Palette-Able

I often see instructions on recycling projects using castaway wooden pallets. Projects from planter boxes to picnic tables and so many more items were imagined and built. I believe that this is the nature of human beings, the desire to not see something wasted and the ability to let loose innate creativity. This is the nature of the first settlers coming to America. Many of those traditions were passed down through the generations to my grandparents Miner.

My grandfather Raymond Miner worked night shifts in the coal mines, then managed to sleep and farm during the daylight hours. He had 8 children and a wife to support. Corn, hay, and a large garden helped to feed the family and his animals. Usually he kept 2 milk cows, several hogs, and chickens. Any leftover food scraps were fed the pigs and chickens. The milk was used for the family after the cream was removed and made into butter. Any excess eggs were sold or traded to a Jewish fruit and vegetable huckster. When it came time to butcher, every part of the hog was used except the squeal.

Grandma Rebecca was no slouch either. She made Christmas presents of table, chairs, and a cupboard for the girls out of fruit crates. She made her own patterns to create clothing out of newspaper. Left over material was miraculously transformed into quilts, enough quilts to give each one of her 30 grandchildren for wedding presents. Canning meats, fruit, and vegetables were other talents. Her baking skills made mouths water. All of this is remarkable since she only had a fourth grade education. We talk about thinking outside of the box, one Christmas when Granddad was working extra in the mine, caring for the cattle, and trying to catch a few winks Grandma went outside and trimmed several large pines in their yard. Dragging the limbs inside, she strung wires from their 12 foot ceiling and attached the pine to the wire to create her own Christmas tree. My mom Sybil said it was the most beautiful tree they ever had. The recycling movement is just taking steps backward to our grandparent’s era.

Adjusting

All of us need to adjust sometimes in our lives, whether it happens with folks as newlyweds, with new parents at the birth of a child, or the grief with the death of a parent, sibling, spouse, or God forbid the death of a child. These are major adjustments that we must make in order to continue living. But we must make hundreds of minor adjustments each day; from what to make for breakfast when there’s no milk for our cereal to what to wear when the clothing we wanted is in the laundry waiting to be washed.

During each day, we readjust our clothing to fit more comfortably, adjust our seatbelts when we intend to drive our cars, or adjust the channel on the television changing to the program we want to watch. Right now, I’m adjusting to a new medication that my primary care physician has started me on. I don’t think I am tolerating it well. I’ve found several of the side effects are present and discomforting, but no severe reactions, yet. I’ll continue with the medication until I can reach the office on Tuesday to see what she’d like me to do.

Because of the side effects, Saturday night I sat in my recliner to sleep. The chair is located close to two large windows. Suddenly, I was awakened when the room lit up almost like an arc welder had struck a spark. I had no idea what had happened, but my instinct said there was a lightning strike and very close. I cringed, waiting for the thunderous crash I was sure would follow, shaking the house and rattling the windows. I was sure the lightning strike had occurred right outside of the windows. But nothing happened for about 6 seconds, then from far off the thunder roared loudly and began to fill the room. The strike must have been massive for it to make enough light to fill my room and waken me. I got up to quickly adjust the windows to a closed position knowing the rain was sure to follow.

Instead of returning to my chair, I climbed into my bed, adjusted my pillow and blankets before returning to my interrupted night of rest and sleep.

Shredded Wheat

Shredded wheat has made the journey from one man’s dream and mechanical genius to a staple on many people’s breakfast table, me included. The first idea to shred wheat came from an inventor named Henry D. Perkey, a devout vegetarian. His plan for the shredded wheat biscuit wasn’t just for breakfast, but an addition to meal plates smothered in mushrooms and other vegetables. His vision was to have the wheat biscuit an integral part of the sailors diet.

Today, most shredded wheat biscuits are eaten as common breakfast fare. The biscuits come in three sizes, the regular pillow-shaped, the mini, and the bite sized. Over the years, different companies sold the name and process to other companies. Many changed the name, but the basic recipe and production method have remained the same. Today, cereal companies have added a sugar glaze to the top of the smaller sizes in various flavors and colors, but the biscuit is unchanged.

I’ve said all of this to tell a story about my father, Carl Beck. Shredded wheat was one of the items on his breakfast list. My dad wasn’t a person to change habits easily. While watching television, an advertisement shot across the screen saying Nabisco shredded wheat contained no salt. This was a time when salt was a no-no and a contributing factor to high blood pressure. Even though we tried to correct my dad’s misconception of what he heard, he was sure that the company removed the salt from his favorite dish and would sprinkle salt on the biscuits before baptizing them in milk.

The milk I grew up on was raw milk from a neighboring farm. Raw milk is unpasteurized and sometimes the butterfat content and flavors varied, depending on which cow yielded the milk. I was very picky about the flavor. Sometimes when a cow would graze on a strong tasting plant, that flavor would pass through the cow and into the milk and I would complain. “There’s nothing wrong,” my dad would thunder, “Drink your milk.” He was bigger, stronger, and he was my dad. Reluctantly, the milk from my glass or cereal bowl would disappear.

Insulbrick Memories

Insulbrick, many people will wonder what is Insulbrick, especially the younger readers. This product was a heavy tar paper created to insulate and protect homes from harsh weather and cold. It was heavier than the roofing shingles we now use to cover the roofs of our homes to keep us warm and dry. Insulbrick arrived in stiff, heavy rolls that were uncoiled and nailed to the rough-sawn board sides of homes to make them weather tight, watertight, and more appealing to the eye. The thick tarpaper had coarse mineral coating applied in patterns to resemble brick or cut stone. The simulated brick product was offered in a dark red color or in a lighter tan palette, while the cut stone presented in a pale gray hue. The lines that created the stone or brick patterns were areas where the mineral coating was absent and the tar underlayment showed through.

The house that my father, Carl Beck bought was covered in the brown brick pattern, while the neighbor’s house was wrapped in the gray stone appearing design. Jesse Hall had built both homes, moving into the larger one when its construction was complete.

As a youngster, I can remember many of the homes in our area were wrapped in this product. One building was the Assembly of God church in Melcroft, Pennsylvania. It was a large structure, dark and almost forbidding with double doors and small windows. The dark red expanse of Insulbrick seemed grim, imposing, and not very welcoming at all. The inside was less intimidating with light colored walls and fold-up theater seats.

The old seats were wonderful. Their fold down section wore a thick-spring and cloth-covered cushion that made sitting to listen to a long sermon much easier to endure. I seem to recall there was a patterned, burgundy carpet lining main aisle that separated the two sections of dusty gray colored seating. It sloped downward toward the raised dais stage portion of the church.

That Insulbrick covered church is now gone. It’s become merely a part of my past. I was quite young. Now, it’s just a faded recollection, only vaguely seen through the dusty lens of a child’s memory.

Maybe Now

Saturday I spent 4 hours at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. Many of the projects are over, but there are quite a few left to tackle. Right now, I’ve been assigned to filing the obituaries into a scrapbook type of storage. I’ve been doing that for 2 days, but Saturday, as I was filing some of the accumulated listings, I opened the book, looking for places to store them. As I did, I saw my dad’s picture and his obituary. It wasn’t what I needed to see with the death of my friend so near. My attention was drawn to the opposite page. There were the obituaries for my cousin, uncle, Grandmother, Grandfather, Mother, and my wife Cindy. It was enough and I called it quits for the day.

Another busy weekend is over and my good friend Dr. Norman Lee Johnston has been paid to rest. Hopefully the stress that has been building is behind me and things will slow for a bit. One of my good friends and travelling companions drove to McConnellsburg, Pennsylvania for the interment and committal services. We were both long time friends of Pastor Johnston.

As soon as the church service was over and before Sunday school started, we left from the church on the ninety-one mile drive. The early morning showers were over and the air was fresh and warm. Traffic was moderately light on the turnpike, and we were there with time to spare before the service. Since, neither of us had been to just a graveside ceremony, we were unsure of what to expect. So, we stopped at a grocery store for some snacks until afterwards when we planned to eat at a restaurant before heading home.

Nearly thirty-five people gathered at the cemetery. A brief prayer, an eulogy, and the message were separated by violin hymn renditions from one of Norman’s former students. The weather was breezy, warm and the sky sunny with brief clouds scudding overhead. The cemetery is located not far from his wife Joy’s home place. The graveyard is nestled in a valley, surrounded by tree clad mountains. It was a perfect last resting place for this man of God, family man, and friend.

Stress I Guess

Last week I was struggling over several important decisions. I wasn’t exactly worried over which decisions to make; I’d already made them and was concerned as to whether or not I had made the right choices. My concerns weren’t about those choices, but what would the outcome be because of my decisions. I felt sure they were correct, but there was sometimes the niggling, uneasy, queasy feeling that lingers in the pit of the stomach.

When the weekend rolled around, I began to experience intermittent bouts of chest tightness. I knew it wasn’t muscular. The feeling of pressure didn’t change with movement or with a deep breath. The pressure wasn’t steady and was just a nuisance and like any good nurse, I ignored it.

Monday evening, I was told that a great friend, Pastor, professor and missionary, Dr. Norman Johnston had died. Although he wasn’t living nearby, we kept in touch, sharing stories and a rich history of birthdays, books, and families. His wife Joy and my wife Cindy were best friends. Our families drew closer during the various camping trips out west, to North Carolina, and through New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and Labrador.

His passing hit me fairly hard. I settled into a funk. Not quite a depression because I could still function, but my emotions and throat were raw. I made it through Tuesday and Wednesday work day at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society with a continuation of the recurrent episodes of chest tightness.

Wednesday evening while sitting in prayer meeting, I felt a burning sensation in the right side of my chest with some numbness of the fingers of my left hand. This scared me. It brought my symptoms to a head and I decided I needed to be checked. It wasn’t sympathy pains from Pastor J’s heart attack, they were my own. Worried, I drove myself to the hospital.

The EKG and the MI enzymes came back normal, but with my risk factors, the ED doctor decided to keep me for a second EKG, a second set of MI enzymes, and a stress test in the morning. I didn’t get much rest. The ER “hold bed” was a room that easily could have been a meat locker. One or two degrees lower, I would have been able to see my breath. I did catch a few winks, hiding beneath a couple of thin cotton blankets. I am still among the living and out of the hospital. I passed my stress test. It feels good that it isn’t my heart, but I am still having occasional bouts of tightness.

Choked with Emotion

I found out Monday evening that a long time friend, mentor, and Pastor died. It’s still hard for me to believe but I just saw the obituary. I first met him as a missionary bund for Russia. He had been a missionary to South Korea, starting several churches there. His wife Joy and children Ahna, Seth, Rebecca, and Benjamin were making the deputation tour with him. He was short in stature, but larger than life in his passion to serve the Lord. His love of his family and fellow man was dwarfed only by his love of God and his passion to share the Gospel story.

I’ve seen many other posts from people that Pastor Norman Johnston has impacted. Teaching, preaching, and starting churches he shared his life and knowledge with the unsaved and those seeking to follow in the footsteps of Jesus.

I have many memories of this wonderful man I call my friend, but nearly everyone that he met called him a friend. His preaching and teaching often meandered down a rabbit trail with facts that only made the illustration he was making more interesting. Any and all age groups responded to this man’s compassion. Pastor J. had an infectious smile that welcomed from the first meeting.

It was under his stewardship that my wife Cindy, my children Amanda, Andrew, and Anna made out trips out west, visiting places that are blessed memories. Two of my children and I accompanied him as we drove to the northern tip of New Foundland and took a ship farther north to Nain in Labrador, just because one young man expressed a desire to be a missionary there.

My son, with several others shared the trip to South Korea as Pastor Johnson returned to celebrate an anniversary of a church he founded there. Lives of people he met in Russia have improved because of his sharing the Bread of Life and several potatoes he brought from America.

Every person that Pastor Norm met has story after story of how he impacted our lives. Volumes of tales could be written about him and my words do little justice. We will sorely miss him, but I know there is rejoicing in Heaven.