, I was placed in the front of the church.

I was thankful that someone had given the Grandmother written directions, because I don’t often drive in Pittsburgh. The reception was held at the Priory Hotel on the Northside of Pittsburgh. Again, I don’t have the slightest idea of how to get there. When I asked if anyone knew how to get there, I was answered with nos. Most people were relying on their GPS. As I was escorting my friend to the car, I saw a beautiful younger woman in front of us, so I asked again, and she said that she knew the way. I was so relieved.

By following her, we made it.

The next day, I went with friends to the Golden Corral for an evening meal. It was where the birthday girl wanted to eat, so that is where we went. Sunday I went to church as each Sunday and now trying to get work done around the house. My daughter is sick and Thanksgiving ahead.

 

There is Christmas beyond that. I don’t think things will slow down for December either, SIGH!

Another Rewrite

I just finished the rewrites of my last two stories in my Tommy Two Shoes series. Who would have thought that a simple challenge to write a detective story would have stirred me to write so much? Before the project to write a story of a detective on vacation, I had no desire to delve into that genre.

Once I started, the words flowed and I had the basic first story written and typed within twenty-four hours. The character grew on me and stories evolved from the introduction of Tommy Two Shoes, retired Pittsburgh cop.

The strength of Tommy and the other characters grew as I became familiar with them, what they would say and what they would do. Some stories drew them together, while others were forced apart. Tommy and his mystery solving aptitude are at the center of each plot. He is assisted by the spirit of his deceased uncle Aidan LeClerc.

Aidan slips Tommy oblique clues that connect at the end of the story. By collecting them, the reader can foresee the ending. Words can be misspelled, but are clues none-the-less. Tommy knows when Aidan arrives because of the fumes from various cleaning supplies. When he was alive, Aidan was a fastidious bachelor and that ad carried over into the afterlife.

The editing has to be a huge burden for my editor. She has to have the patience of Job. I write a great story, but my phrasing and my punctuation would make my English teachers cry. Sorry. I was always interested in the words and not so much with the periods and commas.

I have always liked to play with words, most of all the ones with a hidden meaning or a double-entendre.

Well, the rewrites are over, unless she finds other faults as she goes over the manuscripts with her fine tooth comb. She tells me if all progresses well, the second Tommy Two Shoes should start to be available just before Christmas.

Thunder and Lightning

His rudeness was monumental. It was harsher, coarser, and more grating than a bastard rasp. His tongue was as sharp as a freshly stropped straight razor. The worst of his special talent appeared when he was driving his car. When the term was coined for “road rage,” he was the poster boy. The fact that he was driving an old clunker, a 1962 Chrysler didn’t boost his feelings of well being.  It was little more than patches of rust held together by putty and paint. The engine just turned over 200,000 miles and had been rebuilt twice.

His vile attitude cost several well paying jobs. He now flipped burgers in a small diner. His work station was the narrow kitchen, hovering over a hot grill. The heat did little to mellow his attitude. He worked alone, other than a mute dishwasher. The deaf man was the only person who could stand to be in the same room as him. He was a great cook and the smallest complaint felt like an unpardonable insult to him.

“I need another burger,” the waitress called. “I got a customer who said she found a hair in her burger and that it wasn’t seasoned enough.”

The hurled spatula barely missed the waitress as she ducked. A string of curses filled the kitchen. He ripped off his apron and stomped on it. The swinging door flew open with a loud bang, almost popping off its hinges. Dishes stacked on nearby shelves rattled.

The waitress cringed behind the counter, holding her breath and waiting for the obvious and inevitable confrontation.

The frail, gray haired lady sat with her back turned toward the approaching storm. Her head was bent over as though she was saying grace.

The thundercloud hovered over her, then rumbled, “What do you mean, coming in here and….”

A withered face looked up at him with tender eyes.

The lightning bolt fizzled, then went out. “Hi, Mom. What can I do for you?”