Sometimes It’s a Small Thing

Joanne McGough is a very good friend of mine. She is a fellow writer and although we differ politically, I agree with her on one idea that she has. Sometimes, something seems to be only a small thing, but when we look back at our lives, that moment means so much. That seemingly small something can change the direction of our lives.

Many times, Joanne writes vignettes; a snapshot of something that has occurred in her life. Something hardly noticed at that time she experienced it and yet it reappears at a later date with power and clarity. It will replay itself intensely in her mind. The recollection surfaces and she tries to share these moments with her readers.

She is a retired nurse and sometimes those remembrances are of the people that she has cared for as a hospice nurse. Sometimes the moment is of a bird singing while on vacation in Ireland or trying to find a place to stay for the night as a stranger in a small Irish town.

There are things in our own lives that pass as a part of our daily living, but then we age, and we recognize just how precious that moment was. We can recognize how we changed from that moment on. We will understand the significance of that brief, flickering moment and it becomes a bright, unwavering spot in the history of our character. Most of us don’t take the time to write about it like my friend does, but if we look those moments are there none-the-less.

As I was making breakfast this morning, contemplating how I should write this blog, I began to make my usual rye toast and heated the skillet to fry an egg. I was pleasantly surprised when two yolks appeared as the shell parted and the egg plopped into the skillet.

Will this be one of those “sometimes small moments” or will it just be on file with all of the day to day occurrences in my life? I cannot see anything earth-shattering about the incident being so close to it, but someday, who knows.

One More Time

Even though Labor Day has passed and it is gauche to wear white now, I would venture to wear white one more time before tucking it away. This year I’ve worn my white outfit to PNC Park while attending a Pirates game as I have done in the past. I wore the white clothing to church to prove that I indeed wear white on occasion. I also wore white when I manned the booth for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society, guarding a donated hand knotted quilt that was donated and being raffled. I also passed out copies of 1862 maps of Stahlstown and Donegal Township with the monthly newsletter for the Society.

I choose to wear white on occasion because with my white Vandyke beard and mustache. I’ve been told that I resemble the great entrepreneur, Col. Harlan Sanders and he wore always a white outfit. I use my lab coat that is a leftover from my nursing career, then cover the embroidered logo with a handmade Kentucky Fried Chicken name tag. I have a short-sleeved white shirt that I adorn with a black ribbon tie. I can still fit into my white trousers from my earlier days of nursing. To finish the ensemble, I picked up a white fedora hat at a party store.

Col. Sanders will once again ride the range today. I plan to attend the Pirates game with a couple of friends. One time I visited PNC Park in my garb, I made guest appearances on Root Sports television and had my visage posted on the Jumbo-tron inside of the park. Not bad for a hick from the sticks. The most wonderful part of the day: I was stopped many times for folks to take Selfies with me: men, women, but no kids. I guess they were afraid.

The only disappointment expressed by those who stopped me  for photos was that I was unable to pass out samples or coupons for KFC like the Chick-filet cow occasionally does. That was one of my disappointments too. I really wanted to get a photo shot Selfie with the black and white Chick-filet cow. I guess I need a sign that says, “Where’s the beef.”  Oh, that’s right. That was another company’s logo all together.

Thankfulness

With all of the disrespect for America and the office of the President presently being displayed, it makes my heart sick. It saddens my soul that so many people hate Donald Trump so much that they are willing to destroy America in the process of expressing their dissatisfaction. We should be thankful that we live in America. I don’t want this to be a political post, but a patriotic one that supports the United States and ALL of her citizens.

Donald Trump was put into office according to the rules of the election process, as was Obama, and all the others before him. I know that there are those who are still licking their wounds at Hillary Clinton’s loss and are angry. They are grasping at straws, trying to wrangle a way for her to gain the Presidency. They fail to recognize that the Democratic National Committee unfairly wrested the possibility of a win from Bernie Sanders and allowing Hillary Clinton to run her flawed campaign. Hillary, in her bid for the Presidency insulted a large number of hard-working, tax-paying, Bible-clutching, gun-toting American middle class people by calling them Deplorables. It was to strengthen her support of her followers. The “Deplorables” responded by voting for the only other alternative, Donald Trump.

It is hard for me to understand how this lingering anger at her loss has caused so much resentment. There are people who are rioting under the guise of protest and wearing masks like the criminals that they are.

It is nearly impossible for me to understand how state governors and city mayors can tell the police force to “stand down” in confrontational situations like this. These officials were elected to protect and serve all of their constituents and not these criminals that are organized elsewhere, then bussed into their states and cities to riot and put their citizenry’s lives and property in peril.

I use the word riot and not the word protest, because that is what they have become. Martin Luther King Jr. protested, Rosa Parks protested, and neither of one of them assaulted another person. Neither one of them set a fire or looted a single business, but both stood up for what was right and demanded equality.

I am thankful that America gives us the freedom of speech so we can discuss our concerns and problems; without violence, without suppression of voices, without “safe places or sanctuaries.” If there is something that you don’t like, do something positive to change it without destroying America, her values, or her freedoms.

Thoughts of My Father

Nothing specific, but general thoughts of the man I know as my father. Some stories from him he took to the grave: stories from his parents, of his life working to make a family, and tales of his time in World War Two. He did share a few things near the end of his life about his enlistment in the Army, but very little. As kids, we knew he spent time in the Philippines, drove truck, and was hit by a piece of shrapnel from a bomb, but little else. Later, he shared that he had visited Hiroshima. He never described what he’d seen, but it had to be after the bombing, because he wouldn’t have had the means as a teenager before the war.

He had a small cache of black and white photographs, most of which were of the people, his mates, and the land. Somewhere in the intervening years, they have become lost and are no longer a part of the family’s heritage.

He was never one to show much affection, his gruff appearance would occasionally part into a smile. He only rarely said the word love, even to my mother, but worked in the coal mines, then a factory to provide food, clothing, and a home for our family. Money was always tight, but he would often surprise us with something special. Sundays were the best. After our return from church and Sunday school, he would drive to a nearby store to buy the Sunday newspaper, a large bag of Snyder’s potato chips, and a circle chunk of longhorn cheese. He always liked it and especially liked it when it was fresh and “gummy.”

Buying a newer car every few years and washing the vehicles every week stand out as memories of him. Fords seemed to be his passion, although he did buy a Chevy as a second car for my mom once.

His horny, calloused hands were like asbestos and I would see him pick up and move hot things without seemingly feeling the pain. I remember him swinging a double-bitted axe and hitting the same spot time after time as he split fire wood.

Digging clay from beneath our home place to create a full basement instead of a crawl space is another memory, load after load wheeled out in a rickety wheelbarrow.

Coming back on a Saturday morning with several squirrels he’d shot, skinning them in the basement, then mom would fry them and make squirrel gravy and pancakes for breakfast. Even though he would sop hotcakes in the sausage grease, he lived until he was ninety years old. I love you, Dad.

Caught in the Vortex of Time

With the recent storms that have battered the coasts of the United States and the fiery maelstroms of the west, my mind has been thinking of the multiple tragedies being played out all across this great country of ours. My heart breaks as these fellow Americans return to their homes to try and gather the pieces and return to some saneness and normalcy in their lives. Perhaps we all need to take the time to thank God for what we have. This isn’t what I planned to write about, but I think it needed to be shared.

I want to explain the time that has sped by over the past week or so. I’ve already shared Friday and Saturday evening celebrating my 50th high school reunion. Sunday morning was church. I skipped Sunday school because I inadvertently agreed to cover in the booth for the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. I said my afternoon was free. After I agreed, I noticed that I had to be there before Sunday school adjourned. Coming home, I climbed into my Col. Harlan Sanders costume and headed out. I didn’t have to sell tickets for the patchwork quilt that I made. They were all sold out, but I passed out the monthly newsletter and copies of the map of Donegal Township and Stahlstown.

Monday, I worked on drawings for my co-editor’s books. She is doing a series of kid friendly color books and an accompanying reading book. Later, I picked up my granddaughter after school and did grocery shopping before heading home.

Mowing seems to take up a good bit of time. I try to help my elderly neighbor by mowing his lawn as well. All totaled I mow about 1.75 acres.

Tuesday, I took the drawings to my friend’s house for her to review. She needed 28 drawings for book about Diana the Diaphanous Dragonfly. Diaphanous is a large word for kids, but the accompanying book is for adults to read to the children. I still have a few more pictures to make for her.

Tuesday evening, I attended the monthly meeting of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. I met the woman who won the quilt. She was quite happy with the colors, saying she may use it in her living room. The speaker for the evening Alex Heidi presenting his Eagle Scout project and his mentor, sharing the Native American attire and dance.

In Another Fifty Years

This past weekend, I celebrated with the remaining graduating classmates my fiftieth high school reunion. I can remember when my mother Sybil Miner Beck celebrated hers and thought, “Wow, is she getting old.” I feel the same about me. Many of us gathered at Bud Murphy’s in Connellsville, Pennsylvania for a mixer and get-reacquainted meeting on Friday evening. The group quickly outgrew the allotted space and we were moved to another room, which was again filled to over-flowing.

The senior class of 1967, Connellsville Area, High School was gathering for another time. Not a prom, not the graduation ceremony, but a chance to reconnect with friends and to start new ones. 1967 was the first to graduate when Connellsville and Dunbar school systems merged, throwing together young men and women from both. We had less than one year to sort out who we were and who they were to create lasting friendships. Some of those quickly formed bonds will never be broken.

Some of those ties have already been broken by illness and accidents. Those faces will forever remain youthful as we once remembered them. Then I look around and see what time has accomplished in our lives, placing roadmaps of where we have been in the intervening years.

It is remarkable that so many remain and how many gathered to celebrate this monumental milestone in our lives. It stirred my heart to see how kind the years have been to many of my classmates and to see the harsh reality of time on others.

The actual reunion dinner was held at the Pleasant Valley Country Club where hugs, kisses, and hearty handshakes were exchanged from people with wide smiles on their faces; gestures to reassure ourselves that we were the fortunate ones that are still here to bridge the distance the years have widened.

I have the class reunion photograph which will rest among the pages of The Falcon my high school yearbook until a later generation finds it and wonders who these people might be. Some insight of our journey will be gained when reviewed with the pictures of our senior class yearbook. Thank you Class of 1967. I love you all.

No-ing

It is something that most people understand, but have a difficult time with it. I get a call from family, friends, church, or even a club or organization that I belong and they ask a favor. It usually isn’t that big of an imposition, but they slowly add up until I feel almost overwhelmed, sometimes cutting one project short to accommodate another. The difficulty I have is with the little two letter word, NO.

Each week my calendar always manages to get crowded with things I need to do or that I am asked to do. They accumulate like cat hairs on a dark pair of slacks. Every month I have six writers meetings to attend. Each has a special importance with critiques, advice, or suggestions to make my writing better. There is at least one luncheon for the retired nurses from Frick Hospital. I call them the Grande dames from my past. Many were work mates or mentors.

I have been invited to attend a small group of high school friends for a monthly meeting to gossip and get reacquainted.

This month is extra special because of the men’s retreat at the Servant’s Heart Camp in Ramey Pennsylvania and this month is my 50th high school reunion from Connellsville Senior High School. When my mom went to hers, I though WOW, she’s old, and now I am about to step across the very same threshold.

I just attended a picnic for the writers of The Loyalhanna Review. I promised to attend PNC Park with a friend later in the month and attend a craft show to peddle my books.

The last activity that I didn’t say, “NO” was responding to a call from the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. In one of my earlier blogs, I mentioned that I donated a homemade, knotted quilt for the society to raffle off. The phone call asked me to cover an empty spot in the booth to sell tickets. How could I say “NO?” I created the need to have someone there to handle the money and to guard the blanket until it could be claimed by the new owner.

I was caught off guard and I said that I could. After I hung up the phone, it dawned on me I would have to skip Sunday school to get to the Flax Scutcheon in Stahlstown, Pennsylvania on time. It was another time of robbing Peter to pay Paul instead of saying “NO.”