Eggs-Actly

 Eggs-Actly
I’d like to share some stories that were brought to my recollection; all clustered around one word, eggs. The first is about the portrait of my grandmother Rebecca Rugg Miner. It was a time when travelling photographers sold their talent door to door. I am glad that he stopped at my grandparent’s big farmhouse and cajoled my grandmother into sitting for a portrait. His pitch was that he would take a photograph and return with it in several weeks. Grandma could view it and if she wasn’t satisfied with it, she could refuse to buy it. As the story goes, Grandma had no intention of buying anything, but she donned a clean blouse, jacket and a small brooch and sat for the photo.
Several weeks later the salesman returned with a tinted black and white portrait in an oval frame. It was a quality product with her youthful face captured in the picture. Raven hair, dark eyes, and a subtle hint of a smile had been enhanced by a rosy tint on her cheeks and lips. When Gram said she didn’t have the money to buy it, the salesman continued his spiel by saying it was okay if she didn’t want to buy it, he could sell it to a bar owner to hang over the bar for patrons to view. Gram was appalled by the thought and managed to gather enough money from her egg and butter sales to pay for it. It was because of this young man’s persistence and amusing lie that portrait now hangs in my entryway. It was one thing that I managed to get when Gram “Broke up housekeeping.”
The next egg story occurred at Gram’s large farmhouse. The front porch was concrete with cinderblock half-walls and tall pillars. The porch was filled with a dark green painted wooden swing, several Adirondack chairs, and porch-boxes of flowers. The porch had many hiding places for colored eggs at Easter time. It was a game that cousins liked when we gathered for the spring holiday. Gram put a stop to the egg hide-and-seek game when she and Great-Aunt Rose were sitting on the swing. They began to smell something rotten. One misplaced egg had fallen down inside the cinderblock pillar and had been forgotten.
The last story is about my brother Ken and a cousin (she will remain anonymous to avoid embarrassment) went into my Aunt Rachel Miner Peck’s hen house. They reappeared later looking like pieces of French toast. For some unexplained reason, they decided to raid several nests and toss eggs at the ceiling. They were both covered in the scrambled drippings and eggshell pieces. My Aunt and my Mom were not happy.

Life Is Like a Rolodex

 Life Is Like a Rolodex
The older that I get it seems the quicker that I flip through the days of each week. Cards on my life’s Rolodex seem empty, void of any names and bare of any notations, but they quickly fill up with appointments, meetings, chores, and ideas to flash by. There are times that I turn down events that I really would like to attend, but I have to limit places I have time for. I’m thankful that they haven’t cloned me yet.
This past Saturday I wanted to go to a graduation party, but it also was a family going away party for my granddaughter Moriah Beck. She is to start college at the end of the month. It was just for family. The college is in Florida where shee will major in music. Although she plays beautifully, her instructor said she’s behind. I’m told that there are several positions on the neck of the instrument and she’s only been taught one of them. She‘ll have to work hard to keep up, but she’s very gifted and I believe she can do it.
Church on Sundaay morning included our choir singing a selection that we’ve been practicing. Sunday school followed and evening services later. We had a special speaaker. Our pastor was on vacation and Pastor Shawley spoke. He and his wife have been at our church before and we’ve been blessed when he’s stepped in.
Monday my cell phone gave me a scare. The touch screen wouldn’t respond. I was in a panic when I couldn’t answer an important phone call. I was able to see the phone number and use my landline to respond. Afterward, I jumped into my car and drove to the Verizon store. The phone still wouldn’t allow me to use the touch screen. The lady at the store couldn’t correct the problem. She said she thought the phone was broken and was about to recommend that I purchase a different phone. When I said I had an insurance policy she wanted to give me the phone number for the insurer. I wanted her to remove the battery and let it reset itself, but there was no need. The phone mysteriously reset itself and has been okay since.
Tuesday was the monthly meeting of a few Connellsville Senior High graduates. It was nice to relax and talk, but the restaurant had the air conditioning set on popsickle and we nearly froze to death. Tomorrow I have Everdry Company to fix a sump pump that won’t shut off. The pump is the replacement for the original pump that had stopped working.

Flooding My Memory

 Flooding My Memory
I’ve written before about the flood that devastated much of the village of Melcroft, Pennsylvania. I’ve shared the information taken from the Connellsville Courier in a past newsletter of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. It was a story that has a family connection. My Aunt Estella Beck Strawderman and her daughter Shirley Strawderman Olbrysh were some of the survivors of the rushing water. Their home was washed away in the deluge. Shirley was only six years old when her home, mother, and neighbors were all caught up in the maelstrom.
She requested any information that I might gedt from the Society’s archives. I sent her a copy of the newspaper article from the Connellsville Courier, Doen Memory Lane, the Historical Society’s newsletter, and a copy of the photograph of Melcroft just before the flood.
When she received the packet of articles, she called me to say that the Courier’s article had several incorrect pieces of information. When she began to share the facts that she remembered, I asked her to please write down the facts that she remembered. I wanted to have those recollections in her handwriting to add to the information in our archives. She said that she would. It’s always a great addition to the Society’s records when we can get an oral history of past events from an actual witness.
Several days later she called again, telling me that she remembered meeting someone that lived in Indiand Head, Pennsylvania. He shared many stories with her and gave her several documents of history from Indiand Head. As we tallked, she mentioned that the man’s name was Duane Layman. I chuckled and shared with her that he had passed away and his family had donated twelve 12 X 12 X 18 inch boxes of books, papers, and photographs to the Society. We ae still sorting through them, ascessioning each item, and attempting to find a place to store all of them. Books, obituaries, photographs, personal notes from many families geneology filled thoe boxes. His writing wasn’t all that easy to decipher.
It seems strange that the information almost came to a full circle from one small inquiry.

Pennies Nickels and dimes Oh My

Pennies Nickels and Dimes Oh My
Money, money everywhere; it seems as though I find money everywhere. There is never enough money for me to splurge to buy a house, a car, or even a meal at a fancy restaurant and the worst thing is, the money’s nearly always mine. The windfall always occurs on laundry day when I am likely to find some money at the bottom of the washer or in the dryer. The denomination is usually a dime. I do have a sneaking suspicion that it is the same dime I shove into my pocket while I’m transferring the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer. I forget the dime is in my pocket and when I wash clothing the next time, it gets another ride in the laundry express.
I occasionally find a dime in the yard where I’ve pulled my car keys from my pants pocket where a dime manages to escape as well. This is a rare occurrence, noticed more easily when there is no snow. The coin’s spotted resting on the grass or gravel driveway.
Another place I often find coins is in my bedroom at the bottom of my bed. The money makes its escape as I shift the contents from my pockets from one pair of pants to another. Sommetimes the coin bounces out of sight beneath the bed or the dresse. Occasionally a dime or penny manages to hide in plain sight in the nap of the carpet.
In past posts, you’ve heard my rant about the designs of the new coinage. A five year old could have drawn the sketch for the etching to make the absolutely horrid designs. Coins for the United States from our past are nothing short of artistic treasures. Their silver and gold images are exceptional. They are beautiful almost to the point the owner enjoyed looking at them when they made transactions.
I slowly gather coins and my pockets fill. I don’t want to wear a hole in my pants pocket, so I count them, stack them, roll them, and take them to the bank when I’ve saved a few dollarsRecently I have heard that because of costs to mint them, the government may do away with penny coins. Like the penny candy of yesteryear, the copper penniies may go the way of the dodo.
I wonder what piece of money I will find next. 

Dog Days

 Dog Days
Thinking back to the dog days of my youth and the dogs that have graced my life, I would like to share some of their names and what I can remember of them and the spots they still hold in my heart and mind. The first dog that is part of my memory, I can’t really remember but my parents told me stories of him, he was part of my life. Although I cannot remember his name, I must include this almost mythical beast. He was a Great Dane and was my self appointed babysitter. My parent’s house was near busy Rt. 711 highway and if I wandered too near the road the dog would grab the seat of my pants and drag me back into the yard.
The next dog I’ll mention is Laddie. He was my Uncle Charles Bottomley’s dog. It was black and brown with a white patch of long hair on its chest. My uncle would talk me into holding onto the leash, then he would call from across the yard, “Here Laddie.” I would be jerked off my feet, but I refused to release the leash, and would be pulled along with my feet barely touching the ground while Uncle Charles was laughing.
I’m sure there were other dogs, but the next dog I remember is Bimbo. He was my mother’s dog. He was a Jack Russell mix and smart as a whip. His territory in the winter was our basement. My mom, Sybil Miner Beck would sometimes give Bimbo a bone to gnaw. When he wasn’t chewing on it he would bury it in the coal bin. When my parents tossed on a shovelful of coal in the furnace, I’m sure he lost several bones before he decided to rescue them before they too disappeared. Mom said, “When I went into the coal bin, Bimbo would sit there with the bone between his feet. After Mom shoveled the coal and hung the scoop shovel back on the peg, Bimbo would dig a new hole to hide his prize.”
I found a pup behind our home and took it to my grandparents Miner. When Gram Rebecca Rugg Miner saw it she said “Look at those paws. It’s going to be a big dog.” She named it Laddie. She decided to keep it. Laddie followed my granddad Raymond around the farm. That was a Godsend. This was the beginning of Granddad’s dementia and Laddie was his guard and guide. There were several times Granddad would wander the fields and thickets on the farm getting confused and Laddie would always stay by his side and lead him home.

As High as an Elephant's Eye

 As High as an Elephant’s Eye
As I was driving to and from church Sunday morning and Sunday evening I have to drive through several farms. The road cuts through some of the fields. This year several farmers have planted corn. The stalks of corn have grown to tremendous heights. The rows of corn stalks have grown to impressive sizes. They are nearly eight feet high. They are just coming into tassel and may gain some more height yet. The lower leaves arch graceffully while the top leaves point skyward in sharp spears. At the very top, tassels for a feathery crown.
I am concerned when I drive through this section of road. The corn grows very close to both sides of the pavement. There is no way to stop if a deer suddenly emerges from the green jungle of corn stalks. Many years ago a deer collided with the side of my son Andrew’s Geo Tracker. The large doe pushed the door post behind his seat pressing against the back of his car seat. The deer totaled his vehicle. An odd thing happened with the wreck. The insurance company paid him nearly five hundred dollars more than what he paid for the vehicle. On occasion I’ve seen other deer dead and lying along this section of the highway. At the other farms along this roadway, the corn stalks grow only on one side of the road, but the threat of being surprised by deer remains the same.
This year’s many days of rain and long exposure to the hot and sunny days seem to have placed a growth spell on the corn crops. I heard a friend at church say that a nearby farmer had corrn stalks ten feet high. If true, I can’t ever remember seeing stalks growing that tall. This crop of field corn when harvested should fill the farmer’s silos with silage providing plenty of feed for the cattle during the upcoming winter cold months.
The saying that I’ve heard quoted by farmers about the growth necessary for the corn stalks in the field is that the corn stalks should be “knee high by the fourth of July.” The corn stalks were much higher than that this year and now as it is approaches harvest time, the corn is as high as an elephant’s eye.

The Moon's Silver White Glow

 The Moon’s Silver White Glow
There’s something about the moon’s silver glow that makes the night seem to come alive. It parts the curtain of darkness when it’s full-faced and bright. Sometimes it’s so bright that I cast a shadow when I’m outside. There are times that the moonlight is so bright that I’m tempted to drive my car with the headlights turned off. The roadway and the trees are clearly seen. I refuse the temptation and flick my headlights on. I’ve no desire to have an unexpected run in with deer or police officerr for that matter.
The brightness of that white orb cause the stars lose much of their luster. Their diamond-like sparkle seems to be lessened as they’re forced to compete with the moon’s brilliance. The moon’s bright glow seems to draw away the inkiness of the night sky. It causes the night’s velvety blackness to appear a dark dusty gray.
There are phases of the moon when it incrementally narrows into a thin sliver of light; barely discernable as it hangs among the stars. The stars have now regained their beauty beccoming sparkling crystals of light again. Sometimes they seem to hang so close to the earth that a person with a long stick could harvest them reaching up and swiping it from side to side.
The slender curve of the moon seems to imitate the smile of the Cheshire Cat from the children’s book, “Alice Through the Looking Glass.” The wide smile is barely more than the comical grin that appears and disappears before the body of the cat makes an appearance or fades as it exits.
There are times when I believe that the moon sliver looks like a steel fishing hook. It may be the hook that is hovering and waiting to catch a stray passing comet, streaking meteor, or falling star. It could be a curved needle hanging in the black velvet sky covered in glistening sequins waiting to sew a tear.
Sometimes the moon looks massive as it cuddles the Earth. Its surface looks like a wheel of cheese and its pocked craters are clear enough that the naked eye can see and count them if a person chose to. Its color is the hue matches the color of whey; thin, pale blue-gray, and watery.
There are times when the earth and sun dance changing the appearance of the moon. The shadow of their dancing plays hide-and-seek with the moon. Isn’t it a wonderful world that we live in; moon, stars, weather, scenery is an ever-changing kaleidoscope of shapes, colors, temperatures, light, and dark.