Life Is a Carousel Old Chum

My life isn’t quite the gaily painted horses prancing around in a circle while a calliope sounds out circus style music of pipes, organ, and whistle. The rotating drum rumbles beneath their feet. The world of spectators gathered to watch children and other loved ones smile as they become spinning tops. The riders cling to their steeds, then smile and squeal gleefully while watching the observing crowd blur and whirl in ever changing kaleidoscope patterns.

What I’ve just shared are the echoes of memories from a nearby amusement park that still remain vibrant in my mind. My life at times mimics that carnival-like ride. Today’s memory carousel is moving from one appointment to another in a whirlwind of time and effort. Granted, I do take on those tasks willingly or accept the spur of the moment invitation that often manages to squeeze itself into my already crowded calendar.

Sometimes I feel like butter that’s been worked to be spread thinly on a fresh slice of bread. So far the bread hasn’t ripped and the butter has managed to cover the slice of me. I have sometimes missed a luncheon date with the Grand Dames of Frick for their monthly luncheon, but I hope to correct that that today. It often competes with my duty at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and I am forced to make choices, “which to attend.” I love to be bust and forced off this potato off the couch. I wish I could get more accomplished on my off days.

Laundry lurks, the grass grows, dust descends, and cat hair collects demanding my attention. SIGH, sometimes the television calls and I heed its siren song. There are times my legs get puffy and cramp. I not only heed their whimper, but relish that I am able to claim a spot in front of the boob tube.

Yesterday was a combination of two. My granddaughter Hannah needed a babysitter. She’s old enough to keep herself amused and while there, my brain was being elevated by historical television programs, I was able to elevate as well. Sipping a soda, I could stay dry, out of the rain while avoiding the chores waiting at home. Ah well, today’s another day.

Beehive

When I sit to share thoughts, often there is a blank sheet of paper waiting to accept whatever I decide is a worthy subject. Too often I sit and stare at the virginal surface before me and wonder what it will be and how to express it. Sometimes my cupboard is bare and I struggle with writer’s block. But today, I am inundated with a hoard of ideas swarming to escape, like bees trying to flee their burning hive. I’m not sure whether I’ll express one complete idea or string them together like beads on a string.

I could post notes about my unique “Sign Lady” friend with whom I travel to PNC Park, but before we left home, she requested that I not don my Colonel Harlan Sanders attire. She asked that I dress normally. Since she’s a friend and the tickets were free, I acquiesced and dressed in jeans, a Pirate T shirt and wore my antique, number 21 hat honoring Rennie Stennett. Years ago, I was fortunate enough to meet him and his beautiful wife at another big league pitcher’s home. Roger Miller. Casually clad, I tried to be normal for the night.

I could also share that the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society is evaluating accumulated data, only keeping items that mention local people, places, and events. It’s an attempt gain room for storage and display. Because I “volunteered” to be corresponding secretary, the task of writing an accompanying letter of introduction and why we were directing the booklets to them fell to me. Paper documentation is too easily lost or destroyed, so it made sense for us to share with other societies and allow them to determine whether to retain the local history.

A few days ago, I had an answer to prayers. For nearly a year, I’ve been searching for a journal from a mission’s trip about 20 years ago. We left Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, driving through northeastern states into Canada, then taking a ferry into Newfoundland. When we arrived at its northern tip we boarded a ship to Nain, Labrador. In the journal I made notations and drew hurried sketches of the shore line as we sailed along the rugged coast.

The reason I couldn’t find it? It had a camouflage cover and was tucked between two larger books in their shadows. The old phrase of “hiding in plain sight” was appropriate in this case.

Sometimes the smallest of happenings like having the satisfaction of a completed task, having time out with a friend, or finding the answer to prayer can be so rewarding.

Past Playgrounds

My playgrounds as a young child were the clay banks leftover from the strip mining behind our house between Indian Head and Normalville, Pennsylvania. Now, before you think everyone in Normalville is normal, let me say it is in Fayette County and the village wasn’t named for that reason. Schools that taught teachers how to teach and what to teach in the 1920’s through the 1930’s were called normal schools. They were much like teachers colleges today. There was a normal school In Normalville and thus its name.

Those clay banks were like elongated ripples allowing water to accumulate in the valleys making perfect places for frogs to lay their eggs and raise their young. Catching tadpoles and watching them swim, grow appendages and turn into frogs from a mass of gelatinous eggs with a small black “yolk” fascinated us as kids.

The world of playgrounds expanded to the neighbor’s yard and the tinkering with old cars, building of clubhouses, toboggans, and homemade weight sets were the norm. As we became mobile by riding our bikes or walking the two miles to Indian Head it expanded even more. Collecting old soda bottles along the way gave us spending money when we arrived at Resh’s Red & White store. Usually, there was money for one quart bottle of pop, one or two candy bars, and maybe a small box of matches.

By this time, swimming holes were certainly within the circle of playgrounds. One was close while two others were at the end of a 2 plus mile walk or bike ride. One bike excursion, we surprised a woman standing in the open door of her camper/trailer completely sky clad.

Traveling by car with our parents, we were able to use the grounds of Fallingwater as a place to explore. My great uncle was groundskeeper there and while our parents visited, my brother and I saw some of the behind the scenes of the Frank Lloyd Wright house. I was given a private tour of another Wright house, Kentuck Knob when my brother-in-law delivered home art work to Mrs. I.N. Hagan. The gracious lady led us through the structure, pointing out its unique features.

While in the U.S. Navy, A bit more of the world was opened to me: Florida, Great Lakes, and Iceland. Traveling with our church group and tenting, much of the western states, northeast and some provinces of Canada became a playground. Playgrounds are what and where you make them. Life isn’t always about work.

Musical Memories

When I listen to the radio, it’s almost like playing musical chairs. I don’t know what tune I’ll dial into or what song will be playing when I exit the car. I don’t know why, but often the lyrics or just the music or a song can snatch my thoughts from the present back to the time I first heard it or when it connected to a special event in my life. I have little control over the transporting of my soul or my mind to relive that nostalgic moment. Some of the moments are magical, lifting me and extending the ecstatic feeling into the present. At times, a certain song plucks at the strings of my heart stirring grief and sadness to return me to the sorrows of some past event.

Etta James, when she sings At Last stirs emotions in me that are not connected to any specific event, while the song Ain’t No Sunshine When She’d gone makes me feel sad, because I connect it with the death of my wife 15 years ago. Hymns can bring hope and joy or they can open doors of sadness. It depends to which event in my life they cling. Bagpipes deepen the emotion when they’re played. Amazing Grace on the bagpipes squeezes my heart tightly. My wife’s best friend’s husband was a piper. That tune echoed across the hillsides and flooded the cemetery. Many times I am unable to listen to the pipes.

There are few other things that can stir the heart and mind more than music. Operas can cause people to weep or to laugh as the story line unfolds in the singing. Polkas, old Rock and Roll music, and other lively tunes cause my feet to want to dance. Sometimes the lyrics seem to be especially made for me to sing in the shower, in the car, or even on karaoke night. There are certain instruments that almost seem spiritual when played: pipe organs, bagpipes, flutes, the didgeridoo, and sometimes the rhythm of drums. Their notes reach deep into my soul.

The very rhythm of a dirge elicits feelings of sorrow and sympathy for the friends and loved ones for whom the piece is being played. It conveys a solemn somberness that is lacking in other music.

Embers of sadness, happiness, joy, and an entire range of emotions are stirred of memories both harsh and pleasant when music is played.

Is It the Memories?

Looking at the many recollections of my past, were some things actually better back then or are they just the wistfulness of lingering memories that I‘ve dredged up from the storage areas of my mind. Were the loaves of Grandma Miner’s hot and fresh bread coming out from her coal fired oven better than any recipes I’ve tried? Was the chicken salad that she made from boiled chicken, its broth, chopped dill pickle, and salt and pepper more flavorful than anything I’ve tried to remake. The salads she made and served in a green, upside down fez looking bowl were they fresher than what I prepare. The fresh churned butter was so flavorful that my grandfather slathered it onto his bread an eighth of an inch thick.

Red ripe tomatoes pulled from my grandparent’s garden and eaten after I wiped it off with my shirt makes me want to go back to that time. I recall the sharp sun-warmed flavor of the crimson orb as the juice would run down my chin. If I wasn’t snitching a fat tomato, I would stroll to the other end of the garden to snap off a stalk of rhubarb. The memory of its sharp flavor still makes my mouth water, thinking of the taste as I gnawed that raw tangy stalk. Occasionally, I could wrangle a salt shaker from the house and enhance the flavors of both.

Lemonade on a hot summer day seemed to slide across the taste buds after several hours of work or play. A huge chunk of ice swam among the bruised and squeezed lemon slices and the heavily sweetened juice and chilled water mixture that filled a large crock.

Today cantaloupes and watermelons seem to have lost their sweetness and flavor, often shipped to market before they are ripe. The same thing happens with peaches. Although they’ve gotten larger, many have lost that distinctive sweet flavor and juiciness.

I made “poodlies” yesterday. It is the dish my mom would often make for lunch. Cooked macaroni, oleo, tomato juice, and plenty of salt, steaming; hot and flavorful, the concoction filled our bowls. As I ate my attempt the expectation fell short.

Are the memories misrepresenting my past and affecting the present? Or have my taste buds aged and lost the ability to discern those remembered flavors?

God and Government

I am reading a book titled, “God and Government” by Gary DeMar. He shares that when people thing of government, they think of state or federal entities. He describes government having much deeper roots that are founded and established by God and laid out in the pages of the Bible. The basis of all governance rests on God and His truths. He should be at the center of each person’s life as guide in all parts of our life. With God as the head of each person, the next order is the family unit. Husband and wife being one flesh for the purpose of creating a home and raising a family. This unit was to still be God-centered.

Local government can be civil or ecumenical: the church or the community. Both have some jurisdiction over certain areas of those citizens of their ranks. Both have laws to which the citizens must adhere. The church may be able to even handle some legal problems within the laws set down by God.

Then there is the government of the state and on a national level. Each must have their basis on truth and justice. The Constitution of the United States was created to insure that certain God-given rights might not be impinged upon by any government entity. But “No governing document can create freedom, national stability, and security. The best political intentions are no match for the will of the people. Self-governed people who acknowledge the sovereignty of God determine a nation’s future. The choice of autonomous rights over God-prescribed responsibilities will mean the decay of a nation. John Adams wrote, ‘our Constitution was made only for a moral people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” When self-government is abandoned for self-serving opportunism, we should expect a decline in the health of the nation.” This excerpt was taken from the book I’m digesting and closely parallels what is happening in America today.

Responsibility is being overrun by individual rights. The churches are being attacked. Free speech is considered offensive. Politicians seem to be more intent on gathering wealth for themselves without concern for the average citizen.

There are times when the government must be disobeyed, but even here, the Bible sets forth boundaries for non-compliance. It is a last resort, but when autonomous rule is in direct opposition with God’s precepts, under extreme circumstances, disobedience may be necessary. If we read Exodus 1:15-22, the Pharaoh of Egypt ordered the midwives to kill every male child, but the midwives feared God more than the Pharaoh and refused to murder them.

How Did I Ever

Five years ago before I retired, I looked forward to my days off to “get things done around the house.” Now that I’ve retired I still look for “days off” without something else to do but they seem too few and too far between. Somehow each week becomes cluttered with things to do. It’s not that I’m complaining, being busy keeps me out of trouble and Keeps me thankful that I’m still alive, although I usually have aches and pains enough to remind me of that.

This past Sunday morning I had church and Sunday school. At 1:00 pm I drove to a lifelong friend’s home for a cookout. The variety of food was tremendous and just tasting a bit of each left me quite full. I met some of her family and other friends and had a great time making new friends. Sunday evening services capped the day.

Monday became a surprise babysitting job with my granddaughter, but I had some chores to run and decided to combine the two. I needed to stop at Rural King in Connellsville, Pennsylvania for some supplies and since I was almost halfway to my son’s house, I decided to visit his family to drop off some recently purchased books and blouses for his two daughters. Hannah got to play with her cousins Celine and Moriah for about an hour before we headed back to home.

After the babysitting gig, I stopped for some groceries. Waiting at home were several loads of laundry. The one load would have to wait until Wednesday until I could hang the jeans outside to dry. My good friend and fellow writer needed a lift to a medical treatment on Tuesday, but UGH! Her appointment was for 8:15 am. It was an early rise day for me. She needed to stop afterwards for her medications. She began to feel ill and we cut that excursion short. I managed to get her to her appointment and back home without her melting in the intermittent deluges.

Tuesday evening I attended the monthly meeting of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. It combined a picnic with the presentation. Jim Maestrole spoke, shared his hobby of assembling old items that were once useful into lamps that are beautifully mechanical in appearance.