Aw nuts

Due to an injury as a child my uncle Edwin Theodore Miner had the brain capacity of a third grade child. He was a bit quirky, but was industrious and did his best to make money. He mowed grass all summer with his bright green Lawn Boy mower. It was nothing to see him carrying the gas can and pushing his mower in front of him several miles from the farmhouse he shared with his mother Rebecca Rugg Miner. He was as good as his word. If he said he was going to do something you could count on it being done. Ted liked to tinker with old radios and would salvage the “good: tubes and replace ones that were bad. His tube inventory was stashed in five gallon buckets.

Ted ranged the hills and woods near Indian Head, Pennsylvania looking for patches of ginseng. The graceful green plants bore bright red berries announcing their treasure beneath the soil. He guarded those secret grow areas with tight lips. Once gathered and dried, the ginseng roots were another source for his money. He would sell the “sang” at the nearby Resh’s Red & White store.

In the fall Ted gathered black walnuts, butternuts, and hickory nuts. He would carry the nuts to the attic and spread them out to dry. When the nuts were dried, Ted would carry them back to the basement. He would crack them on a length of railroad rail with a hammer. Once he filled a smaller bucket with nuts, he would carry them upstairs to the TV room. Gram was usually there watching television and quilting. Ted would pick the nut meats from the shell as he watched the television too. Sometimes Gram would help. Ted stayed busy by removing nuts from the shells. He would supply his customers with nuts for their Thanksgiving and Christmas baking. When all the “goodies” were removed, the shells were empty he would toss them into the coal furnace to burn before cracking more nuts to carry upstairs. He’d fill sandwich size plastic bags with the nut meats to sell, but the butternuts were for Grandma Becky. She kept them to use in her Christmas popcorn balls.

he Eyes Have It

I have shared with my friends, family, and Facebook readers that I developed diplopia, which is double vision. It was strange because just five days before, I had my yearly eye examination and my vision hadn’t changed. It wasn’t necessary to get new glasses. Double vision made it difficult to continue doing my daily tasks and really limited my independence. It was necessary to cancel several appointments for my other health concerns, but I was able to drive myself locally. I would close one eye. Now I need to reschedule those appointments. There are other obligations that press too.

My vision since then has improved. The vision in both eyes have remained intact, they just weren’t coalescing into one focused picture. Yesterday I was my appointment with an ophthalmologist. I had my brother drive me to the appointment. I wasn’t sure whether or not the doctor would need to put drops in my eyes and was unsure if I’d be able to drive afterwards.

I wish I could clone myself about now, unlike the cloning going on with Facebook. I don’t know why they are doing it other than to allow someone to anonymously send messages to my friends. The type of cloning I need is to split myself so I can be in two places at the same time. I have several things that I will need done simultaneously. I guess I will have to choose which one is more important.

It has been quite awhile ago I decided not to worry about things. Oh, I have concerns, but that is much different than worrying. Worry only takes my mind off the tasks at hand and focuses on things that will probably never happen. I understand that there may be problems, but they are important only when they happen. Like with my double vision, it was a surprise and there was nothing I could do about it when it happened. My kids were more worried than I was. (Perhaps they thought I’d have to move in with them. LOL) The diplopia was a concern, but it caused an interruption in my schedule, but it didn’t cause my life to cease. I will have to hustle to catch up on so much that need done. I also have an eye on the things that I know are coming due, things I need to finish before winter and past commitments that will be coming again. Well, what gets done will get done. Que sera sera.

 

Thoughts of My Father

Nothing specific, but general thoughts of the man I know as my father. Some stories from him he took to the grave: stories from his parents, of his life working to make a family, and tales of his time in World War Two. He did share a few things near the end of his life about his enlistment in the Army, but very little. As kids, we knew he spent time in the Philippines, drove a truck, and was hit by a piece of shrapnel from a bomb, but little else. Later, he shared that he had visited Hiroshima. He never described what he’d seen, but it had to be after the bombing, because he wouldn’t have had the means as a teenager before the war.

He had a small cache of black and white photographs, most of which were of the native people, his mates, and the land. Somewhere in the intervening years, they have become lost and are no longer a part of our family’s heritage.

He was never one to show much affection. His gruff appearance would occasionally part into a wry smile. He only rarely said the word love, even to my mother. He worked in the coal mines, then a factory to provide food, clothing, and a home for our family. Money was always tight, but he would often surprise us with something special. Sundays were the best. After returning from church and Sunday school, he would drive to a nearby grocery store to buy the Sunday newspaper, a large bag of Snyder’s potato chips, and a circle chunk of longhorn cheese. He always liked long horn especially when it was fresh and “gummy.”

Buying a newer car every few years and washing the vehicles every week stand out as memories of him. Fords seemed to be his passion, although he did buy a Chevy as a second car for my mom once.

His horny, calloused hands were like asbestos and I would see him pick up and move hot things without seemingly feeling the pain. I was impressed when he would swing a double-bitted axe, hitting the same spot time after time as he split fire wood.

Digging clay from beneath our home place to create a full basement instead of a crawl space is another memory, load after load wheeled out in a rickety wheelbarrow.

Often he would come back on Saturday mornings with several squirrels he’d shot. He would skin them in the basement. Mom would fry them making squirrel gravy and pancakes for breakfast. He would sop pancakes in sausage or bacon grease and yet he lived until he was ninety years old. I love you, Dad. 

Camp Conestoga

Camp Conestoga is a Boy Scout Camp located near Bakersville in southwestern Pennsylvania. When I was a teen, I went with the other youth from our Scout troop to summer camp. It was a bit primitive. We slept on cots inside canvas tents, two “men” to a tent. There was a mess hall with long tables and benches. Meals were served mostly “family style.” Food was passed hand to hand in deep dishes. Each person served themselves. There were toilet and shower facilities. Hot water was one luxury I was glad that they had.

My father decided I needed a haircut before I went, telling our barber, (Uncle Charles) that I was to have a crew cut. I’d never had close cropped hair before and haven’t had one since (other than the buzz cut required when I joined the United States Navy in boot camp.) There must be something about camps and short hair.

I have an odd shaped head and I hated the crew cut. Before I went to Camp, I wore a baseball cap or a ski cap stuck on my head. At Camp I wore my Scout cap as much as possible. I believe that today I wear a hat when I go out because of that childhood “trauma.” The brim of a ball cap also keeps the sun out of my eyes and the rain from spattering my glasses.

Several memorable events happened that I remember. Some local entrepreneurs would walk into the camp selling donuts. They carried the donuts on canes. They slid donuts through the holes making them easy to carry. Extra food at camp was wonderful and dangerous to hide in your luggage. One guy smuggled in bananas. Who knew that skunks loved bananas too?

One scout slept soundly. His snoring sounded like a freight train, disturbing several scouts in nearby tents. They waited until he was sound asleep, then like pall bearers, with one at each corner of his cot, lifted it out of the tent and carried it to an adjacent field. There they abandoned him and his cot. The next morning he was back inside his tent, but four fresh furrows in the grass marked the trail that the legs of his cot being dragged back to his tent.

Evening campfires and skits were late evening entertainment, with each group of scouts being responsible for different skits. Two I can remember were Peanuts, the elephant and another where several scouts would run in apparent terror yelling, “The viper is coming. The viper is coming.” The last scout would enter holding a roll of toilet paper over his head with a paper tail waving behind. 

Miniskirts and Grandma

My mother Sybil Miner Beck and I would take my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner for her doctor’s appointments. Mom would drive and I would tag along for Grandma to hang onto when she walked. She did okay at home, but sometimes curbs and steps without a railing gave her problems. She was bow legged from arthritis and her hands and feet were gnarled and misshapen from rheumatism. Gram walked by herself, but sometimes when she was out she needed an arm on which to lean or to have a steadying hand.

When her doctor’s appointment was over Mom would drive us to a nearby restaurant for lunch. Grandma looked forward to having a meal where she didn’t have to cook or do the dishes afterward. Grandma Becky still wore opaque “flesh-colored” cotton stockings that were held up by elastic garters. Her black shoes were tied and had short clunky heels. The hems of her dresses were always mid calf or lower. Although her joints were old and gnarled, her hair was still shiny black with only a strand or two of silver even into her late seventies.

We chose a booth near the door and settled in when the waitress came over and asked what we would like to drink, delivering our menus. After she walked away, I could see Grandma reaching under the table and pulling at the hem of her skirt. She studied her menu, but would often tug on her dress. She wasn’t comfortable that her knees were showing. The young waitress returned to take our orders while standing at our table. We ordered. She tucked her pad and pen into an apron pocket, gathered the menus, and hurried away to the kitchen.

By that time, Grandma’s hand had already disappeared under the table. She was again fidgeting at her dress. I knew she’d never be able to relax and eat her meal unless I did something.

Before I say more, I need to describe our waitress. She was attractive with long, straight blonde hair and shapely legs. They were very solid with full calves and thighs. This was the era of mini-skirts, but her skirt bordered on the micro-mini. Earlier when she stood at our table, the hem of her mini-skirt hovered just above the table top.

The next time Grandma’s hand delved beneath the table, I asked, “Grandma, did you see our waitress?”

She looked puzzled but said, “Yes.”

“Did you see what she was wearing?”

Again she replied, “Yes.”

I said, “Did you see her legs?”

Her answer was the same, “Yes.”

“With her walking around in this restaurant, do you think that anyone is going to be looking at your knees?”

We laughed and she settled down to enjoy her meal.