They Refuse to Stay Buried

Many times memories refuse to stay buried and will resurrect. These are mostly what I write about and share. While I was stationed in Keflavik, Iceland, I got a telephone call from my mom, Sybil Beck. With phone rates being so expensive other than local calls, I was surprised. I was 20 years old and no longer a teenaged kid, what she had to say hit me hard. My grandfather, her father had died. He was the first really close family member to die. A coal miner at night and working his farm to feed his family during the day, he had finally worn himself out.

Hardening of the arteries had been overtaking his mind for several years. He was so used to tending the farm and caring for his animals, he was constantly restless creating problems for my grandmother Rebecca. She had to constantly on the alert to keep him from wandering off. All of his animals were sold off and the barn had collapsed, but in his mind, they were still there and needing him.

Multiple times he would rise from his padded rocker and slip on his shoes. Grandma would ask, “Ray, where are you going?” He would reply, “I have to take care of the horses.” Grandma would have him look out the window at the rubble from the fallen barn and remind him, “The animals are gone, Ray.” He would shake his head, kick off his shoes, and settle back into his chair in front of the television. His tobacco spit can beside him n the floor.

Chewing tobacco was a habit that he’d picked up at the coal mines. Many miners chewed tobacco to remind themselves not to swallow the coal dust laden saliva. It wouldn’t be long until he would become restless, finally rising out of his chair and there would be a replay of his desire to check on his animals.

Grandma did have a helper. It was a stray that they got named Laddie. It was a large mongrel, collie mix, mostly black with some brown and white markings in its coat. It was an outside dog and would follow granddad when he managed to escape grandma’s watchful eyes. Laddie was a faithful companion, hanging close to Grandpa’s heels. Laddie seemed to assuage Granddad’s restlessness and the need to have animals near.

The phone call was hard for me to bear. The time, finances, and the distance made it impossible to attend his funeral, but my memories of him refuse to stay buried.

Ice and Cold and Snow

The first days of winter weather have finally settled into Western Pennsylvania. The ice, cold, and snow have been flirting with sunshine and warm days until now. Winter has suddenly become serious. The northwestern wind has blown in thick snow clouds and bitter-cold temperatures from Canada and the Arctic. Several days ago, I saw a flock of geese racing southward ahead of the frigid air. Their loud honking harsh in the quiet evening sky as they passed overhead. Their yearly calling has always left me with a sad and lonely feeling as they make their retreat. The flock’s fading voices overhead somehow made the entire area seem emptier.

I can remember as a school age child walking the 150 yards to the weathered wooden bus shanty. Often I would have to clamber over a thick ridge of ice and snow deposited by the snowplows of the road crew left from clearing the highway. I would stand inside with several friends to avoid the worst of the wind and cold. We would huff thick puffs of steam from our breaths, sometimes pretending we were smoking.

The wait-time would often be 15 or 20 minutes until the yellow and black school bus lumbered into view. The brakes would screech as the behemoth came to a stop. The flashing red light at the front and rear of the bus, top and bottom would halt other vehicles. When the bus came to a complete stop, the driver would open the rubber-edged, wing-like, windowed doors with a harsh squealing sound. Single file we would climb the metal steps to the relative warmth inside.

Kids from three different homes gathered inside the bus shanty on school days waiting to be rescued from the cold. When we went outside, we were bundled in layers of warm sweaters, scarves, toboggan hats, gloves or mittens, boots, and thick coats.

It is different today. Students are collected from each house as the bus makes multiple stops. I’ve watch as high school kids clad in shorts and a “hoodies” jacket stroll from inside a warm house, across a small front yard, and climb aboard the waiting bus. They don’t run. That would ruin their image of “coolness.” Their leg hairs would have frozen off if they would have had to wait in a bus shanty like I did.

As a child I never minded the snow. Sometimes, I actually enjoyed it, especially when the snow was deep and caused a school cancellation. But the cold is a different story. I didn’t like the cold. There were times I can recall the inside of my nostrils sticking together when I took a deep breath. I can’t remember that there were ever any delays for the starting time. It was all or nothing event; either it was school or no school.

Christmas Traditions

There was a time that my house was filled with the scent of pine and other savory aromas the nearer the Christmas holiday came. The artificial tree looks great, but alas the smell of the outdoors is no more. The tradition of bringing a live tree into the house passed when my uncle Theodore passed away. He and I would go roaming through a pine covered area near the farm to cut a tree for my grandmother Miner and one for me and my family.

Finding the perfect tree was a real chore. These pines grew wild and were shaped by the whims of nature. Armed only with a small saw, Ted and I searched the area for likely candidates finding this one too small and that one had bare areas. They were eventually rejected. My grandmother lived in an old farmhouse with twelve foot tall ceilings, so Ted had more leeway than I did. Cindy was very choosey with our tree. It had to be full and the Christmas tree star had to brush the ceiling of our mobile home. This created a problem. When I was among the trees in the grove, sometimes my judgment was off and I would have to cut more off when I got it home. One time, to get the height, I had to choose a very bushy tree. The height was right on, but the bottom of the tree branches spread out wide. They filled half the width of the trailer and we had to be careful as we walked by not to knock off any of the ornaments.

Today, the artificial tree has taken its place. The ornaments that we bought our children each year now reside in their homes on their trees. My tree is far from bare. With the lights, garland, and ornaments collected over the years, I can barely see the green needles.

A tradition that has now replaced eating the family meal at my house is the gathering at my Sister Kathy and her husband Doug’s home for a Christmas brunch. Their beautiful home is the house of our Grandparent’s Beck. Gathering there seems like a tradition is still carried on within these familiar walls. I wish a very Merry Christmas to all of my readers, friends, and family.

Yesterday’s Chores

With Christmas growing ever nearer and colder weather just around the corner I tried to catch up on some unfinished chores. Vacuuming the stairs to remove Willow the cat’s long, white, shedded hair was a necessity. She has a habit of claiming several stair treads as her own napping place. The steps were well on their way looking as though they were made of mohair.

While I waited for the frost outside to depart, I wrapped a few more Christmas gifts. Eventually, I will finish and be able to remove Santa’s workshop from the top of my bed and I’ll be able to claim more than one small side of the mattress. As I wrapped the dolls that I’d bought for my three granddaughters, Celine, Moriah, and Hannah, I became upset that the manufacturers decided to save a few cents by not covering the display portion of the dolls with cellophane like they used to do. Trying to cover the dolls, I poked several holes in the paper. They are making the Christmas paper more cheaply as well. It isn’t as strong as it once was. Even with careful folding, the cheaper paper has a tendency to tear.  The old time paper with metal based dyes was much stronger and after underwear and socks were removed from the wadded up and discarded paper, it was impressive to see the flames change color as the bright piles were burned in a fireplace.

When the sparkling frost coating disappeared, a jolly old fat man appeared, carrying several ladders and chimney cleaning supplies. Not clad in a red suit, but navy sweat pants and an old orange hunting jacket, he climbed onto his newly acquired metal roof. Up on the housetop he sprang, carefully and slowly, thrusting the metal pole deep into the recesses of the chimney. Built-up soot and creosote gave way to the determined force of the old man’s probing.

He thought his antics would go unnoticed by his daughters, but alas, one son-in-law driving his black Chevy sleigh spied the jolly old man and of course he reported the old man’s escapades to his spouse. The old man had already been banned from the house roof several times before and now finds himself confined to the doghouse roof.

On the way home from last evening’s writers meeting, Rocky the raccoon made a wild dash from the darkness, trying to cross the road in front of my car. I wasn’t able to stop in time and alas, Rocky is no more. The black plastic from the front of my car has also bit the dust and is no more as well.

The best thing of the entire day was that the wood burner is working great and my house was toasty warm as it welcomed me home.

Strands of Pearls

When I consider my life from my birth to my death, it will be the string upon which God has placed pearls of different shapes, sizes, and colors. These pearls are the people that have been friends or family. Their size and their beauty have nothing to do with their physical appearance, but everything to do with the amount of time they have been in my life and how much they have influenced me.

Parents, grandparents, and children are the largest and brightest pearls on my string of life. They have been much closer to me for a much longer time than most others I’ve come in contact with. These jewels aren’t always the smooth, round, opulent orbs that we see in a jewelry store, cradled in a velvet box. These pearls have irregularities, more like fresh water variety of pearls, yet they are still iridescent and glow brightly, stored safely in the vault of my mind. Their beauty has been tempered by time and by love. Even though some of these pearls have now gone on to meet their Maker, I can still see them and feel their presence in my life.

In my strand, there are a few off-color pearls, perhaps not the choices that I would have desired, but for some reason they are there. They are pearls that a jewelry maker would have tossed aside and not placed on a string. These rougher, less couth or less polished pearls were placed on my strand, adding interest if not beauty to the whole of my life. Some have worn my strand in places while some I’ve been able to polish, refine, and make shinier.

It is odd that my thoughts wandered down this path at all. Someone mentioned the word pearl and my mind began to recall the women that I’ve known who were named Pearl. I was going to write about them. The first Pearl was a Sunday school teacher and soprano in the church choir. I can recall this plum woman as a child. Then, there was the influence of my wife Cynthia’s grandmother, Pearl Agnes Johnson. These women were who I’d planned writing about. And then my mind was whisked away from the influence that these women had on my life to the influence that others have had as well.

I want to thank all of the pearls that have been a part of my strand of pearls no matter how large or small you think you have been. To those who have passed, to those who are no longer close, and for those who are near, you still shine beautifully as I see you in my mind.

Bits and Pieces

While driving to church Sunday morning, I heard two men on the radio discussing the loss of a child. One man’s son who died after an auto accident became the subject of the talk. The initial impact of the crash hadn’t killed him, but the son and the driver had been at a party drinking alcohol. Trying to avoid legal trouble, both boys fled the scene. The son sustained injuries and slowly bled to death. He hadn’t died in the crash, but died because he hadn’t sought medical help after the accident.

The father shared a story of being at the funeral home. Many of his son’s friends thronged to the funeral parlor to pay their respects. Quoting the father, he told them, “Your being here won’t change anything, but your being here means everything.” I thought how true. Things that we say or do may not be able to change another person’s difficult situation, but our being there often means more than anything that we can do.

I want to share another thought. I heard a biblical scholar semi-explain the visit of the angels to the shepherds in the fields of Bethlehem. These shepherds were raising sacrificial lambs for the Temple to be propitiation for sin. It meant that these yearling lambs had to be firstborn males and without spot or blemish. Often the shepherds would swaddle and wrap these lambs in cloth to protect them and prevent damage from occurring. The angel’s announcement, “Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger” meant something very much different than what we now think. The pronouncement was a foretelling of the Christ child as the sacrifice for world’s sins. Those words of comparison must have puzzled the shepherds.

A final bit is another bit of knowledge that I learned about Christ in the tomb after His crucifixion. When the disciples visited the empty tomb, Christ’s grave clothes were lying, yet He was not in them. The napkin that had covered His face was wrapped together in another place. It was another historical representation of an Old Testament tradition.

When the master sat at his table to eat, he might leave the table for some reason. While he was gone, the servants would look to see how he left his napkin. If it was tossed haphazardly onto the table, he was finished eating and they could clear the table, but if the master folded it and placed it on the table, the master wasn’t finished and would be back. And so it is with Christ, He will be coming back.

The Christmas Candies

I smiled as I lifted the old candy box down from the top closet shelf. It was worn from many years of being handled. I remembered the year when my wife and I had gotten the box of assorted chocolates as a Christmas gift. The candy was long gone, but the box had gained a second purpose of collecting buttons, thread, needles, and a variety of other accumulated odds and ends.

I flipped open its broad yellow and white hinged top. A faint aroma of the chocolate wafted up and stirred the memories lodged in my nostrils. It took me back to an almost embarrassing incident that makes me smile now. My wife was still alive and our three children’s ages ranged from four or five years old to twelve years old.

My wife had invited some of our old friends over for a post-Christmas celebration. It was to be a time for talking, snacking, and exchanging of gifts. Those friends had three children of their own and it made a perfect fit for our friendship and for exchanging of gifts.

My wife had prepared a tray of vegetables and dip, a tray of crackers with a cheese ball, and a tray of assorted cookies to serve our guests. As she showered and got dressed, I set the trays of goodies out on the dining room table. It looked festive, but I thought the cookie tray looked a little plain and would look more celebratory with a few of the chocolates scattered on the tray. I pulled the candy box from its spot under the Christmas tree. I opened it up and lifted the first piece of chocolate from its resting place inside. It was still cradled in its crinkled brown paper cup.

The aroma and the sight of the confection made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten one of the chocolates yet and it tempted me. I was feeling a bit hungry and seeing all of the food on the table I thought I would try a piece now. As I took the candy out of its paper wrapper, I thought that it felt a bit odd. Turning it over, I had a surprise. I could see that one of our kids had picked the chocolate coating off the underside. Apparently the child hadn’t liked the crème that had been hidden inside and returned it to its brown crinkled paper cup. Then slipping it back into box, they made it look as if it had never been disturbed.

I ate the disfigured piece of chocolate even though I could see that the crème inside wasn’t my one of my favorites. The frugal nature in me rejected the other option of throwing it away. The waste of food would have grated on my upbringing.

I picked out a second piece of candy from its paper nest to put onto the tray. This one felt odd too. When I turned it over, it had the bottom coating of sweets scraped off as well. The chocolate layer was gone and the creamy filling was exposed.

I looked through the candies. All of the chocolates had been mutilated, rendered bottomless, and returned to their candy box homes. That evening none of the sweet confections ever made it onto the cookie tray. Completely by accident, I had discovered and avoided an embarrassing situation.

Even if I hadn’t caught the mutilated bonbon, our friends would have understood. They had three children too. It has become an amusing story in our family and someone will ask, “Anyone want a piece of chocolate?”