Swan Song

As I relaxed and was watching television this evening I was reminded of my time that I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland. The base was thirty-four kilometers from the capital city of Reykjavik, most of the time I rode the bus. The ride wasn’t always interesting, but one thing unusual was that many of the headstone in a cemetery were lit with bright colored Christmas lights. I’d never seen anything like that in the United States, especially out in the countryside where I live.

I was fortunate, because of my rank; I could go off base in civvies. (Civilian clothing) I was often mistaken in Reykjavik for an Islander, because of my full red beard and the civvies I wore would match what the men wore. This mistaken identity caused a few odd encounters for me. I may share them at another time, but back to my story.

Another type of travel for me while in Iceland was to fly in an airplane. When I had free time and could catch a ride to other areas of Iceland on board a military transport, it didn’t cost me anything but time. The ride was less than first class, not serving snacks, often bumpy and always noisy. I was able to visit several areas that would have been inaccessible otherwise.

We had a physician who needed hours in the air to gain his commercial pilot’s license. He was willing to fly several of my fellow Navy friends and me to other destinations in Iceland. He would pilot the plane if we would pay for the rental of the airplane. We flew to Akureyi circling over the island of Grimsey or over Heimaley to the volcanic island of Surtsey’

It was advantageous for both parties. I can’t remember which flight it was on, but it may have been to Akureyi. As we flew over one area, it was filled with hundreds of tiny ponds, almost small enough to be called large puddles; we could see a breeding pair of swans at each puddle claiming it for their own. Now that was a memorable flight. On the return trip heavy clouds hovered close to the ground. It was difficult for our Doc pilot to navigate in the pea soup; he hugged the ground, following a highway a few times. Because I’m writing this, it’s obvious we made it back to base safely, and that trip wasn’t my swan song.

Back to Normal in Normalville

Last Wednesday was the first day I started to actually work at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. We were not actually open to the public, but because there were things I the files I needed to finish our newsletter, Down Memory Lane. The contents are things of local interest; historical things in the Laurel Highlands. The one I had planned was to share the important place Southwest Pennsylvania played in the Underground Railroad and in the Abolition of slavery. Due to the delay because of the C-19 virus and following concerns, the officers decided it wasn’t the time to share. I had to scramble to replace that feature article.

Yesterday I was finally able to be seen at my dentist’s office in Normalville, Pennsylvania. I somehow had three roughened areas or made chips in my teeth. It wasn’t a dire emergency, but it created areas for food to collect as I ate and made flossing difficult. I have had the same dentist for nearly thirty years. One of us is definitely growing older. Some things changed, but it was great to see the Doc and his office help.

The procedures for the dental work had changed because of the virus concerns. I had to rinse my mouth before we started with hydrogen peroxide and water wash. I’ve always had a good relationship with my dentist. For anyone who has come in contact with me, they know I enjoy teasing and plating with words. That maybe why I like to write and share my thoughts. I can’t wear the paper face masks. I have allergies to something in them and wheeze for a few days after. A good friend of mine made a black cloth mask that has printed on it “Trump 20202.” I slipped it on when I heard the dentist entering my cubicle and asked “Do you want me t open wide?”

He laughed and said, “You do know that I’m a Democrat?” We both had a good laugh and he went to work smoothing and making the necessary repairs.

That done I returned home to make some props for our upcoming Vacation Bible School. The theme is “Mining for Gold.” The front of the sanctuary will be transformed into a gold mine vignette with lanterns, mining tools, kegs, wooden buckets, ropes, “dynamite boxes” and other items to set the stage for anyone who attends.

Children from 5 to 12 years of age are encouraged to attend Monday June 22 through Friday June 26 at 11 AM. There will be a lunch provided. It’s time to get things back on track.

What’s at Steak

After Corps School in the Great Lakes, I was assigned to the Orlando Naval Training Center at the hospital; first on a medical/surgical and orthopedic ward, then the emergency department. While I was stationed there, I found two places that served great steaks. I can’t remember the name of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but it had great steaks, covered in mushrooms and onions. To me back then it meant the T-bone steak was cheap and flavorful, served with side orders of baked potato, vegetable, and a roll. My recollection was that the restaurant was long and thin. Six booths lined both sides of a narrow aisle with the cashier at the far end.

The other place in Orlando, Florida with memorable steaks was at my uncle Jake and Aunt Helen Stahl’s house. Jake was choosey about his steaks, going to a butcher and having the meat cut to an exact thickness, then he would grill them over a charcoal grill. He always cooked them to well done, I guess that was the way he liked them and supposed everyone else did too.

I was assigned to Iceland as my sea duty and I was often tagged as the designated driver. I’m a teetotaler, so when my fellow sailors wanted to go to the enlisted men’s club and bend their elbows, they would offer to buy a steak dinner for me if I drove. Who could turn down a good steak dinner? Although the club was close to the barracks and they could have easily walked, sometimes the weather was inclement and sometimes they were under the weather and couldn’t walk.

The reason they chose me as driver other than the obvious dangers of driving under the influence was the facts of the Icelandic cops and their judicial system. One requirement of the policeman was that he had 6 feet tall or above and had to know how to wield a Billy stick. More than that, if you were caught and suspected of having alcohol aboard, an immediate blood draw happened. The court showed no mercy, looking at your blood alcohol level and your salary. The higher your blood alcohol, the higher percentage of your wages was garnished by the court. The fines was more than most people were willing to pay.

At home the steaks I remember were cooked with onions in brown gravy. Most times the steaks were just cube steaks, which are basically chunks of cheap beef passed through a meat tenderizer and pressed together into a square slab of meat. I loved it because my mom served mashed potatoes gravy.

In Round Eyed in Surprise

When I made rounds as nursing supervisor, I was often asked to look at photographs of weddings, vacations, new babies, children, and grandchildren. I was able to share events of their families through their own eyes and it was nice to be able to see just a bit of their lives away from a work setting.

One incident stands out as the most vivid and shocking photograph I can recall seeing. A nurse asked me to look at her vacation pictures. She’d gone on a cruise spending several days on a Caribbean island. She invited me to look at her photographs, I felt obligated, because I always tried to make time with any staff member to do a quick review. It was a way for me to connect with them and with the things important to them.

Her photographs were beautiful of sand, sea, trees, and flowers. I was casually flipping through the pictures until I saw what seemed to be a picture of a man, but I could see bare breasts. The person was raised up from the sand on elbows with breasts dangling inches from the sand. They were completely exposed. The person had wide buttocks that were squeezed into a pair of “Daisy Duke” cut off jeans.

I was about to ask who this person was, when I had to bite my tongue. I recognized the face in the photo. It was the nurse who’d gone on vacation and who’d taken the pictures.

This nurse had a square, manly face. She had large hips, legs, and thighs.  She was the last person I expected to see in a pair of short cut-offs shorts and being bare breasted.

When I looked up, all of the other nurses in the unit were all watching me. They saw my face going from puzzlement to a sudden recognition, then astonishment, already knowing the picture that was lurking and what photograph I’d just seen. They were just waiting to see my reaction.

I am still puzzled why a person would keep a picture like that in with her other photos or why would she allow me and her co-workers to see it? She wasn’t afraid to show me her photographs, but I was afraid I’d never be able look at another set of her pictures without fear and trepidation.

One of the nurses later said to me, “I knew exactly when you saw that picture and exactly when you recognized who it was in the photograph. Your face reddened and you shook your head.”

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)