Oops

We kids were shopping with our mom, Sybil Miner Beck at a grocery store, walking along side of the shopping cart. We’d occasionally ask for something we’d see like all kids do. Kathy, my younger sister was reading the products as she walked along; “Toothpaste, Kleenex…” she paused and then asked, “Mom, what are tampoons?”

My mom stopped, leaned over, and hissed into her ear, “S-h-h-h, I’ll tell you later.”

While finishing our shopping, Kathy was quiet. She’d stopped reading products and seemed to be thinking saying nothing more. Mom paid for the groceries and pushed the cart to our car. We helped to unload the cart, then climb into the car to drive home.

Mom had barely exited the parking lot when Kathy asked, “Mom, what are tampoons?”

Mom’s answer was the same, “Kathy, not now, I said I would tell you later.”

I never knew what mom told Kathy later, but I am sure that later Kathy reminded Mom to tell her what tampoons were.

My first child Amanda went through a stage where she became a vacuum cleaner picking up anything that was on the floor; lint, a piece of thread, a bit of paper. She’d carry whatever she found and give it to the nearest adult. She was toddling around in her diaper looking for things to collect.

Most of us had gotten into the habit of holding out our hand and take it without looking.  One day when we were at my parent’s house, Amanda had been picking up things and giving them to Kathy. For some reason she’d singled Kathy as the recipient of her gifts.

Amanda walked over to Kathy and offered her find for Kathy. Kathy was talking and instinctively held out her hand. When Amanda deposited her “treasure”, Kathy thought it felt heavier than things that Amanda had been finding.

Kathy stopped talking and looked in her hand. It was a turd. The bowel movement must have fallen out of Amanda’s diaper. She picked it up, carried it across the room, and handed it to Aunt Kathy.

Since then, Kathy always looks before she accepts anything from a kid.

The next story again involved my daughter Amanda. She was a bit older and we were at my parent’s house for lunch. Amanda was carrying around her small purse. She opened it and took out a little white tube and was rubbing it across her lips.

My wife Cindy being curious asked, “What do you have Amanda?”

“Iptick.” (Lipstick.)

My wife said, “Thank goodness she didn’t take that out in church.” The “Ip-tick” was a tampon in a plastic holder.

 

Phantoms Attack

Ever since my fall on the ice in February of 2015, I’ve had the lingering problem of phantom smells. Occasionally I have difficulty concentrating and keeping names straight. Considering problems that I could have had, that is small. I very easily could have had more serious symptoms and physical disabilities of seizures, stroke, or even death. So I consider myself very fortunate indeed.

Initially I had only two phantom smells. One was automobile hot exhaust fumes, like a car was running nearby and filling my house with that odor. I soon learned that it was not real. The second smell was that of hot plastic. Every time that it “appeared” I wandered through my house just to be sure that something wasn’t burning. Those original aromas have faded over the years and I haven’t experienced them in quite some time, but occasionally, some other smell will arrive. Today is one of those days. I am unable to recognize what the odor is. The reason that I mention it at all, is because of its strength.

Yesterday I had a few varied odors that flitted into view before leaving almost as quickly, but not so this morning. Whatever I am “smelling” rolls in like the waves of an ocean during a storm. Unrecognizable and disguised, it fills my olfactory senses, then ebbs back to disappear. I’m almost afraid to take my morning medications or to make breakfast because at the height of the concentrated “smell” it brings along an unwelcome guest, nausea. The one good thing is that my morning blood sugar is middle of the road, where the delay in taking my medications or eating breakfast won’t matter for now.

I may just wait out the storm before I pop my pills and raid the refrigerator, until I’m sure that the storms have passed. Up to his point phantom smells are irksome and not bothered me to this extent. I’ve been able to coexist without any physical inconvenience. I am praying that the phantom smells haven’t charted a new course and decided to actually cause problems for me. 

Karens and Kevins

I’m not sure where those names for people unruly people were derived, but there are more and more videos of these people being shown. There are sites where they display only these screaming banshees in an almost unending parade. I haven’t decided yet if it is our “advanced” ability to record these incidents or whether it is the culture that we now live in that accepts the violence, insolence, and disrespect to another person. Have we cultivated narcissism and entitlement to this point? Have we lost the ability to care about another individual as long as we can get our way?

The closest that I’ve ever neared a “Kevin moment” in my life was at our infamous local Wal-Mart. It was during usual PRE-Thanksgiving displaying of Christmas items. I was continuing the tradition of buying a new Christmas ornament for each of my kids and grandkids and was wandering down the aisles in the converted “Home and Garden Center” from plants, fertilizer, and grass seeds into a dazzling Yuletide wonderland of Christmas cards, lights, bulbs, ribbons, and wrapping paper. It was a bit early for me to be shopping, but sometimes the decorations became picked over and the really cute ones were gone. I was strolling down the aisle pushing my shopping cart (buggy for western Pennsylvanians or trolley if you’re from the UK) I saw sections of pre-shaped outdoor bells, angels, reindeer, stars, and candles that could be hung on doors or the sides of homes. The next display section held Christmas tree toppers. Stars, angels, AND what should my wondering eyes appear, but a CHRISTMAS tree topper in the shape of the “star and crescent moon…” the symbol of Islam. What was it doing in a CHRISTMAS display section of the store? I was livid. I certainly didn’t think that it belonged in an area filled with Christmas decorations for the celebration honoring the birth of Jesus, the Messiah of the world. This celebration of the living Christ has nothing to do with Mohammed.

Yes, I did ask an employee why it was located with Christmas decorations. And yes he had no idea. And yes I asked to speak to a manager. I was less than cordial when I told him that it offended me when it was displayed with Christmas items. It did not belong there and needed to be removed. In the end he agreed to remove it. He was true to his word and placed it with items in the outdoor area of the garden center. It wasn’t removed from the store, but it was no longer displayed with the Christmas tree toppers. It was a small victory. 

Cycles of Life

Thinking back to my childhood memories some of the things I remember are the cycles. The first was a tricycle. It wasn’t actually a tricycle, but had three wheels; four if you include the steering wheel. It was a bright red pedal tractor with a wide metal seat shaped like the older tractor seats, but it was solid, not having the cut-out design. The two black rubber rear wheels were V-shaped tread like tractor tires and a single grooved front tire that could be guided with a twist of the steering wheel. Two pedals dangled below the “motor” of the tractor. It had no brakes and was single child powered.

When I outgrew the pedal car, I got a bright red bicycle with solid rubber tires. It was about 24 inches high and I enjoyed riding it in the yard. It was in nearly pristine shape until I outgrew it and my brother Ken inherited it. He was a daredevil and soon wore out those solid rubber tires, leaving ony shreds and wires. I’ve written about that before and won’t belabor the point.

Other cycles I enjoyed were Fudgecicles, Popcicles, Creamcicles, and Dreamcicles. (I know, they aren’t actually cycles, but give me a bit of poetic license.)  I remember biting into these delicacies on hot summer days. The deep rich fudge flavor melted more slowly than ice cream, but it was still necessary to eat it quickly before it fell off the stick. Popcicles came in a variety of flavors, two to a package so it was easy to share. Root beer and banana were my favorite flavors. Creamsickles had that wonderfully creamy orange taste, delicious to the very last lick of the stick. Dreamsickles had a sweet berry flavor that could make any kid smile. There was a fancy brand called Captain Crunch-cicles. The outside of each of the different flavored bars was coated in cereal crumbles.

While we’re reminiscing about ice creams, I remember turning the crank of the ice cream churn at my Grandmother Miner’s place. Rich cream from the farm, sugar, and vanilla whirled around in an ice bath to make the remarkable confection, but returning to store bought delights. Ice cream sandwiches, vanilla ice cream rectangle sandwiched between two chocolate cookies or how about the drumsticks, dark sweet cones filled with vanilla ice cream capped with a chocolate coating.

Since my youth, flavors and brands of ice cream have blossomed. My mom, Sybil Miner Beck enjoyed White House or Maple Walnut. My dad Carl’s favorite flavor was Orange-Pineapple. At the Wig-Wam restaurant in Indian Head, Pennsylvania they had soft ice cream cones. I always ordered a twist. The cone was filled with chocolate and vanilla swirls. 

Slavery, Holocaust, Abortion

When we look back in America when keeping another person in bondage was legal and they were considered chattel, less than human, we’re appalled at our ignorance and gross misjudgment. It’s with great repugnance that anything this barbaric was considered legal. How could sentient beings think that this could be permissible in a civilized society? We can’t understand how people didn’t speak out sooner to abolish this despicable act. It’s hard to fathom the horrors other humans suffered under cruel masters. But it is history and we’re utterly repulsed by that taint from our past.

Germany rounded up the Jews of Europe, hauling them like cattle to camps where they were enslaved or murdered. The names of Auschwitz, Dachau, Buchenwald, and other cause us to shudder in revulsion. Other nationalities were arrested and forced into prison camps to work, live, and die under the same horrendous conditions. Some to work in the factories of the Nazi war machine and fed scraps that would barely keep them alive; worked to death, then cast aside. Women, children, and the sickly were herded into gas chambers, murder, then cremated in huge furnaces, but not before they were stripped of all valuables. A few healthy people were subjected to torturous medical experiments. All of this horrendous cruelty was tolerated by a “sophisticated” society and encouraged to continue by their leaders. Reviewing history, we shudder at the utter disregard for the sanctity of human rights and life. It’s a deep and ugly scar on world history.

I believe that America will look back in the near future with the same disgust and horror at abortion. The callous society that has allowed innocent infants to be torn from the safety of the mother’s womb then disposed of like garbage is almost unprecedented. I shudder at the lost value of these babies to future generations. How could we have ignored their rights to the promises listed in the Constitution of the United States?

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness” These are words taken from that precious document. Why should these innocent children be punished for their parents’ mistake?

I also know the Bible condemns the murder and the harming of children, but many people don’t believe the truths of the Word of God. Those warnings from God will cause many to resist those words like they have turned their backs on God. I can only pray that we will soon look back on the barbaric act of abortion, cataloging it with the other evils of history.