Bathtub Bed
My mom Sybil Miner Beck and my dad Carl were both stubborn at times. One night they locked horns. It wasn’t a fight actually; it was more like two Sumo wrestlers seeing who would move first. It was like the water and a rock, seeing who would wear down first.
Dad was upset that Mom had walked into the bathroom while he was still inside. He got into a huff because she didn’t leave right away, but quickly forgot about it all. A little while later, he walked in on her while she was in the bathroom.
That started the standoff. Mom asked him to leave and he wasn’t ready to leave. Mom exploded “I can’t come into the bathroom while you’re in here, but it’s okay for you to come in while I’m in here?”
Dad said, “I can be in here if I want to.”
“If I can’t be in here while you’re in here, you need to get out.” Mom exclaimed.
Dad countered, “I’m not leaving until you do.”
Dad refused. Mom really got her back up and she refused to leave; stalemate.
Mom called to us kids, “Kids, get me a pillow and a blanket.” Mom had laid claim to the bathtub. Mom was short enough to fit the tub comfortably slightly curled. It would have been hard for Dad who was just over six foot to be comfortable in the tub. She settled in for the night.
Dad decided to sleep on the floor. He was too bullheaded to call for a pillow. He used the bathroom rugs and a few towels for his bedding.
This is the kicker, it was Saturday night and Mom was an intelligent woman. She knew Dad would not miss church in the morning. He might stay in the bathroom to shave and brush his teeth, but he would leave the bathroom first to eat breakfast before making the Sunday morning trek. She was going too, but she could go without breakfast if need be.
Dad did leave the bathroom first and all it accomplished was that they were both stiff and sore that Sunday.
I was glad that I didn’t have to use the restroom that night. You know what they say, “Two’s company, but three’s a crowd.”

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Back in Business

It feels as though the harsher stages of isolation and virus induced panic are on the decline with a more normal way of life returning. Most states’ governors are relaxing their tight fisted choke hold on business and the American way of life. There are still a few areas of the business community they haven’t relinquished their unconstitutional and repressive restraint.

During the time of my forced quarantine, I worked on the newsletter for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Center. It is definitely a labor: lining margins, placing photos, and getting the stories to fit into seven pages. The eighth and final page posts a photo of something that is no longer around. It also has the society’s return address and room to affix members’ names and mailing addresses. Sometimes it frustrates me when I shift one item and it messes up the rest of the pages and the entire newsletter has to be reworked.

The part of creating the newsletter I enjoy most is deciding on the feature article, the front page story. In the past it’s been about a Lost Fort, local Mine Safety Crews, area Railroad companies, a serial killer on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and our military heroes. Once the topic is decided, I have to do the research, finally combining several accounts into one cohesive and hopefully interesting article.

My next chore is to search for local tidbits of interest and filler items. It might be history, folk tales, or accounts written by local residents. I might find articles from newspapers on regional events, incidents, or residents. I also include one old time recipe to keep our cooking heritage alive.

As I neared the finish of next issue, waiting for an okay to place one final story about a local man’s jail break in place, things changed. I thought I’d soon be finished. The letter could be sent to the printer and ready to slap on mailing addresses. Then suddenly, things changed.

My subject was to have been to highlight the important part southwestern Pennsylvania played in the Underground Railroad, its involvement with slavery, and the influential role of abolitionists from our area played in the emancipation process.

It was to honor Black History month, February, but this inexcusable and reprehensible murder of George Floyd intervened and the story was deemed inappropriate. It was shelved. I’ll possibly use it later when people are more able to digest the black history of our area without malice and the tainted influence of the present times.

It was back to the drawing board looking for a new idea and beginning the laborious, time consuming task of research.

It Ain’t Like That Anymore

I was fortunate to have met Chuck Martin and his wonderful wife Sally before their passing. I am also friends with their son Tom Martin. My thoughts of Chuck in this time of the Corona virus induced panic and the death of George Floyd with the ensuing riots has caused me to share a story that was taken as a single page in Chuck’s life and another page in the life of our nation.

Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered on April 4, 1968. MLK Jr. was at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement in the Unites States making progress peaceably. His fiery marches were necessary to draw attention to the issues of black American citizens. His occupation as a Baptist minister allowed him to speak eloquently and to the point. His protests drew attention to the inequality of minorities in the United States. Although violent acts were being committed all around him, he remained law abiding while wielding a wedge of civil disobedience.

Most people know the history of MLK Jr. much better than I do, but because history is being neglected in our schools, I gave a brief synopsis of his stance for a better America.

Now, back to my original connection between Chuck Martin and MLK Jr. Chuck was a world traveler with Sally. He was also a noted photographer. His black and white photographs from around the world and especially Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania are extremely candid and prized.

With both men’s shortened history behind me, I’ll connect the two. Chuck Martin drove into Pittsburgh the day after the killing of Martin Luther King Jr. He understood the historic event that was unfolding and walked into the Hill District to capture the grief and sadness of the community at MLK Jr.’s death. Chuck was the only photographer that caught the crowd’s reactions. The grief over his death bound the men and women together. There was sadness, yes; grief, yes, but there was no violence. The crowd maintained the dream of MLK Jr. and remained peaceful. Most media people were afraid to cover the story in the Hill District, but Chuck felt it was necessary to be there.

The death of George Floyd is tragic and inexcusable. His death should not go unpunished. But was the murder of MLK Jr. any less tragic. Are the ideals MLK Jr. upheld to be casually tossed aside? Are the riots and looting the same as the protests of MLK Jr. or have they evolved into excuses for looting and greed? The peaceful protests of MLK Jr. are a far cry from the scenes of anarchy and destruction that we see today under the thin veil of protest.

(See: https://digital.library.pitt.edu/collection/charles-r-martin-photographs?page=1)

Loco Motives

My earliest recollection of riding a train was in Kiddie Land, a part of the Amusement park, Idlewild, near Ligonier, Pennsylvania. Several child sized passenger cars followed an electric version of a red and silver diesel engine that ran in a circular track. Kids were placed single file in the open air passenger cars for the short trip. It was one of the many kid enticing rides of Kiddie Land.

My next memory was a tour in an actual excursion on board a real train. I believe it was a huge black B & O locomotive. I was in the first grade of elementary school and it was our field trip. We were bused to Connellsville to begin our journey. I can remember how massive the cars seemed. The porter was there to help us board. Eager faces of my classmates soon were pressed against windows and the hiss of the engine became louder and the whistle announced we were off. Views of the Youghiogheny River, trees, and hills sped past until we reached our destination in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. There was no tour of the falls. There were too many kids for the teacher to keep track of. Hustled into another school bus, we were shuttled back to school.

The next trip on a train was in Elkins West Virginia. A travel companion and I decided to escape for a mini-vacation. We stayed in a motel over night to limit the stress on our aging bodies. The tour was a six hour trip to Spruce West Virginia. Spruce is a ghost town. The buildings of this old lumber town were razed long ago, but placards explained the businesses locations. It was a pleasant train ride that had several interesting stops along the way to Spruce.

Recently I was able to eliminate an item from my bucket list. I took another train ride, but the difference was it was first class with meals and snacks served in the dining car. The Potomac Eagle left the town of Romney West Virginia. The route follows the South Branch of the Potomac River. Our tour director shared a wealth information of historic homes and sites along the trail. The engineer stopped to allow passengers to ride in a gondola car to view a stretch of the river where bald eagles nest. We weren’t disappointed and saw several.

The meals, snacks, and service were great. It was a truly memorable way to cross off another item from my bucket list.

Kiddie Land

Who can remember from their days of childhood going to Idlewild Park with their parents or friends, bouncing with excitement as they headed toward Kiddie Land? There at entrance were two stone clad pillars and two steps down into the enchanted area of rides for children. A large placard clown wearing white costume, ruffled neck collar, a red nose, holding a bass drum that welcomed kids to this section of the park reserved just for children. Child sized, scaled down amusement rides that were similar to adult versions awaited. Near the entrance was a sleek white and silver electric bus or trolley that ran in a circle on tracks. Close by was a smaller version of a Ferris wheel with caged cars that lifted riders up and over the top, moving much slower than the adult ride.

There was a glossy green turtle that rose up and down while traveling in a circle with several kids on its back. Another ride was miniature that cars circled on a wooden track, most painted red with bright yellow steering wheels. They spun, but didn’t direct the cars. A fake pony pulling a small cart only wide enough for two, maybe three kids; its leather reins to the kids as the ponies rose up and down.

A bevy of boats with room for two kids in the front and two in the back moved through a shallow circular pond. Steering wheels in the boats kept little hands busy and out of the water as “motor boats” hummed along.

Kids had to be fastened into the “”airplanes” hanging from chains. The children pilots again had steering wheels, but an added attraction was the machine guns attached to the fuselage for the front pilots. The breeze as the planes whirled “air born” in a circle actually made the kid feel like he was flying.

But my favorite ride of all was the kiddie car ride. These carts drove along on tracks through a shady twisting two rail track. Each cart had a cranking gear that attached to wheels beneath the cart. The faster a child turned the crank, the faster the cart went. Sometimes the carts would jump the track when a larger kid was showing his or her strength. They would also move up behind a slower moving cart and assist it into moving faster.

 When there was a clear stretch of track close to the attendant at the finish line, a kid could with several quick pumps build up speed. The cart would almost bowl over the attendant trying to stop the hurtling cart with a stiff leg and a foot.

Orderly?

We had an orderly at Frick Hospital that one time impressed and befriended a very wealthy man.  The man set up a a rather substantial endowment for the hospital and would be continued as long as the orderly worked at the hospital. Donny was the orderly’s name. He was old when I started to work at the hospital. Slowly he developed bad habits that management finally had to step in to correct.

I’m sure that one habit started innocently enough. He ate the unclaimed trays of patients who had been sent home before the kitchen could collect them. That progressed to eating untouched food from partially eaten trays. He’d collect untouched items and eat them in the soiled utility room.

Eventually, someone spoke with management and Donny could eat his midday meal in the cafeteria for free, if he stopped eating from patient trays.

Over the years Donny’s white uniforms became at best dirty, greasy gray. He’d wear them for several days before he would wash them. Other staff members made jokes about his clothes. “It’s easy for Donny to put on his uniform in the morning, yellow in the front and brown in the back.” Or he” just leans this clothes in the corner at night, until morning.” Sometimes, he would drink too much and would fall asleep on the hard, wooden benches in the men’s locker room. He would wake with a headache, but he wouldn’t have to change clothes. He was still wearing his “whites.”

Administration finally told him to stop and instead wear fresh operating room greens each day. They “promoted” him to locating missing wheelchairs and carts and returning them to their proper floors.

Each day before starting his rounds, he would laboriously copy the day’s menu on the back of an envelope and share it with staff on all the floors.

They had chili on the Thursday, the day they passed out pay checks. He’d call out as he rounded, “Chili and checks.” On lunches of chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy, he’d share, “Chicken hips and smashed potatoes.”

He called his beer “Polish pop” and his chewing tobacco “West Virginia coleslaw,” and he didn’t like women. He’d walk nearly five miles one way each day, rain or shine, only missing one week of work when he was hospitalized with pneumonia. People would offer him rides. Occasionally he would accept, but he would look in first and if it was a woman, he’d shake his head and walk on.

One day, one of nursing’s secretaries was driving home in a tremendous downpour. She saw Donny walking with his jacket zipped up, hunched over, trying to protect his face from the pounding rain. She stopped. Donny looked inside and shook his head. She leaned over rolled down the window a crack and said, “Donny, if you don’t get in this car right now, I’m gonna kick your ass.” Between the secretary’s threat and the rainstorm, Donny climbed inside her car and allowed her to drive him home.

A Land Without Consequences

How many of us can remember the vintage black and white television sets with rabbit ear antennas? Other than movies, the broadcasts were live and bloopers recorded forever. The programs shown on the television screen were often gray and grainy. Often the picture was wavy or would it would flop vertically or slide side to side. But never worry; those old sets had knobs that would allow the viewer to control those frustrating interruptions, sometimes.

Today interruptions are commercials. Too many, too frequent, and most make no sense at all. The amusing thing about old time advertisements was they were live and that made some amusing bloopers even in black and white.

I remember heroes of yesteryear: the Lone Ranger with his sidekick Tonto, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Cisco Kid and Pancho, and Wild Bill Hickock and Jingles. Who can forget John Wayne and yes, even Ronald Reagan. They were the righters of wrong, the good guys who followed, captured, and jailed the evil-doers. We would often worry when bank robbers, cattle rustlers, and claim jumpers would escape, ride away, then stop to brush out their tracks. But deep down we somehow knew the good guys would win, even when they had to trek across burning sands or over steep mountain trails.

We are now doing the same thing, sitting on the edge of our seats, watching and praying that the criminals of today will be prosecuted, brought to trial, and jailed for the crimes they’ve committed.

We see they’ve used all sorts of ways and devices to hide their trails. They set up organizations, erase emails, use smarmy lawyers, and buy votes. They’ve cavorted with pedophiles, worked with foreign governments, and hobnobbed with the “elite.” They’ve taken money from hardworking taxpayers to pay for their opulent lifestyles. They’ve bought mansions, jet planes, boats, and taken expensive junkets to foreign vacation resorts, all on the taxpayer’s dime.

Just as power-hungry potentates of the past, these politicians have bribed, had illicit love affairs, and yes even committed murders. Seemingly, they hold themselves to a different standard of justice than the average person. Has America become a land without consequences where the elected servants have become the masters? Have the citizens kowtowed to politicians’ incessant greed and hunger for power? Have we become followers, deceived into swallowing the snake oil that they sell?

We the Silent Majority can no longer remain silent. Slowly they’ve eroded our freedom and liberty. They’ve indoctrinated Americans from the cradle to the grave. Our forefathers would have executed them for their crimes or at the very least chased them out of Washington DC tarred and feathered. We must speak out.