September Challenge

Last Sunday, our Pastor challenged the congregation to hand out one Gospel tract per day during the entire month of September. There are several reasons for that. The most obvious is that it is a way to reach others with the Good News of salvation offered by a loving God, the gift of eternal home in heaven, and a way to escape an eternity of punishment in the flames of Hell. It is an easy way to expand our testimony to others, especially if we are shy or less than confident in our ability to speak clearly and concisely sharing the Word of God.

Another reason is that it takes about thirty days to develop a habit, whether it is a good habit or a bad habit. Thirty days of handing out Gospel tracts allows us to be more comfortable sharing these paper missionaries with others and causes it to be second nature when we meet someone on the street, in a store, or even at work or school.

I chose to write on this subject for two reasons. One is many people ask what inspires me to write. Sometimes it is a view of nature, seeing an unusual character, or an incident that has happened in my life. The second is if I hear a word or phrase that sparks in my brain.

I began to think about this short writing when I heard the phrase, “paper missionaries” describing the Gospel tracts. And that is what they are. These pieces of stationery that have the roadmaps to salvation are just that, paper missionaries. Often these little slips of paper travel to places that we are unable to go and talk to people we may never meet. They reach into all levels of society, all genders, and all ages, The Gospel doesn’t discriminate for any reason. It can soften the hardest heart and no sin is too great for it to reach and cleanse.

So, September is the month for paper missionaries. This is one way that each of us can change the world around us. If you should like to join the challenge, I’m sure that your church or your pastor has them available for you. You too can become an emissary for God and an ambassador for Christ.

Are You Questioning Me

Friday and Saturday, I had the rare opportunity to spend time with my daughter Anna Elizabeth Prinkey. She wanted to attend the Foothills Writers group with me and we decided to ride together. She had some errands to run and wanted to drive. Our first stop was a diner on Route 30 just outside of Ligonier, Pennsylvania called Ruthie’s. The next stop was at a small shop called The Junk Monkey Paint Company in Ligonier to pick up paint supplies. I was talking to one of the owners, Sonia and of course, I handed her one of my business cards. She invited me to do an interview about my writing, my books, and where I get my inspirations to write for a segment on a local cable company.

We moved on to the meeting where Anna shared an idea she had for an inspirational story that she is writing and listening to other items that the writers that attended had written. Then we finally came home for me to finish the laundry.

Saturday was another day I shared with Anna. It was the LHTC Broadband customer appreciation day held at the Flax Scutching Grounds on Route 711 in Stahlstown. We were meeting my other daughter Amanda, her husband Eric, and their daughter Hannah Yoder. I met several old neighbors and friends there as we sampled the foods and visited the various booths. One booth was for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. They were selling their cook books, giving away replicas maps of Donegal and Stahlstown, and selling raffle tickets on a knotted quilt bed cover that I made and donated to them.

While I was making my round, I (not in my Col. Sander’s garb) got to meet and shake hands with the Chick Filet cow, the curled top, Dairy Queen cone, and talked with a representative for the radio stations of LHTC. I gave him my card and he said that he would pass it along to the person who deals and handles interviews and things like this.

My New Year’s resolution of not leaving home grumpy is paying off, because, no one wante to deal with a grumpy old man.

Weeds, Beautiful Weeds

Looking about this morning, I noticed the vibrant golden hue of the golden rod bloom nodding gently on its leafy verdant stalk. The contrasts of colors made me stop and think of the various plants that we call weeds. Many of the plants that we buy and propagate were once weeds somewhere else in the world. One of my wife Cindy’s favorite was a yellow thistle-like bloom that is a weed in the country of Turkey. She picked it up quite by accident, but because of her Scottish lineage, it quickly became a plant that she loved. Her all time favorite was the daisy. It grows wild, here in the state of Pennsylvania. Its white petals hold hands to encircle a bright yellow center.

I am often amazed at the shades and variety of colors. A brilliant orange bloom, very much in the same shape of the golden rod is a plant, my father-in-law Bud, called a butterfly plant. It often blooms in fields along the highways. I don’t know what the weed is called, but its tall stalk is capped with an intense purple crown. Sometimes it grows alongside of the golden rod and the contrast is almost breathtaking.

The periwinkle colored flower buttons of the chicory scatter along the stems of pale green. It is a plant that our forefathers collected and roasted its roots to brew as a substitute for coffee. The white frilly Queen Anne’s lace is so dainty in its appearance and yet has an edible root and is called the wild carrot.

The dandelion has a fuzzy bright yellow flower that is very prolific and the bane of the homeowner’s yard. Its leaves are edible as wilted green gravy. The rue of fried bacon, onion, and vinegar welcomes the bitter green leaves. Served over mashed potatoes is a childhood memory for me. The yellow blossoms can be collected, cooked, and make into a pale golden jelly that tastes so very much like the honey created by honey bees.

Take time to looks around. Even weeds are useful and beautiful.

Songster Memories

I just heard Momma Cass Elliot singing Dream a Little Dream of Me and I wondered how she would have fared on America’s Got Talent. Would she have even gotten on stage to perform? I wonder what the judges would have said about her. Would she have moved on the finals? And how about the gravel voices of Joe Cocker or Janice Joplin, surely, these songsters who brought my generation much enjoyment would have been tossed by the judges.

What other people with beautiful and unusual styles of singing have been overlooked or cast aside because their talent doesn’t follow the norms and the mainstream? I can’t say that I am a big fan of rap, but that is mostly because I can’t understand the words and because much of it that I can understand seems derogatory and degrading.

How about the great jazz and blues singers, Ella Fitzgerald, Bessie Brown? Would they have had good fortune singing today? The unusual voices of Tiny Tim or the great scratchy pipes and trumpet of Satchmo, Louis Armstrong, would they have found a place on stage?

I am just recalling a few of the singers that have made an impression on my life, but haven’t forgotten the many rock groups that competed for air time on the radio. There are too many to list and none really stand out, I guess if I had to choose one group, it would be the Righteous Brothers and Unchained Melody. It seems to soothe the heart and soul as they croon.

One singer that made an even greater impression on me was my mom, Sybil Beck. She had the uncanny, unfailing habit of singing a chorus or a line from another song that paralleled what one of us kids said. It didn’t matter what it was that we were talking about, she had a song stored away to sing.

I do something very similar, except not all my remarks are a song. Sometimes I share a joke or a story that fits into the ongoing conversation. Jokes and tales join my repertoire of responses. Anyone who knows me knows that I am likely to share some small tale or joke with them before we go our separate ways. So I say, sing on my friends. No one may enjoy it but you, but it is your song,share it.

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 with some reluctance and most of the parents with mixed feelings of relief and anxiety. The first day of school may be the 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 I developed an unsettled feeling when they 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 other kids lay ahead. It also meant recess, lunches, and making new friends.

Going back to school always meant going to Gabriel’s with Mom to shop for clothing. My first recollection of the store was that it was located in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, where built-in walkway conjoined two houses. Bins and tables were jumbles of pants and shirts that had 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 that there were no major flaws.

Then came the role reversal, I got married to my wife Cindy and we had three children of our own. School days meant something completely different, but then again, my wife was a school teacher and taught 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.

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 recently changed the signage and renamed the stores Gabe’s.

Even now, when I hear the cicadas and the days for the start of school draw near, it always stirs thoughts of the old conjoined houses and shopping for school clothes.

An Elephant in Tap Shoes

It could be an elephant in tap shoes dancing above my head or a thundering herd of wild mustangs galloping across the upstairs bedrooms and bath, but no it is a single, neutered female cat, Willow. A cat left behind in my care when my younger daughter Anna married. The loud pounding of her feet almost echoes through the downstairs as she rushes from room to room on some secret mission. But changes into a stealthy mode when I make the trek upstairs to use the computer or to go to bed. She lies in wait at one of the other open doorways for me to come near, then in a flurry of fast moving paws, she scurries away from me, the invader of her domain.

I have to be careful where I step in the middle of the night when I don’t turn on a light. Many times her favorite resting place is in the middle of the top stair landing or on the stair’s treads. She is a black and white, medium haired creature with an intrinsic passion for getting underfoot.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, I will hear the jingle of the bell on her neck collar just before the pounding of her feet and the leap onto the bed. It is always on the side opposite from where my inert form has decided to sleep for the night. Then I feel her walk across my body only to stand on my mattress waiting to have her ears scratched, then she will leap onto the floor to hide for awhile. Sometimes, I sleep sitting in my lounge chair. She does something similar and leaps into my lap. If I don’t stroke her and scratch her head quickly enough, she will nudge me with her chin until I do. Then she will curl up in my lap for her nap.

I’ve thought about getting a playmate for her, but she is so very territorial, I wouldn’t dare try. A stray, very young kitten came onto my porch and Willow went wild. She would hiss and jump against the storm door until the kitten would leave. Each time the wee cat returned, Willow would bound against the door, trying to get out and chase away the interloper.

Sometimes I would like to contact Barnum and Bailey, but I know they’ve done away with their pachyderms.

Not Again

It started yesterday and it is still here this morning. My right elbow may have the beginnings of cellulitis. My first bout started while I was in high school. It was in my left knee The original injury to my knee happened when I was standing on a wooden well cover and one of the boards broke. My leg slid through until the narrow opening pinched my knee; scraping the skin off and making my knee swell from the trauma. It scabbed over and healed without any problems.

Several years later I was shinnying up an apple tree and my aunt Violet’s place, with my legs pressed tightly to make the climb. The next day, the spot of the old injury began to swell, get hot, and turn red. It eventually got as large as half of a softball. I was taken to visit a doctor and was immediately sent to Connellsville hospital to be admitted for care and treatment.

The range of antibiotics was much more limited in my youth. There were few if any effective oral antibiotics and the intravenous ones were even rarer. That meant injectable penicillin. The nurses gave to me injections twice a day. As a young person, the daily looming presence of those fat large-bore needles necessary to push the thick, white liquid into a butt cheek was torture. The thick viscosity of the penicillin was increased because it was stored in a refrigerator until it was needed.

I wasn’t allowed out of bed during the entire stay, except for the trips to the necessary room. Youthful energy trapped in a bed filled chamber of horrors is what my young creative mind thought. Soon the pain in my derriere overcame the pain in my knee and the edema and redness began to disappear. As I began to feel better and the days of incarceration grew longer, I was ready for the pardon. It couldn’t come too soon. My restlessness increased.

Feeling more and more like an imprisoned pincushion, I sent a note on my empty breakfast tray, “I’m being held prisoner in room…” I’ve forgotten the room number, but you get the idea. I don’t know if it helped, but I was discharged later that day.