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 neighbor’s 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 just hired Christian, a young man and his newly wedded wife. 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. Christian and his bride are just stepping into the first days of their summer, while Larry was stepping into the days of autumn.

Each day turns a page of the calendar forward. There is no guarantee that there will be another month when I flip the 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 snowflake of 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.

Heroes

We have heroes all around us; common people that do something uncommonly brave. At the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society we recently received a booklet in French that was forwarded to us about a radioman Robert “Buttons” Hauger. On the return from a successful bombing run into Germany, his plane was hit by antiaircraft shells and was forced down in France. The booklet described his escape and return to Great Britain. His story tells of just one of the many people that fought to protect America.

There is a lot of media coverage of John McCain’s death. Eulogies wax eloquently about his military and political careers. Like any hero, there are certain incidents that are less than noble and in hindsight the person would have resolved to change them.

I was reading about a gentleman named Colonel Fred V. Cherry. He was another Air Force fighter pilot that was shot down on his 100th mission. He was in solitary confinement for 53 weeks and was tortured and punished for 93 straight days. Col. Cherry was held as a prisoner of war for 2,671 days and finally released February 12, 1973. We don’t hear the story of the heroic black pilot, but is another of the unsung heroes who fought for the flag and our country.

All around us are veterans that sacrificed their limbs, their lives, and their mental health to keep America and their families safe, because our government asked them to risk all. Each day we rub elbows with heroes while grocery shopping. Meek and mild people that we wouldn’t guess exhibited bravery are out there, police, paramedics, nurses, doctors, maintenance men, road workers. There are too many to list. They faced the dangers of auto accidents, armed criminals, and other types of dire situations calling for immediate action and they responded. Sometimes we see them for an instant, captured on a camera phone pulling someone from a burning car, tackling a thug, or doing CPR on a drowned child or a heart attack victim. Heroes are not defined by their color, sex, age, or religion. Must we diminish their sacrifice by perpetuating these divisive views? We may have that someone standing beside us today that we need.

Centurian

Our Pastor mentioned that the age of the oldest woman alive was 117 years old. She passed that milestone of existing last year in 2017, but I’m not sure if she is still alive. We marvel that she achieved that age, but even if I should live until I reach the one hundred year mark, what is it when compared to eternity. We measure time in seconds, minutes, hours, day, weeks, months, and years. It is all a way that man can see the fleetingness of his existence here on Earth.

In comparison to eternity, one hundred years is merely a small nick, a scratch and barely noticed. One hundred years in the eternal calendar of our Eternal God is merely a speck of dust, yet this Ever- Existing Being takes notice of each nanosecond of our lives and records it.

We begin to die the second that we’re born; each breath moves us closer to the grave. Mankind was meant to be an eternal being. He was to live forever. God created him sinless and pure. The Creator gave him intelligence to rule with only one rule, Do not eat the fruit of one tree or you will die, and yet Adam did. That act allowed sin to enter into him and age now became a factor in his life. Just as radiation can change our genes and warp our DNA, I believe the chemicals in that fruit somehow altered our genetic make up to shorten our lives, allow aches, pains, and diseases to have influence on our flesh.

My body is wearing down, muscles don’t work like they once did, aching after I complete some task. I don’t think as clearly as I once did, making the recollections of things I once learned or once did a struggle. I think that is one of the reasons that I blog. I have put down many memories from my childhood through school, factory work, my military service, college, and my career as a nurse. My life may not mean much to anyone but my children. I am saddened like most people that I didn’t listen more closely my dad as he shared stories from his past.

As I age, I believe my aches and pains are calls to step beyond that door of death, a desire to reach eternity and be free of this mortal shell, a wish to be free of sin, its temptation, and the increasing limitations of my flesh. It is a desire to live beyond the grave in that heavenly city God has prepared and Christ is the key that allows believers to enter.

Tired Eyes

Wednesday I spent the morning at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society gathering the items for our display table at the LHTC Broadband Customer Appreciation Day on Saturday. The Society has had a table display each year. They also have a booth at the annual Flax Scutching in September. I made a few suggestions at earlier meetings and found myself in charge. I’d never been responsible for putting together the display or arranging the manpower for the booth. Thank goodness for other older people. It was an eye opening experience for me.

Wednesday evening I went to prayer meeting; a normal service with nothing out of the ordinary happened. Finally to bed, eyes tired. Lately my one eye would seem slightly blurred after wearing my glasses all day and I made an appointment for Thursday, to see what was happening. It was time. I hadn’t been examined in quite some time. My vision was only blurred when both eyes tired and tried to work in tandem. I wasn’t seeing double. When I covered each eye, the blurring went away and had good vision, but the hazy eyesight returned when looking with both eyes.

The exam went well and I found that my glasses were now too strong for my near-sightedness. Age may be improving at least one part of my body. The medication that the optometrist dropped in each eye stung for a bit, but soon the blurriness spread to both eyes. Back into the chair after about 20 minutes and the bright light exam of my inner eye started. She found nothing out of the ordinary and sent me on my way.

At home, I grabbed a snack, then headed outside to mow. Thank goodness for sunglasses. I’m not sure I could have finished my lawn in the bright sunlight without them. The pupils of my eyes were still dilated from the drops. I was glad to be back inside. My eyes were very tired and burning followed by a mild headache. It was an early night for me, uneventful except for the normal middle of the night bathroom runs.

Intrigue

Intrigue…what a wonderful way to end to a busy day. Yesterday was just another one of my fun filled days in a busy, seemingly never ending schedule. I ate breakfast and made my posts on Facebook, read my Bible and headed off to my daughter Amanda’s house to babysit my granddaughter Hannah… that much was routine. When I was driving to Mt. Pleasant, I stopped for breakfast sandwiches. I remembered that I’d left my bedroom window open and the weatherman called for rain. I wasn’t driving home and be late for my starting time, so I thought it was only one window and continued to my waiting job.

The day was routine, watching some television, watching Hannah, and doing silly things to keep her amused. Just before lunch, the heavens opened and the rain came down in buckets. The wind howled and thunder rolled. One loud clap made Hannah jump and cry. After calming her, I told her that thunder was only a noise and it wouldn’t hurt her.

Amanda came home for lunch and the rain continued. When she returned to work, I loaded Hannah into my car and we drove to Wal-Mart for a few groceries. There, much to my wandering eyes was an aisle end of Christmas ornaments…in August…really? I stopped to get gas and I found my money clip and card case was missing. Thankfully, I kept a spare $20.00 in my wallet and could pay. Another deluge delayed our exit. With my gas tank filled we drove home.

Still worried about the open bedroom window, I called my other daughter Anna to close it. Some good news; it hadn’t rained in.

At shifts end, I hurried home to eat and to go to the monthly meeting of the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and speakers from the upcoming Flax Scutching. My daughter called. She’d found my money and card case. The missing was located and I relaxed.

Almost as soon as I arrived home, the phone rang. After saying hello, a woman’s almost frantic voice began to share the details of a missing gun. She knew that it was still in the holster on the table, but now it was gone. There was a pause. I don’t know if she was waiting for an answer or what she needed. I was at a loss for words, not sure if I wanted to know more. I merely said, “I believe you have the wrong number.” I fell asleep wondering what the end to this intriguing mystery would be.

I’m Getting Older I Told Her

That is my excuse I am now using and I’m sticking to it. It’s not very original, but I’m learning to wield it quite well. If I forget my car keys inside the house and have to devise a surreptitious way to gain entrance, I don’t get mad; I just blame it on getting older. When I get to the grocery store and start to gather items on my list only to discover the list was still at home beside the spot where I found my keys hiding, it’s because I’m getting older. When I get up from my easy chair and my knees snap, crackle, and pop, it’s because I’m getting older.

Grabbing a nap during the Sunday morning service, I blame it on getting older. I haven’t tried this excuse with the pastor yet, even though I’ve nodded off on occasion. I’ve nodded off in the middle of a television program and missed the ending, now I can lay the blame on getting older. Making a meal out of a hot dog because I don’t feel like cooking for myself…I just blame it on getting older. When my new carpet and flooring were installed several months ago, I emptied two barrister cabinets and a large china cabinet and hutch. I stored them on my enclosed back sunroom and vowed that nothing would go back in the cupboards until my kids had a chance to sort through them. I was getting used to them being out there and almost forgot about them, because I’m getting older and wanted to ignore the work involved in returning then to their homes on the empty shelves.

My granddaughters have been using the empty shelves as a desk and to display their artwork. Today, that changed. The Herculean task has been started. Actually the precursor started yesterday. The packaging and storing of items stored in the upstairs bedrooms, were packaged, condensed, and stored in only one bedroom. The second hand stores are going to get a boost in their inventory this week. This gives me a room I can offer as a resting place for friends who might stop by to visit. I can offer them a place to sleep without worrying about them getting lost among the boxes and me forgetting that they’re in my house, because I’m getting older.

I was able to sort through the boxed items, selecting the ones I wanted to retain and return to the cabinets. The much lightened items were returned to the back porch for distribution at a later date. Perhaps it will happen before I’m unable to get any older.

Let There Be Light

For quite some time I’ve had difficulties with the electric panel in my basement. Whoever mounted it to the wall used only a 1/2 inch thick piece of plywood attaching it to a cinderblock, outside wall. When the warm air from the oil heater or the heat from my wood burner came in contact with the cooler surface of the metal of the electric panel, the moisture in the damp basement air would condense and collect at the bottom. There was no way I could keep the cover on the panel, it intensified the problem. With the cover off, it allowed air to circulate, but wasn’t enough. I used a small fan, hanging it to play the sir current over the wires and the inside of the box. That kept most of the moisture at bay, evaporating any condensation before it could cause a problem.

The inside bottom of the panel had developed a thick flakey layer of rust. The electric box was old, original with the house built in 1974 or 1975. It was outdated just for the amperage. I decided that it was time to update the house, add a few new receptacles, and the new electrical panel installed.

Wednesday was the day. The contractor and three others arrived with the bucket truck and began the task. They also had a portable generator to provide their own electricity for light. After the crew was given instructions, the contractor drove off to receive a delivery at his business. The crew dug in and soon I was sitting in the dark. Not really, it was 9:30 am. Willow, the cat didn’t like the noise of saws and drills, sticking close to me. The panel box was attached to a 3/4 inch square of plywood, with air space between it and the wall.

The contractor came back to check on the progress and to present the bill. It was $1,700.00, the agreed on price. Shortly after, he drove off again to his farm. As the job neared completion, the young men began to peel off, no longer needed. The last workman fastened the last few wires and placed the cover on the panel. I checked the electric upstairs. Everything was fine, but one line of lights in the basement wasn’t turning on. I showed him which lights were on that string. Troubleshooting, he discovered that a light switch had gone bad. Once it was replaced, he cleaned up and departed.

Now, my house is light and so is my bank account.