Keeping Busy

 

Keeping Busy

This week has been fairly busy. Monday I went to Frick Hospital for blood work that I needed before my CT o Saturday. It is a follow up to see if there is any growth to a lesion on my left kidney. It is what it is and will take care of it one way or another. After I had my blood drawn, I grabbed a quick breakfast and drove to the Fayette County Courthouse to have my concealed carry permit renewed. I stopped at the Veteran Affairs office for some information and then came home.

Wednesday I volunteered to distribute Veteran baskets of food at the Mt. Pleasant Fire station. That is always a busy event. The food trucks arrive at eight A.M. and are unloaded. We’re never sure of the exact number or what food will arrive, but we always know that it will take a lot of work carrying the food boxes to the veteran’s cars and trucks. The boxes weigh about 20 pounds each and we have to carry the boxes about thirty feet or so to the cars as they arrive and the veterans are signed in. As usual, there are boxes of frozen foods; that may include different types of meat, pastries, and other frozen dinners. There is usually a box of dried food, cans of vegetables, cereals, mac & cheese, soups, and other dry food goods. The contents will vary by what the food bank was able to procure, but the canned goods inside always make carrying the “dry” boxes to the cars a “weighty” problem. There is almost always half gallons of milk and fresh fruit to distribute. This time we had sacks of oranges and packages of fresh strawberries.

It touches my heart to see some of the older veterans getting out of their vehicles and walking to sign in, Some can barely shuffle up to give their names. I always wonder how some of them are able to unload their food boxes at home. After arriving at eight A.M. and preparing for the deluge of veterans to arrive, they slowly trickle in at first, the onslaught begins. Vehicle after vehicle arrives, and the loading team goes into action. Traffic control sometimes gets hectic. Finally clean-up and home. I got home at 5 P.M. but didn’t take off my boots. I had van duty at church.

Thursday I washed two loads of laundry, hung them out to dry, and then folded and put them away. My computer repairman stopped by to see why I was having problems with my computer He cleans and solves my slow-downs etc. The major problem was my internet. Foxfire was having issues, and he has my computer accessing the internet through another site. So like it or not, I’m back on line.

Camp Wildwood

My computer was down, sorry about the delayed post.

 Camp Wildwood

I recently read a story about someone else’s experience with Camp Wildwood located near my home in Normalville Pennsylvania. It stirred my own memories of the abandoned area. As youngsters, my brother Ken and I would ride our bikes up Coal Bank Hill Road and then to Camp Wildwood. It was a quiet place where we could pedal safely away from traffic. Occasionally, people would pull their campers into the secluded area to escape their homes for a week.

Early one morning while the low-lying fog was still clinging to the earth, we decided to ride in the coolness before the heat of the summer sun cooked the moisture and made the day humid and miserable.

In an area alongside the path, was a small camper trailer. Standing in the open doorway was a sky-clad woman who seemed almost as surprised to see us as we were to see her. Imagine a modern day rendition of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus standing on a clam shell appearing before our youthful eyes. The mist swirled around her feet and I instantly became aware that she was truly a redhead.

Other than times of swimming, another memory that stands out to me occurred just after a rain storm. Our neighbor was always working on cars. He was about 5 years older and could drive the cars he repaired. Once when I visited him, he said, “Just finished wiring the car. Let’s take it for a spin.” I quickly jumped in and we headed for his test run track, Camp Wildwood. By now the roadways were overgrown and little more than deep ruts cut by passing tires. That day, in places they were long troughs of water.

Driving along, we spotted a troop of Boy Scouts walking along the edge, staying on the edge of the elongated puddle. My neighbor said, “Watch this.” and pushed the accelerator to the floor. The engine roared and we sped into that puddle with a rooster tail of water fanning out behind us on both sides of the car. I watched as Boy Scouts frantically dove for the weeds. About halfway through the troop, the hood of the car flew open covering most of the windshield. “Aren’t you going to stop,” I asked. But he kept driving and said, “Not in the middle of a bunch of angry guys.”

A little farther along, we pulled over. He lowered the hood and securely wired it shut. After a short rest we headed back home and thankfully, no Boy Scouts were waiting to ambush us.

Back to School

Back to School 
This is the time of year that kid’s and parent’s thoughts turn to getting ready for the new school year. Most of the children have some reluctance and most of the parents have mixed feelings of relief and anxiety. The first day of school may be the child’s first ride on a school bus, meeting a new teacher, or wearing the new school clothing.
Late in the summer, I would hear the cicadas rasping their songs in the heat. There was nothing to dread from these small creatures, but as a child, I developed an unsettled feeling of angst when they would began their concert. I knew my summer freedoms were over and the routine of schooldays would soon begin. Days of reading, math, and spelling, months of history, science, and geography, and nearly a full year of penmanship, hard seated desks, and other not-too-polite kids lay ahead. It also meant recess, lunches, and making new friends.
Going back to school always meant going to the Gabriel’s store with my mom Sybil Miner Beck to shop for clothing. My first recollection of the store was that it was located in Uniontown, Pennsylvania where a built-in walkway conjoined two houses. Bins and tables were jumbled with pants and shirts that needed to be sorted through to find “seconds” that were still in wearable shape. Several years later, the store moved to a larger roomier building, but the need to examine the clothing was real: checking for missing buttons, working zippers, tears, and to be sure that there were no major flaws.
Then came the role reversal, I got married to my wife Cindy Morrison Beck and we had three children of our own. School days meant something completely different, but then again, my wife was a school teacher, teaching in the private Christian school where our children were enrolled. School days meant visiting stores for school supplies and new clothing. The entire family would make the traditional pilgrimage to Gabriel Brothers to shop for school clothes or to the J. C. Penny outlet in Columbus, Ohio..
Gabriel’s has now expanded to have multiple stores. Growing up people called the original two stores Gabe’s. Apparently, the owners of the stores heard the public’s nickname for them and have changed the signage renaming the stores Gabe’s.
Even now as an adult when I hear the cicadas and the school days draw near, the sound always stirs thoughts of the old conjoined houses and shopping for school clothes. 

Corn

 Corn
There are so many thoughts about corn trying to escape my brain. It seems that the corn crop is doing quite well this year with tall stalks filling many of the farmer’s fields. Towering green stalks with arching leaves and heavy thick ears wearing dark brown wigs. Some years the fields have been planted with wheat, oats, or soy beans, but this year field after field is filled with stalks of corn.
My Grandfather Ray Miner always had one field of corn planted especiaally to feed his cows and horses. My Mom Sybil Miner Beck told me that she liked to get the “field corn” when it was young. She said she liked the taste better than the sweet corn.
I can remember some of my friends gathering the dried corn silk, rolling the silk in tissue paper, and smoking it. I was never brave enough to try it.
As a teenager my neighbor kids and I would shell corn at Halloween. Then we would climb up on a high bank above Route 711 waiting for cars to drive by. We would hurrl handsful of the corn kernals at the passing vehicles. The noise of the splattering corn would startle the driver and we’d be rewarded by the glow of taillights and frequeltly the angry blowing of the car’s horn. On a rare occasion someone might stop and actually fire a gun in our direction, but because we were high on a ledge, the angle was too great and we were never afraid of getting shot.
A local farm has a corn maze every year. I’ve written about their farm before. When they plant corn in fields side by side on both sides of the road, it’s like driving through a jungle. Quite a few years ago when those fields were planted with corn, a huge doe ran from the one field and hit the side of my son Andrew’s SUV driving the doorpost to rest against the back of the driver’s seat totaling the car.
Because it is only me, I have been cooking the corn in tmy microwave. Most of the time I am only doing one ear at a time. With the weather so warm, why would I want to heat water on the stove and boil water to cook only one ear of corn? The microwave and my air-fryer have been a God send for people like me.
One last parting thought of corn, in whose demented mind was candy corn imagined?

Summer’s Almost Over

 Summer’s Almost Over
We talk about someone who is aging as someone who is no longer a spring chicken. His youth and the spring in his step have slipped away. For me, summertime has escaped as well. Springtime is the time of growth, maturing into adulthood. Summertime is the part of my life that has been the productive portion. My time in the Navy, my time earning my degree at Penn State, my short work experience at Monsour Hospital in Jeannette, Pennsylvania, and my career at H. C. Frick Hospital in Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania were all a part of my summertime.
The summer of my life wasn’t always a picnic, or the enjoyment of an amusement park, but there were many times that it was amusing and sometimes the ride was long and tiring. The sunny memories of my life were found in my marriage and raising my family. There were times of tremendous storms of sorrow. The death of family members was a major contributor for the gathering of thick clouds of grief. The days of summer have passed as did the depth of those sorrows. The days were lightened by my children’s weddings and the birth of grandchildren. Just as the sun parts the clouds, the joys in my summer have tempered the cold feelings and warmed my heart again.
Retired now, I am enjoying a vacation before the leaves change hues and I evolve into the autumn part of my life. I write, volunteer, and mow my yard in an attempt to stave away that inevitable part of my future and still be a productive citizen. Aches and pains have slowed my body and have pushed me closer to the foreseeable autumn pages of my existence.
Our church is looking for a Christian assistant pastor. We have a need for someone tto help with pastorial chores and lead the children’s ministries. The juxtaposition of meeting them on Wednesday and on Thursday talking with my older cousin Larry Stahl caused my mind to wander along these lines.
Each day turns a page of my calendar forward. There is no guarantee that there will be another page before I flip to the next page. I may only get a small taste of autumn weather before the leaves of my life wither and fall from my tree. I have no guarantee that I will see the first snowflakes of my winter. Each day is a blessing. Each friend I meet is a Godsend. Each breath that I take is a gift from God. To my friends and my readers, each day is precious. Use them wisely.

Embarrassed at a Whole New Level

Embarrassed at a Whole New Level
    Several years ago at a Wednesday evening prayer meeting, our pastor approached me before the service started and said, “Wow, you’re famous now.” I thought, “Did someone read one of my books and tell him what a great job I did?” I’d written three books about a fictional retired homicide detective from the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania police force. It was a possibility, but no. I’d posted on my Blog spot in the middle of March about a family that were being called to be missionaries to the cold, icy country of Greenland. J. R. Wright was visiting our church on deputation, trying to collect support for his family while they took the Gospel to the natives of Greenland.
    While J. R. was talking about things that he hoped to accomplish in assisting another missionary family in Greenland, he was specifically talking about starting a boat ministry to reach the small villages that can only be reached by sea. It was then that my phone rang. I’d forgotten to shut off the ringtone and of course it interrupted J.R.s presentation. My ringtone was the theme song to Popeye the Sailor Man. Toot, toot. To say I was embarrassed was an understatement. I fumbled to remove my phone from my pocket and to silent its ten to fifteen second serenade.
    The service went on with no real distraction from my phone’s interruption. At the end of thte service I was greeting the Wright family, I apologized ans said to J. R. to consider the seafaring song as a blessing on his boat ministry. I posted this in the next day’s blog and said that I hoped he forgave me. When I saw him the next evening, that was basically the first words out of his mouth, he forgave me. I gave him my business card as an author and writer. He found and perused my Blog spot.
    Now, back to me being a famous person, the Wright family’s newsletter next updating a world full of churches that during his deputation, he’d been interrupted by a man’s phone playing Popeye the Sailor Man and he too considered it a blessing on his proposed boat ministry.
My accidental, embarrassing, faux pas had gained worldwide fame. I’m sure that J. R. assked his readers to pray that people do not forget to silence their phones for a church service, again. For anyone who may need a blessing from Popeye for their boat ministry please let me know. If only my blog and my books would gain recognition that quickly. (SIGH)

 

Halt Who Goes there Friend or Enema

Halt Who Goes There Friend or Enema
An impactful word which will cause nurses to cringe is “enema.” An enema most of the time meant the “3 H’s:” high, hot, and heck of a lot. It wasn’t a small prepackaged enema found in pharmacies or stores of today. Those enemas were mixed when needed. The recipe varied because of the nurse’s individual preference. The main ingredient was hot tap water and Castile soap. Some nurses added hydrogen peroxide or table salt.
The liquid Castile soap came in small plastic packages like salad dressings or ketchhup we get at fast food restaurants. The pouch of soap was ripped or snipped open and the contents squeezed into a plastic bag of hot water. The plastic bag was a much larger version of an I. V. bag. It was attached to a long clear plastic tube and a clamp to control the flow of the solution. Often there were times that one infusion wasn’t enough for stubborn impactions and the task became a bucket and bedpan brigade.
Often an air freshener with a wick was brought into the room to mask the aroma of the enema’s returns. I always thought it made the client’s bathroom and room smell like a septic tank truck had hit a florist’s van.
In a nurse’s career, there are days of routine chores: bandages, passing medicines, taking vital signs, and charting, but many memories are of horrendous stories of enemas. Some were so dramatic that they almost defy a normal person’s imagination.
One exceptionally bizarre occurance was for a boy about ten years old. Because the parents were worried that he hadn’t moved his bowels in several days and now complained of belly pain, the parents brought him in to be examined. X-rays confirmed a fecal impactions and the emergency room physician deemed in necessary to clean the kid out. Believe me, that’s not fun to do with a kid in pain and didn’t want it done. It took three nurses and multiple attempts before success was accomplished. Each enema was followed by a cleanup period to prevent falls and other dangerous situations. It sort of reminded me of the saying, “Where were you when it hit the fan?”
Another remembrance was a near miss. My grandfather Beck was like many elderly who are fixated on moving their bowels. His was to drink hot water to stimulate the desired effect. My mom, Sybil Miner Beck called one morning to say, “Your grandfather needs an enema.” Now that is the last thing a guy wants to hear early in the morning. Reluctantly I agreed. I’d just finished dressing when the phone rang again. “Never mind, your grandfather just called. He had a wonderful passage.”