Fair Weather Friend
It was souch a beautiful Sunday. The sunshine and gentle breeze felt wonderful. It was such a pleasure not to have gotten soggy with rain or to be chilled by a strong wind. I was actually tempted to begin the daily walks I put on hold because of the skim of ice, thick snow, gale force winds, and the frigid temperatures. It was an actual pleasure to leave my house and to drive to church. I didn’t have to remove the black ice preventing cover for my windshield, nor was it required of me to scrape the frost from my car windows. There was no need for me to run the heater and remove the misty film on the inside of my windscreen with the defrost fan before I drove away.
The rains from the past few days had the outside of my car relatively clean and I though I was on top of the world. My spritis were furthered lifted as I walked to my car. Several of my purple crocuses had poked their heads out of the ground too line my walkway. The greetings from several birds filled the morning with their cheerful songs.
The small pools of rainwater had nearly disappeared and the soggy muddy spots in the grasss had nearly dried-up.It was a “no mud on my shoes” morning. That was always worth a smile. The only thing missing was the usual colorful sunrise. The lack of clouds didn’t reflect bach the vividly brilliant peacock hues that frequently greet me as the sun climbs out of bed to rise over the slopes of the Laurel Muntains to my east.The view was unrestricted by early morning fog.
The two church services were good. The morning sermon was from Proverbs comparing the wise son and the foolish son. The Pastor shared the blessings and the concerns of each. I picked up a neighbor for the Sunday evening service and drove him to and from church. The topic for the evening service waas from the book of Revelation explaining the last days of man, the Beast, the False Prophet, and Satan himself along with death and hell will be cast into the lake of fire.
Monday is to be another glorious day. I may decide to get some laundry done and out on the line while the weather is fair.

 Time Marches On
Well it’s here, the month of March.  I stand at it door. Even though my birthday is in March it iis a month that I am always fearful to see it approach. So many untoward things have happened in the month of March. Some of which I’d just as soon forget. With each event the anniversary is bittersweet and forgetting it would forget the ending of something important in my life. Although painful, forgetting isn’t an option.
My wife Cindy Morrison Beck passed away on March 25, 2003, twenty-one years ago. She was nearly consumed with ovarian cancer that spread throughout her entire body. It seems just a short time ago she was on a respirator on a hospital bed, in a battle for her life. When I say it was a blessing that she died, people think I am callous and uncaring, but if you have ever held the hand of a person dying with a painful form of cancer, you can understand, Cindy had no pain throughout her struggle. I consider it a blessing from God to have taken her home and freeing her from this disease.
On the third anniversary of Cindy’s death, my mom Sybil Miner Beck passed away on exactly the same day. My family was still reeling from the death of Cindy and then her mom Retha Johnson Morrison who passed away in between. It was an extremely difficult time. My mom had been suffering from the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. Her mind was slowly stolen away by this insidious disease. My mom and all five of her sisters were stricken with this disease. Her sister Violet Miner Bottomley died while talking on the phone to my mom. That event deepened the progression of the disease.
After a series of events that directed my doctor to probe deeper into my health concerns, I underwent a triple bypass surgery three years ago. I was fortunate enough to have the surgery before I had a heart attack and unfortunate enough to be in the hospital during my birthday. Happy birthday to me.
Well March is here. I wonder what the month has in store for me this year?

 This That and the Other
I’m thinking about several things that seem to recently gather around blessings, some for me and some for others. The older I get, the more I understand the phrase, “You can’t outgive God.” I’ve been noticing that since I have been trying to share blessings that God has given to me, I’ve seen that the things God’s given me are going farther to help others and myself.
Let me illustrate by saying that things that we might consider a problem isn’t always so. The chimney to my woodburner has been unusable all winter. At first I thought that was unfortunate, but the wood and coal that I’d purchased last fall has laid untouched. Recently one of my friends told me that he’s had difficulty affording wood and coal for his furnace. I told him there’s no reason for you to be cold, when I have a stack of wood that I’m not using. Please come and take all that you need. God knew ahead of time and allowed me to purchase some wood and coal ahead of time.
God knew that I would have no use for the wood and that my friend would need it. More than that, God gave me the finances to pay the fuel oil that I’d need and that was a double blessing. I haven’t struggled to haul the wood inside during the cold weather months, I haven’t had to haul out the ashes, and the need for me to go up and down several flights of stairs was lessened. The fewer trips decreased the wear and tear on my painful knees.
I believe I’ve shared before that I’m part of an experimental medication study for my diabetes. I tell folks that I am selling myself, preferring to be teased about being a gigilo rather than a human guinea pig. Through the routine office visits, vital signs, and blood samples they monitour my progress. I keep an extensive personal log for them to follow my progress. I’m paid a stipend for my participation. That’s why I say I’m selling myself. The payments help keep money in reserve to pay taxes, insurance, dental bills, and the fuel oil. Hy is it that bills all seem to hit in cluster like the plagues of Egypt. Another blessing I’m getting from the experimental study group is that the company also pays for my insulin and that’s one less monthly cost coming out of my pocket.

A Hair’s Breadth
How much time do we spend thinking about hair… quite a bit actually? When we wake we shower and look in the mirror then we comb or brush it into place. If our hair is thinning or too long, we worry and make plans to have it cut or sometimes think about having hair replaced if its thinning and expanding into baldness. Some men, tired of it all, shave their heads, but even then they aren’t free from hair. Every few days some of the hair begins to sprout and the razor comes out again.
Speaking about a razor, men have to deal with facial hair as well as some women. (Yes women, even you, and don’t say no.) Again, the mirror helps men to trim, shape, or completely scrape off those coarse bristles. Full beards are the exception. Women use the mirror and a pair of tweezers to pluck random growths when they emerge.
Women chase away unwanted hairs on legs, armpits, and private areas using razors, waxes, or depilatories. They subject themselves to pain, scraping, and irritation to look smooth and sleek. Now, men other than the body builders who normally remove body hair to highlight their muscles are following suit, stripping their bodies of the “unnecessary” fur.
The thing that made me think about hair was my childhood neighbor. He was an older man and harrumphed in his throat quite a bit. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he would sit on the front porch and watch the yard as we ran and played. Tired, we often sat on his porch steps and talked yo him. I was fascinated with the crop of hair that protruded from his ears. A thick thatch of coarse hair, like flowers in a vase, stuck out from his ears. I didn’t understand how he could still hear with such a forest growing there. I always said to myself, “I won’t allow mine to get that thick,” and now have a problem, frequently having to trim or pluck before my ear canal fills.
Manufacturers have made all kinds of potions and treatments to get rid of hair, clean and volumize hair, for dry hair or to grow hair. It depends on the person’s need. There are also products to curl, straighten, or to color hair. If you have graying hair, even beards, the products try to make you look young again adding color where color has fled in its old age. They make combs and brushes of all shapes and sizes for your convenience or needs. They play on our vanities and make products to entice and seduce people into trying to buy back our youth.

 

 You’re Out
    Years ago, my son Andrew and my nephew Kenny played instructional baseball for two years. Mostly they just enjoyed playing. One reason all the boys liked to play was one pitcher was a cute young blonde girl. She was a great pitcher as well.
The boys on the team thought they were hot stuff. The team was the Pirates.Because the city of Pittsburgh was close and the city’s professional team is the Pirates. Their team’s uniforms were in the Pirates’ colors; white uniforms with black and gold trim.
    The ball fields sported aqua-blue port-a-potties, but otherwise, the ball fields were well maintained. I’m not sure who mowed and raked the fields, but they did a great job.
    My brother Ken and I helped the coaches at practices with batting, pitching, and throwing with the team. We also supported them by cheering and rooting.
    One day Kenny disappeared. We didn’t notice it until it was time for our team to take the field. We began to look for him. A red-hair topped head popped out of the port-a-potty when we finally noticed him. He had gone inside and used the outhouse only to find that there was no paper in the dispenser. He didn’t know what to do. His only hope was to catch someone’s attention to have them find some tissue.
    My brother Ken searched his car until he found some left-over paper napkins from a fast food restaurant. Kenny’s dignity was preserved and the ball practice went on.
    Occasionaly my brother and I would be pressed into service as umpires to officiate a game. My brother was chosen more often than I, because he was more assertive and more knowledgeable about the rules of the game than me. That was alright with me. I would get so involved in watching the game and I would come close to missing whether the runners were safe or out or hit balls were foul or fair. It was difficult for me to concentrate on those things.
    It was instructional baseball. They guys were learning the basics of the game; it became more and more difficult for my brother to watch some coaches being so hard on their young charges. It really irritated Ken when some coaches were overly rough with the young players. These kids weren’t professionals. They were only just learning the game. It was necessary for coaches to point out mistakes, but not to curse and swear at the boys. The rough treatment actually made my brother angry.
    The next game he was called on to officiate, Ken let the coaches know how he felt. Before the start of the first inning, he called the coaches together and explained his guidelines. “I’m warning you guys twice about cursing, swearing, or being rough with your players and then I’ll throw you out of the game. Consider this your first. Alright, let’s play ball.”

 Dippin’ Knowing the Difference
Dippin’ has several different connotations. Back in history when a charlatan or cad riled up the community they would heat up black, sticky tar and dip the person in it coat the cad in the tar then liberally cover him in feathers. If the crowd was in sensed enough, they would tie the person onto a rail and run him out of town.
History also tells us that farmers and sheepherders would wash the sheep before shearing and dip them in a solution that would kill parasites keeping the flock safe from disease for the coming season. That was the annual sheep dip. The flock would be free of the heavy fleece and free from parasites.
When outhouses were the norm and people lived in larger areas of farms and homesteads, when the privy hole became filled to capacity, the homesteader and farmer would dig another pit close by, move the shanty, and start another repository for their waste products. Later as towns and cities were formed, there was no room to move the outhouses and an occupation grew up emptying the putrid pits to make them usable again. These men were called “honey dippers.” With shovels, buckets, and boots they climbed down inside, hauling away the sewage. Today, men come in a large tanker truck and use a hose to empty septic tanks when they become full.
Also back in the past, men and women used tobacco ground up into a powder. They would sniff this tobacco for the nicotine and to sneeze. Snuff has maintained its popularity, but the tobacco is ground more coarsely and is tucked into the mouth between cheeks and gums. This was called dippin’ snuff. Sometimes the more “elite” will buy snuff that is sewn into small packets, but the results are still the same. That’s their vice, but I do dislike seeing streaks of brown tobacco juice trailing down their chin and staining whiskers. One thing I’, grateful is that most women who chew or dip snuff is that they don’t have beards.
More recently dippin’ sauces have become popular, while a person who gets caught double dippin’ is frowned upon, whether the person has a chip in their hand or whether they are attempting to receive benefits several times from an agency from the same dosor.

 There’s Snow Way
After a pleasant touch of several warm days and the astute assurance from Punxsutawney Phil, I was hoping that the worst of the cold and snow winter weather was being seen in the rearview mirror, it was not to be so. Saturday I woke to six inches of fluffy snow that was being pushed by a very brisk wind. The chilly temperature of twenty-eight degrees with a chill factor of ten degrees Fahrenheit didn’t thrill me. It’s not my cup of tea.
As is my usual habit to clean out my driveway or I couldn’t rest. The habit to have ab open drive started when I had kids in the house and was never sure when an emergency might arise. Donning my snow boots and heavy winter coat, I braved the elements. Grabbing my trusty snow shovel, I cleared the sidewalk to my driveway then shoveled along one side of my car to the end of my drive. I attacked the plowed collection of snowplowed drift piled at the end of my drive by the salt trucks. Other than the jumble at the end of my drive, the snow was fluffy. I knew that drifts would grow higher if I tossed the snow on my side of the road, so I carried each shovelful across the road to dump in an empty field.
Because of the cold, I divided the clearing of my drive into three sections. The first was directly behind my car, slightly wider than my vehicle then went in for a cup of hot tea and to warm my fingers. The next attack was the space beside my car to allow someone to barely pull off the road if they chose to visit. My third assault was to extend that space so someone could actually park their vehicle, even if they drove a pickup truck. I’m praying that the snowplows don’t block me in for church Sunday morning and undo all I’ve done.
I don’t particularly like the cold and snow, but if the wind dies down and the temperature warms a bit, I may break out a pair of cross country skis that I picked up several years ago. I tried them a few times until the ski boots literally fell apart. Recently I was able to buy another pair at a thrift shop. What can I say? I’m frugal. My kids call me cheap, but after paying all of my bills I usually have a bit of money at the end of the month to buy groceries.