Fun Day at Wally World

It’s always fun when I shop at Walmart. I love to talk with the cashiers that I’ve grown to know over the years while shopping there. Sometimes I ask about their family or I inquire about what kind of day they’re having. I always wish them to “have a good day” or if it’s Friday wish them to have a good weekend. If they say that they’re working the weekend, I commiserate with them and wish them the best anyway. What more can you say when they have to work.

While I shop, it depends on how energized I am as to whether I sometimes tease other shoppers. I almost always come close to colliding my shopping cart with another customer who is trying to maneuver through the aisles as they search for a product that has been moved or that is no longer in stock. The blind corners that Walmart has created by their narrow aisles and having products stacked like the towers at the end of each passage are reason for the near collisions. After apologies, I maneuver myself past the other cart driver and continue my quest. In variably, I forget something that I had written on the grocery list that still rests on my desk at home causing me to traipse back to an area I’ve already gone through.

I live alone with Willow my cat. She doesn’t carry on a sensible conversation with me, so while I am out I often begin to talk with total strangers. I’ve scared more than one old lady by talking to them as I walk past and they are reaching for a product. I’ve caused a few people to be startled, but no cardiac arrests as of yet. Most of the times I merely introduce myself as a writer and pass out one of my business cards to these complete strangers. If I don’t advertise, I won’t gain any new readers.

This past week it was just a bit different. The people to whom I give a card, I only have contact with them for a very brief time, a few minutes at most and I don’t recognize them if we meet again. I was in the checkout line and began to talk with a gentleman in front of me and I offered him a card. He shared that I’d met him before at another occasion in line and I’d given him a card. He still accepted the card and said that he was a police officer wanting to read the books of Tommy Two Shoes.

Oh dear, Santa

I remember responding to an ad in the Tribune Review several years ago. It was for a "Character-Santa.” The ad was seeking “a naturally, full-bearded” man. It didn't say man, but I assumed that the ad was for a man, although my brother I have seen a woman who might fit the bill but that’s another story. The advertisement sought a person for “a local mall” to do a six or seven week promotion. The ad read, “Will train. Must love children.”

Since I was newly retired, I thought I might enjoy finding something to keep myself busy with my free time; something different and something part time or casual. This advertisement was for something that was definitely different.  I like people and who couldn’t use a few extra bucks. So I called the number that was listed.

I reached a woman in New Jersey. I shared the particulars of the ad, explaining that I would be under contract with them. The time of the promotion would be over Christmas and I would be the Santa Clause for Westmoreland Mall. I thought, “Cool, it was local.”

I asked how long would I have to grow the full beard, I had a goatee at that time. She said it would have to be ready for the Christmas season. I asked for further details and she shared that I would be expected to work from ten A. M. until nine P. M. with two meal breaks of thirty minutes each and two restroom breaks of fifteen minutes,

Of course I asked about the salary. The company would give me $7.500.00 in total for those six or seven weeks. She said they would bring me to New Jersey for training, but here's the kicker, I would have to work seven days a week. She did say that there were fewer hours on Sundays. Thank goodness. I was to send a photograph via email in three weeks when my beard was fuller.

“SEVEN DAYS A WEEK! That's just nuts.” I thought. She explained the reason was if a child came back to visit, the child would expect to see the same Santa waiting to greet them. I can see her point, but seven days a week. That’s one reason I retired, too many hours. This contract sounded as though all they needed to provide was a ball and chain like for the prison road gangs.

I didn’t send her a photo after to share how much growth I had, but thought I am going to play Santa to my grandchildren anyway. And my grandchildren didn’t have to be VERY good to sit on my lap anytime of the year.

Ash Wednesday Reposted.

Are You Catholic

This incident occurred while I was still working in the emergency room. It was B.C. era…it was the days before computers. When a doctor ordered an x-ray, the nurses would have to write the patient’s name, birthday, cubicle number, what part of the body was to be x-rayed and why it needed an x-ray on a small chit of paper. Then the nurse would have to hand carry the requisition to the radiology room and be given to the techs inside.

When I carried a request to the radiology room and turned to leave, one of the techs said, “If you see the priest, tell him to stop in and give us ashes on our foreheads. We also want him to bless the x-ray machine.” I recognized that it was Ash Wednesday.

Just as I reached the door, my odd sense of creativity and humor kicked in and I said, “You know, when the priest comes in, you guys could set up a confessional in the dark room. He can open the doors for exposed sins and the unexposed to give you your penance. As in all radiology rooms, there were film storage bins with doors marked as to whether the films were exposed or unexposed. My mind made the comparison to the Catholic confessional chamber with confessed and un-confessed sins.

I heard them laugh as I exited. Later in the day, I was carrying another chit for an x-ray to the techs. When I opened the door, the priest was already ensconced inside. The techs had ashes on their foreheads and one of the girls pointed at me and said, “There! That’s the one.” Apparently they’d told the priest what I had said about the darkroom.

The priest turned to me and asked, “Were you an altar boy?”.

“No.” I replied.

He tried again, “Are you Catholic?”

“No.” I answered again.

He tried one last time, “Do you want to be Catholic?”

My reply was again, “No!”

My response was almost lost in the two technicians’ loud laughter. The priest didn’t laugh, but I’m fairly sure that I saw a smile on his face.

Write or Wrong

I’ve been sitting and writing to finish several projects, so I’m glad that our church has recently padded the church pews. Although the old pews conformed to the body fairly well, an encounter from jury duty, sitting on their unpadded oak chairs and benches two years ago inflamed my sciatica that hasn’t settled yet. Using a pillow for church services became necessary until now. The padding has made a big improvement.

I’m in the midst of three writing projects. The first is my ever-pressing Blogspot. Completing and posting an article of between 350 to 450 words three times a week can be intimidating. My concern comes not with the amount of words, but coming up with something that is fresh and of interest to those who take the time to read my blog. It’s also often difficult to imagine a title that will catch the attention of new readers and keep old readers coming back.

The second project with a time crunch element involves the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania. Assembling an eight page newsletter with assorted topics isn’t easy. The effort to search for interesting local stories and then edit them to fit into the eight page format takes time. Local history, newspaper accounts, and photos must be gathered and presented in a concise, appealing way.

Choosing the proper font is another consideration. Too small and older people have difficulty reading the words. Too large and the information won’t fit in the eight pages of the newsletter. Sometimes articles must be rewritten and condensed while trying to retain the essence of the piece.

My latest project is finishing another book. It is a novella because it is shorter in length than a true book. I’m writing it as a sequel of the latest book I wrote, Addie. I had no plans to do a sequel, but I’ve had several people press me to read more about the characters in that book.

When I write I want anyone reading my words to be able feel the emotions of the characters. This time, I may not have people ask for a sequel, because it starts out with trouble and sadness.

The scenes of the new book are still local, set in the late 1950s. The story revolves around Addie’s son Ron having to return with his family to Mount Pleasant to work and to live. A chain of unfortunate circumstances force the family to move. As with Addie, I’ve done illustrations to enhance the readers’ enjoyment and aid in seeing things through my eyes.

Confusion of Uniting or Loss of Memory

I was reading a local blog that chronicles events from Connellsville, Pennsylvania. Most of the items are about people, places, or events. Those mentioned jostled my memory, but there were few things that were from times earlier or later than my years of attending high school. I was a mountain kid and somewhat separated from the places and occurrences in Connellsville proper.

I used to tease the “city kids” that I lived so far back in the mountains that we pumped the sunshine in and the moonshine out. Or I when I was harassed about living in the mountains, I would tell them, “We have signs in our bathrooms that say, ‘Flush twice. It’s a long way to Connellsville.’”

I started to write today’s blog when I saw obituaries of men and women that graduated a year before or a year after me and yet were complete strangers. Even some that graduated the same year I did, I didn’t recognize their face or by name. The year I graduated 1967, two school systems were thrust together, Connellsville and Dunbar. It was a traumatic time for all. A new school mascot, new school colors, new sports teams; both groups had to adjust and there was only our senior year to do it. It was wham, bam, and no time to think or say thank you, ma’am.

When we should have been concentrating on studying and making good grades to graduate, we had to learn how to fit together and remember new names and faces. I was never good at remembering names, so I felt doubly challenged. So if you happen to remember my name and associate it to this aging face, more power to you.

I somehow feel guilty when a person in my high school, in a class behind me or the year ahead passes away and I can’t recall seeing them or ever hearing of them, but our class size went from about two-hundred and fifty to double that at nearly five hundred. Remembering two-hundred and fifty new names and connecting them to faces when I only saw them only in the halls or occasionally shared a class would have been a giant undertaking even for a memory expert.

Another thing are my Facebook friends, many I’ve never met and I’m unsure of whether I should wish someone a happy birthday, especially old people like me. I don’t want to wish someone a happy birthday when they’ve passed away. That would make me look more stupid than I am or that I’ve entered the first stages of senility.

Shave and a Haircut

One of the Nursing Assistants at Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant was named Kurt. His humor was warped to say the least. It wasn’t just inter-staff humor, but often reached into our patients’ lives as well. A male patient was admitted overnight for surgery the next day. He and his wife decided that they had as many children as they wanted and was for scheduled for a vasectomy in the morning. Yes, men were admitted overnight, kept for one day, and then discharged on the third day, a-a-ah, the fond memories when there was never enough hospital beds and sometimes patient beds were placed in the hallways, but that is another story. Now vasectomies are done in the physician’s office or in a short stay unit. Cut, nip, tuck, stitch, and send them on their way.

Kurt entered the man’s room with a basin, shaving cream, and a straight razor like barbers use to do a shave-prep on the man’s groin area. He set up his equipment on the over bed table, lathered the man’s pubic area, and began to shave him with a sharp, straight razor. We had safety razors, but some of the orderlies liked to demonstrate their skills and prowess by using a straight razor to whisk away the unwanted hair. No shaves necessary today. Hospitals have other means to remove hair and to prevent razor burn and possible sites for infections.

Kurt talked with the gentleman as he was performing his duty, paused halfway through the shaving, and told the man, “You know, if I slipped, you wouldn’t have to go to surgery tomorrow.” Then turned back to the task at hand, continuing to denude the man’s groin area.

I know it was true. The man was a friend of mine. He told me later, “I was thinking, was this man a nut case? Was he like the stories I heard of a local man John Borchin? Should I stop him and get up and run? But if I move….?” By then, Karl had finished his task and was cleaning up before leaving the room.

Maybe I Will Stay Home Today

Quite a few years ago, I made a resolution that I wouldn’t leave home if I was feeling grumpy, because no one wants to deal with a grumpy old man. So far it has worked quite well. If I am feeling a bit grouchy, I stay inside until I can rev up my engine and cross over to the sunny side of life. It happens when I have an appointment or have chores that needs done or a surprise ambushes me. Yesterday, I had to rev my engine because some paper chores and loose ends that needed tidied up, plus I needed to pick up my granddaughter after school.

I almost stayed home, when an amber alert flashed across my cell phone. A local youth was missing. The same make, model, color, and year of my recently purchased car was broadcast. I raced to the window be sure it was still in the driveway and plate numbers didn’t match. I was almost afraid to leave my house, concerned I may get stopped by the police. My car was there and there was no police interruption with my travels.

It was still too early to make the rendezvous with my granddaughter and decided to eat lunch. At the Valley Dairy in Mount Pleasant, I was waiting for my food, I noticed in the next booth two ladies. The one facing me looked slightly familiar, but there wasn’t a connection. After placing my order, I decided to make a necessary run to the restroom and to wash my hands. As I returned to my booth, I was surprised to see the woman who was sitting with her back to me was an old workmate. We started to chat and she invited me to sit with them.

We had a wonderful conversation, reminiscing and telling “war stories” from the hospital. The other gal was her cousin. I had a great time talking and eating. This chance meeting revved my happy higher and my grumpy completely disappeared.

I ducked into the dollar store next door. I was picking up my granddaughter later and needed to pick up snacks. The very first thing she asks is, “Did you get me a snack?” I always reply, “Did you say you wanted a smack?” She replies with a laugh, “No, Pappy. I said a snack.”

I bought two bags of triangle looking tortilla chips. One bag made from popped white cheddar corn and the other bag of kettle corn. Of course when we got to her house, we opened them and shared back and forth. They were fairly tasty…and for only a dollar a bag. Ha ha.