The Sound of Silence

I share things share my thoughts, not to seek pity, because I know others have the same feelings.

As the years have passed, my house has gotten less noisy. My wife Cindy Morrison Beck died and our children have married and started their own lives. When my last child married, she couldn’t take Willow her cat. Willow and I were left to continue our lives together, sharing a large two-storied house. Most times Willow was less noisy than me, her meow almost non-existent unless I stepped on her tail. She made more noise when chasing a mouse; most times she would play with the mouse chasing it. I had to get out of bed and kill the mouse with a shoe, giving it a burial at sea by flushing it down the toilet.

As the house grew quieter, I’d often turn on the television for company. The boob tube taught me tricks to survive in cold Alaska winters, how to make a delicious meal form an odd assortment of food, and how to renovate an old house if I had the tools and manpower. Ministers with Bible teaching and sermons also filled my quiet times.

Recently Willow passed away. She rapidly deteriorated, refusing to eat. I buried her lifeless body beneath the Willows at the back of my property. Her soft meows have now been stilled. My house seems even emptier. More and more I am tempted to leave the television’s remote in the off position, only my puttering breaks the stillness. There are times late in the evenings when vehicles no longer whizz past my front door and crickets no longer serenade me, their chirping songs become stilled. If I don’t have a fan running or if the humming of the refrigerator is stilled, the ensuing silence will fill my ears and I will hear silence. That may seem an odd thing to say, but my ears fill the void with a soft ringing sound. The universe hates a void and will do something to fill it. Right now, even with the low hum of the ceiling fan over my head, I can hear a faint ringing. It’s a barely heard sound. This quietness is often a spur for me to write or at times a detriment when it intrudes on what I’m trying to say.

There are times I long for the sound of my many cousins that filled my Grandparents Ray and Rebecca Miner’s house and times when my children lived at home with visiting friends. But alas, those times are no more and I’ve become accustomed to the quiet and only enjoying brief interludes into my solitude. 

The Farm

My grandfather Raymond Miner and his wife Rebecca Rugg Miner owned a small farm near Indian Head in the southwest corner of Pennsylvania. Granddad raised a few cattle, a couple horses, several pigs, a flock of chickens, and a passel of kids, eight to be exact, five girls and two boys. The only crops I can remember him growing were hay, corn, and of course Grandma’s garden.

The farm was dominated by a large two story farmhouse and a weathered gray barn. There were several outbuildings, a block covering for the spring, two chicken coops, a smoke house, a corn crib, and of course the outhouse. The farmhouse had a large basement that contained a myriad of shelves to hold canned goods, the pump for water, a coal bin and the huge coal furnace with its octopus maze of heating ductwork. At the end of the steep stairs descending to the basement was a huge flat stone approximately three feet by five feet platform before stepping down onto the basement floor. Cobwebs decorated much of the less frequently explored areas. The lighting was single bulbs that dangled from ceiling wires.

Three large hemlock trees shaded the long front porch, their roots lifting a few of the bricks in the walkway to the porch. Later, I remember the back porch being built in to house “indoor plumbing” t to make room for a toilet and bathtub. I was too little do more than get in the way as the men dug a hole to place the septic tank and ditches for the drainage field. That was a blessing for Gram and her progressing rheumatic arthritis. She no longer had to make trips to the outhouse or use the chamber pot, but. Granddad still kept the two-hole outhouse. With so many kids and grandkids, the outhouse was often necessary in peak demand times at gatherings to butcher the hogs and a bull or for holiday celebrations.

He donated a small lower field to his church when they were looking for a new location to build and expand. The minister once described Granddad as Enoch-like. He was a quiet man who walked with God when he died.

Verizon on the Horizon

The past few days have been a struggle. My cell phone slipped from my shirt pocket while I was burying my cat Willow. It fell onto a rock. One corner of my cell’s screen cracked halfway across the bottom and almost halfway up the side. I had an insurance policy and the replacement phone was sent. I spent nearly three hours Monday evening on the phone transferring the content from my old phone to the new one. One thing I forgot to do was to write down the “code” to unlock my new cell. My old phone didn’t have the lock out on the screen, so after I hung up from the tech support, I tried to access my new cell, but was unable to do so. I tried to call the tech support, but the transfer to the new phone was complete, and when they would send verification codes that I couldn’t receive because I was locked out. Verizon would ask questions like what is your 4 digit access code, like an old codger like me would have it memorized or written down somewhere that was easy to find.

So, my attempt to rectify, I called the Verizon help number. Because I was unable to access my phone, it was suggested that I go to the nearest Verizon store and have them do a “factory reset.” I spent a bit over an hour at the store. The sales rep was very polite and attempted in multiple ways to do a factory reset while talking to a Verizon help tech. I haven’t used my Google account for ages and couldn’t give them the information to access my phone date through another avenue because of the lock on my “new phone replacement.” Any message sent to my phone was locked away. Their attempt to do a factory restart filed. I was upset enough thinking of the phone numbers and photos that I would lose.

It was suggested by this smaller satellite store to go to the Verizon center in a nearby city to have them do the reboot and factory restart. Again Verizon was chasing tails and the larger store was unable to do the restart. I only spent an hour and a half there. My only option was to get an updated phone and call Verizon to activate it. The staff of that store couldn’t help (although they tried) because the Verizon IVR (activations) was closed, of course.

I almost went back on my resolution of, “I never go out if I’m grumpy, because no one wants to deal with a grumpy old man. Pray for me while I try to activate my new phone. 

Autumn Chill

The bright sunny days of summer have somehow almost completely slipped away, yielding to slightly cooler days and even chillier nights. An extra blanket feels more comfortable when the window is cracked open in an otherwise stuffy bedroom. I haven’t yet decided to bring out the flannel sheets, but perhaps soon. Yesterday, I washed and dried my king sized, hand sewn patchwork quilt. It is in the tumbling block pattern and the material is of recycled double knit fabric. Almost every diamond shaped piece of the quilt has a family story attached to it. It was at one time, someone’s skirt, pants, shirt or blouse and is easily recognizable by the color or the print pattern. Each block resurrects a page in my book of memories.

Apples on the trees in the back yard were picked by a friend who presses them into apple juice to freeze. I really don’t want to make applesauce, apple butter, or apple schnitz. I offered them to my kids and had no takers. I may gather s few of the better ones, pare, slice, and freeze some. I make keep a few of the golden delicious to eat. The few that fall to the ground or are damaged I’ll toss into the pasture for the neighbor’s horses.

It seems each time I try to downsize, I end up storing something for someone else. To those people who say a person can’t take belongings with them to the grave? I’m sure I’ll find a way.

I have one room in my house that I say is decorated in early depression. There are old tools and enamel pots and pans hanging on the walls that are too good to throw away, but not the best or easiest to use for cooking or for work. I have several old photographs interspaced to keep that room from looking like a hoarder’s hideaway. Because I was thinking about getting into a smaller house, I stored the Christmas decorations there too rather than lugging them to the attic.

My chimney was cleaned out and I still have most of my firewood to be stacked, covered, hauled in, and burned, but the chill hasn’t deepened enough yet. I am planning to order another load of wood and may get some coal. I like the consistent heat. Leaves are beginning to turn and it will be time to fry sausage for the Ohiopyle Volunteer Fire Department’s Sausage and Buckwheat Festival. This year it will be held October, 14, 15, and 16. I’ve I’m waiting for the call to join the ranks. This will be the forty-sixth year, working my way up from dishwasher, to cake fryer, and finally frying sausage. 

Beneath the Willows

She appeared on our doorstep nearly nine years ago, August 27, 2013. A tiny, thin kitten managed to climb the stairs to our front door. Black with white trimmed fur, she had a very soft meow that stayed with her even as she grew. As an adult cat her meows were barely discernable. My daughter Anna decided she wanted to keep the kitten and needed a name. Its long fur of black and white markings made an elongated “W” on one side. We finally settled on Willow.

Anna took her to be spayed, but couldn’t pick Willow up afterwards. I made the trip. The cat clinic was in Derry. There was a major problem. Rain, it was a deluge. There were deep puddles that formed on Route 30. They had to be dodged. I picked Willow up trying several ways to get home. The detours took me onto roads I’d never driven before. One road was a river of rushing water pushing soccer ball-sized rocks that had to be maneuvered around. It took me nearly 2.5 hours that normally would take 45 minutes to get home.

Willow was a very territorial cat. When another kitten appeared on our porch, Willow would hurl herself at the storm door hissing and snarling. Fortunately we were able to find a home for the new kitten. We knew it would never be a two cat home.

Willow was a fairly good mouser. The only problem was she like to play with them. Several times I’d hear Willow jumping and running through the house. The noise would wake me. When I would check the noise, I’d find a mouse between her paws. She’d let go of it, then chase it until she caught it again. I grabbed a shoe and when she allowed it to escape again I dispatched it with the heel of my shoe, then gather the stunned or dead mouse by its tail and give it a burial at sea. FLUSH!

Willow actually saved my life. One winter I’d just cleaned the pipe of my wood burner. When I reassembled it, apparently I didn’t secure the pipe correctly and it separated allowing a small amount of smoke and carbon monoxide to escape into my house. She wouldn’t settle, but kept jumping onto my lap. I woke and repaired the pipe.

The past few days she refused to eat. She refused the canned cat food and didn’t touch the dry. I knew it was just a matter of time, and today was the day. She passed quietly. I dug a hole for her to rest beneath the willows.