Driving Miss Daisy

While driving to pick up my granddaughter Hannah Yoder, I noticed that the daisies along the road were blooming. It stirred nostalgic, sad memories of my wife Cindy Morrison Beck. Daisies were her favorite flowers and that was alright with me. I could go outside and collect a vase full to surprise her and brighten her day. It didn’t cause too much energy or money and meant so much to her. A vase filled with daisies did brighten our mobile home, later our house, and always her face. Besides a card and a gift, she always got a bouquet of daisies for her birthday, Mother’s Day, and for our anniversary.

One Mother’s Day she didn’t get a card or the daisies. She complained when I said to the kids, “Go ask Mother” without the “your.” She said it was like calling her old woman, so the next year she was short changed from me. She scolded me saying, “I may not be your mother, but I am Mother to your children” and she was right. I guess she heard other husbands calling their wives “Mother” and didn’t like the connotation.

When Cindy passed away fourteen years ago, we placed baskets of daisies at the head and at the foot of the bier with wide spray of daisies and baby’s breath across the top of the casket. It isn’t a pleasant memory, but the tale I am sharing is about daisies and their special meaning to me.

Illiteracy; the Scourge of Generations

On our way to the Pirates game in PNC Park Saturday, we stopped to eat at a local Popeye’s Restaurant. I was amazed and flabbergasted at the counter staff. The manager seemed to be of Indian or Middle Eastern descent and was a sharp man, on top of everything. He had to be. The two young women behind the counter, pulling the food to be placed in containers to be served, had to be frequently reminded and checked to be sure they were collecting and handing the ordered food to the correct customers.

I didn’t think too much of it at the time He seemed to be accepting of the fact as if it was the normal routine. I would have probably left the restaurant without a second thought, but when I asked for ketchup and honey, the one young girl seemed totally confused as to what to do. She turned to walk away to fetch the requested items. When she returned, she handed over four packets of hot sauce, not any of the requested items. Instead, we asked the manager. He said that they did indeed have the condiments for which we asked and quickly returned with the honey and ketchup.

Back at the table, we were discussing what had just happened and the tight rein the manager that he seemed to have on the serving women. The young women were clean and looked like bright ladies, but we decided that the one woman had to be illiterate. She was unable to read. Not bringing the ketchup, coupled with the constant reminding and checking of the manager to serve the correct food pointed in that direction.

My only thought that in this day and age was why, after the billions of dollars spent to educate the children, is this appalling situation still allowed to exist? It hurts me to think that these minds are being wasted and unable to function in today’s society.

A side note: while we were waiting to be served, two women were talking. One said that she was to work tomorrow. The other said, “”You have to work on Memorial Day. That’s a holiday.” The first responded, “Yeah, I’m supposed to work, but I’m gonna call off.” So much for work ethics too.

Mustang Sally

Yesterday I ate lunch with several of my co-writers. It was to celebrate the birthday of a lovely lady who is an adventurous soul. She is an octogenarian who has done so much in her life. Active in so many areas, she is a true blessing to be around. Sara Mitchell Martin has won medal after medal in swimming meets, skiing, triathlons, and cycling.

Her adventures of cycling around the world are written down in her journal called “Mustang Sally.” It was a remarkable feat for a woman in that early of a time period. She still competes in senior citizen’s events, winning trophies and medals. Sally pooh-poohs the idea is that she is a great athlete, she says she merely outlasted them.

Our indoor celebration was held at The Olive Garden and we were given a small sectioned off area for our group. This was necessary because Sally is hard of hearing and the other attendees being writers had Limericks, prose, or poetry pieces they we’d written and read out loud to her. Loud is the key word. I am sure others in the restaurant enjoyed our presentations as well.

In the middle of the fete her son called and was checking on her. Through Sally, Tom Martin and I became friends on Facebook. I gave him a shout out on the phone and now in this post.

Sally’s husband Chuck Martin was a noted photographer. He was able to capture on film many famous and not so famous people. One of the events that he prized was taking photographs in the Hill District of Pittsburgh the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. He was the only journalist who captured those citizens as they mourned their loss.

We had a great time with Sally, eating, reading, and watching her open her cards and gifts. I was able to get the book she and Chuck wrote together. It’s called Warpath, a slightly fictionalized history of Chuck’s family at the time of the French and Indian War.

Happiest of birthdays to you Sara “Sally” Martin.

Continued from Monday’s post…

Weekday, Workday, Weekend II

While we spent the rest of the afternoon at the cabin, other wotkers were weed whacking, mowing, making small motor repairs, tearing down the old game tent and erecting the frame of the new white Taj Mahal tent. I lost my ladder to the construction crew and finished staining as high as I could reach by the time the supper bell rang. A time of relaxation, for devotions, and showers were next, not exactly in that order. Some of the guys went in for a swim to cool off. I knew better and only pulled off my shoes and socks to soak my feet in the COLD water. It felt wonderfully refreshing, even with the fish nibbling my toes.

Once my shower was over, I joined several people who were talking and relaxing in the bleachers around the crackling campfire. Bullfrogs harrumphing in the background and the gentle splash if the nearby lake waves filled my ears and the canopy of stars overhead helped me to unwind.

Bedtime and breakfast, then we pulled, tugged, and secured the new white tent to the frame. While we were doing that one of the men in our van claimed a small excavator and began to cover some electrical cable with gravel. Many of the teenagers went back to the tasks of staining and applying polyurethane. It was time for us to pull up stakes and head for home.

There were still some unfinished chores on Mr. Fry’s list, but it would be a lot shorter by the time the other church group left. The camp will be that much closer to hosting the different weeks of youth, the teens, and a week set aside for family groups. There are also special retreats for the young at heart (those people over 55), a women’s retreat, a men’s retreat, and later in the year, a wither retreat for teens at a nearby lodge.

I would like to give a special shout out to Mr. Fry, his wife, and to the other cooks who made the visit tasty, busy but enjoyable.

Weekday, Workday, Weekend

I had a wonderful time working to complete chores at the Servant’s Heart Camp located on the outskirts of Ramey, Pennsylvania. I travelled north with three other men from our church to the Christian summer camp to help it expand and make it ready for the various weeks of summer camp. It’s a small, but growing facility. During the 2 and a half hour drive, I found that our driver and Pastor really likes the cheddar and bacon potato skin chips.

A slow drive through an open field and a curving lane through a wooded area led us to the final approach of the camp across the breast of the dam for the 7 acre lake. It was nearing dusk when we arrived and I was glad to get out and stretch my legs. Mr. Fry was there to greet us. After introductions, he introduced us to the list of chores that needed to be done. Like any good manager, the list was longer than he thought was possible, just in case miracles occurred. Because of my limited ability to lift, I was assigned to stain the posts and porch railings of a cabin still under construction for the next day.

We sat around the obligatory campfire until bedtime. After a long and difficult night of trying to sleep, I sat at the edge of the lake and rested until morning when Mrs. Fry came to the cook shack and start breakfast. I had been struggling to write some Haiku and quickly volunteered to help. I played Mr. Tote and Fetch, then began to crack and scramble eggs. Her assistant arrived and I escaped to sit under the dining tent as others joined.

After we ate, another group of young men and women, most were teenagers, arrived. Mr. Fry passed out chores and work began in earnest. Four young women were assigned to staining the outside of the cabin where I was working and two people were applying polyurethane to the wood sided walls and ceiling of the inside. My thighs were sore from squatting to coat the bottom rails when it was time for lunch break.

To be continued…

How Quickly Things Change

I was doing some investigation on a developing character and decided to speak with a gentleman who knew something about the subject upon which I was doing research. I was hoping he could shed some light on what to do under certain situations. I can’t say too much about it for two reasons. The first is I am still writing and I never give away the plot before I am finished with the story. It’s not considered plagiarism unless someone should steal the words after I’ve written them. I am still a long way off from figuring out exactly where this story is headed. I have no idea where it will end.

The second reason is the man I spoke to, thought I was speaking about a specific person. He never divulged the person’s name, but by the facts that he was sharing. I knew immediately it was a true-to-life real person. He thought I was talking about this person, when I wasn’t. The more he spoke, the more I was certain I knew the guy of which he was sharing stories. Not the fictional stories that I write, but actual, intimate secrets of the real-life person.

Once I realized that it was something I didn’t want to know and something I shouldn’t know, I backed out of the conversation as quickly as I could. Now, I bear the burden of this secret. I am familiar with HIPPA and medical information being a secret. That was never a problem. I was always assiduous with that knowledge.

But this is different, much different. If I am talking to this “revealed” person, will I react differently when we meet? Will I let the “secret” slip out while speaking to others? How can I unhear what has already been said. I can’t, but I pray that my silence will not cause problems farther along.

Behind Me

Last evening I was invited to speak at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society located in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. It is a small group of people dedicated to preserving the heritage and history of the area in documents, maps, and memorabilia. Clothing, photographs, and journals line the various display cases and the walls. All in all, it is a wonderful collection of people and presentations.

Because I used to work with the president, Mrs. Gerri Marks, she asked me several months ago to speak at last night’s gathering. Each month, they have someone to visit and speak on a different topic. Since I write to pass my time since I’ve retired from nursing and have four books written, I entered her sights.

I volunteered my time. I’ve noticed that making the promise is easier than to keep than the time I have donated. As the closer the time came to actually giving the speech got shorter, my gastrointestinal tract kept note of the nearing of the date. It wasn’t actually a speech. I only shared the basics of writing and read from past writings of poetry, Haiku, short stories I’d written and excerpts from my four books. The audience was a gathering of young and old. The youngest may have been eight and the oldest in their eighties. They were great listeners. Some of the people I knew from my past, while others, I met for the first time.

One of the younger people is a passionate reader and was just beginning to enter the challenging world of writing. There are so many avenues to pursue. I told him to keep a pad and pencil close. Anytime a thought hit write it down before forgetting it. The actual writing and fleshing out of the idea can come later, but most times the flash of an idea escapes and isn’t captured again.

Thank you again, Chestnut Ridge Historical Society.