Barbequed Bear Balls
I made barbecues meatballs for lunch at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society and it reminded me of my first wild game banquet. My brother Kenneth Beck had a spare ticket and asked if I wanted to go. Just like almost every Saturday night, I was free and readily accepted. I had no idea what to expect. It was all new to me. The only wild game I ate were the animals my dad killed and the venison that I shot during deer season.
The first things on the menu were trays of hors d’oeuvres of cheeses, deer sausage, homemade pickles, pickled peppers, and crackers. The next course that was offered were the soups:, regular chili, venison chili, white bean moose soup, turtle soup, squirrel navy bean soup, and wild mushroom soup. I tried the turtle soup and the squirrel bean soup.
The next round of foods that was shared was the main course, fresh cloverleaf buns, small buttered potatoes, and green. beans..Then there were the meats: elk meatloaf, slices of venison roast, wild turkey, bear goulash, venison meatloaf, some type of sausage in sauerkraut, and the barbequed bear balls. The bear meat had been ground up, rolled into meat balls, and cooked in a barbeque sauce.
I didn’t try the sauerkraut and sausage and I wasn’t impressed with the bear goulash. I didn’t like the flavor of the spices that were used in it and I didn’t like the mushy consistency.
A large urn of coffee and several coolers of iced water and lemon Blend graced a small table at the end of the line to wet the whistles and clear the palate between the different meats.
Another small table was festooned and piled high with a plethora of desserts. Cakes of all flavors with their varied icings, small muffins of banana bread, and a few cookies, were bundled in individual clear plastic containers. It made them easy to select and to carry back to your table.
Door prizes and other ticket prizes for T shirts, car care items, cash prizes, framed pictures, appliances, and several guns were given out to those with matching ticket numbers.
I remember sitting at my computer typing with a full and round abdomen. At the time, I hoped that it settled. It must have because I had a quiet night of sleep and the wild game didn’t fight for territorial rights during the middle of the night.

Tricks at Halloween
When I was in my very early teens Halloween was a diversion for a little devilment, a time to be a little rowdy. It isn’t like now when kids run amuck. It was for a bit of excitement. It was more than dressing in outfits like hobos, sheets as ghosts, or wrapped like mummies for school or trick or treating , it was playing pranks like soaping windows and throwing shelled corn at passing cars.
My friends and I would explore the streets of Indian Head, Pennsylvania under the cover of darkness to visit many of the houses with stubs of soap to smear the windows of unsuspecting home owners. We weren’t wasteful using full bars of soap, but we would save carefully hoarded scraps of soap bars when the bar was nearly used up..
Attacks on two homes in particular I remember. The first encounter occurred just as it was getting dark. I was walking with my friends. We spied a stone house with a hedge of shrubs near the front of the house nestled under a large front window. We could see the flickering of a television inside. He program was in black and white at that time. No one had color televisions. We dared the youngest kid in our group to soap the window with the old chant, “You don’t have a hair…” His stealthy approach behind the bushes was perfect. Not a leaf stirred on the bushes. Slowly a hand arose out of the jungle of leaves and began to trace figure eights on the glass surface. The most unusual about the raid was that the homeowner came to the window and was apparently hypnotized by the audacity. She stood there, her head following the soap’s tracings until the hand disappeared back into anonymity.
The second occurred at a home where we were tossing grains of shelled field corn onto her porch. It was rumored that the woman slept with a large pistol under her pillow. When the porch light snapped on at the sounds of corn hitting her door, we ran. It was fully dark by that time and in my blind dash to escape, my legs tripped a turkey wire fence that was about thigh high in height. I did a complete somersault, landing on my butt. The next day, I could see that the wire fence was dented and fence posts on both sides of my assault were leaning toward the spot that tripped me.

I wrote this piece many years ago trying to expose the dark roots off Halloween.
Older and Wiser
Widowed and aged she feared tonight’s visit from the Druid priests. They would soon be at her door demanding food and drink or tribute. It was the usual fees for their intervention with the Celtic gods. If their requests were not met, they would find a way to extract payment in some way. They were not easily deterred nor were their memories of imagined slights easily forgotten.
For hours they would gather in a nearby grove with thick curtains of mistletoe clinging to the oak’s ancient branches. At a clearing in the thicket they’d build a large fire and chant as they danced, preparing themselves for the darkness of night. Beating on drums made from human skins and playing eerie tunes on ivory hued flutes of men’s leg bones, they directed their worship to Anextiomarus the protector god, to Ankou the god of death, and to the goddess of fertility and abundance Rosmerta.
It was rumored the instruments they used in worship ceremonies were made from the victims of the priests wrath and the candles they used were made from the tallow of those who failed to pay tribute for protection. The priests always arrived on All Hallows Eve carrying those candles. Their faces hooded, darkened, and lost in the shadows of the candles’ reflectors.
This year the old woman’s pantry was especially sparse. She’d have barely enough food to survive the winter. How could she keep the little provisions that she had?
She sat and thought as her small barley cake baked in the hot coals of her fire. The cake almost burned as she sought an answer to her problem. The room darkened as the night drew nearer. Was there a way to save her food?
“Berries,” she exclaimed. “I have a few dried strawberries.” Quickly, she ground them and added water. She must hurry. Surely they would be at her door soon. She’d barely finished with her plan when there was a loud pounding on her door. She lifted the latch and offered them the small barley cake from her hearth.
The priest closest to her moved nearer to see the proffered item. The flickering light from the candle fell on the old woman’s wrinkled face and hands. He backed away. “Pox!” he shrilled. “The old woman has the pox.”
When they’d gone, she closed the door, and laughed. Wiping the berries from her face and hands she smeared them on her cake. “This will be a sweet treat for my supper tonight.”

 Not Quite a Wake
Over the weekend I attended a memorial service for the son of a gracious lady that I know. I have attended several memorials in my life, but the unusual thing was where it was held. The woman scheduled the event to be held in a bar. That is what confused me. I know Irish wakes are a celebration of the deceased’s life to remove some of the sting of the person’s passing. I have never attended a wake so I have nothing with which to compare this ceremony.
Several friends and I stopped to greet the man’s mother with a hug and to offer our condolences as we entered. A young man was strumming on his guitar and sang several songs. He left the raised dais after a few songs to mingle with the guests. The area quickly became congested with elbow to elbow people. I headed outdoors when I saw through a glass door there was an empty covered patio. Several tall glass towers of propane flame heated were lighted the area. It beckoned to me. There were half dozen glass topped tables surrounded by chairs outside and as of yet unoccupied. It was unused as of yet. The patio was completely empty. I decided to take my soft drink outside and take a seat where I could at least move and breathe. Several of my friends soon joined me. A breeze caused the air outside to have occasional chilly drafts, but it soon warmed again with the several propane heaters.
Later we were told one corner of the bar area was a food station. The table was filled with pizzas having different toppings. The table also had candied bacon, deep fried cheese sticks, and cheese balls also arrayed to sample. Coffee and tea were available at the other side of the horseshoe shaped bar. Non-alcoholic drinks were proffered free to all, but mixed drinks, beer, and ales were not. They could be purchased if you desired alcohol to drink.
The interior of the bar area remained packed. People wandered in and out of the bar and in and out onto the patio. It was a constant ebb and flow. Even with the heaters the evening grew colder. My friends and I decided it was time to leave. We paid our respects to the mother and departed. I still am unsure as to whether I should call it a memorial or a muted wake.

 
What a Card
As kids my brother Ken and my sister Kathy would play card games at times: Old Maid, Fish, and War. They weren’t challenging, but they’d keep us busy when we couldn’t go outside or during times we were bored with nothing else to do. Later we learned to play Rummy. There were other older card games like Flinch and Milles Borne, but we never learned the rules to play them.
When I was in high school I would visit friends who lived near my grandparent Miner’s farm. Several brothers were my age and we liked to play Hearts and Spades. I liked these games. They were more of a challenge. It’s been so long ago since I’ve played them, I’m not sure I would remember how to play.
While I worked at Walworth Valve Company in South Greensburg I learned to play Canasta. At lunch several men would break out decks of cards and play. I learned the game through observation. When one of the men didn’t show up for the game, I would sit in. I got the “newbie” hassle because I was still learning and might make the wrong bid or play the wrong card. It was a “learn quickly” or I wouldn’t be invited to sit in and play cards.
There was a lot of down time while I was attending Corps in school the United States Navy at Great Lakes. Since I didn’t drink or use drugs, I often stayed in the barracks and not going into Chicago for the weekend. I would frequently play Poker. We weren’t allowed to gamble, but used pop tops as poker chips. No money was on the table, but the pop tops were used instead of nickels. I made money, not because I was a great gambler, but because I had staying power. Someone would show up wanting to play and they would “buy” my seat at the table. I’d hang around until someone bowed out, opening a seat. I would claim it, coming back in with a fresh pot of money. I’d play until someone else would want a seat at the table.
I also learned to play Cribbage, an easy game to transport. A deck of cards and Cribbage board didn’t take up much room. The board I had was very plain, but I’ve seen some fancy Cribbage boards with ivory or exotic wooden pegs owned by serious players.
Today’s kids play Dutch Blitz and Uno. They can be fun, but Dutch Blitz is too rapid paced for me. I can’t collect my thoughts as quickly as those from the younger generation.

 Sharing a poem of retrospect

Beyond the Never-Mind
When I think of what could have been
And I review what’s passed behind
I wonder what I might have seen
Beyond unexplored never-mind.
My youth seems to have quickly passed
Learning things that had worth or not
As knowledge and wealth were amassed
The Never-mind was what I sought.
Each selection growing older
Each choice led me along a path
Now I look over my shoulder
To see ones made in haste or wrath.
If I could change them in hindsight
Would I take the same path I’m on?
Would I choose going left or right
Not knowing what lurks ere the dawn?
The past is fixed, I move ahead
Walking on firm paths or rubble
I cannot fret about “instead”
Never-mind’s a fleeting bubble.
All never-minds are in the past
Far beyond today’s narrow view
Will I ever know what will last?
Without backward glance in review.
Maybe something I’m reaching for
Something that still remains hidden
Yonder behind the next closed door
On an odd horse not yet ridden
Never-minds unnoticed before.
Traveled but never to return
Paths ahead are often unsure
In passing or will I sojourn?

Thoughts in a Cement Mixer
As I sat trying to urge myself to get out of bed after waking up, thought of what I should write about churned in my head. I should have tried to write something last evening after church, but a combination of low energy and a lack of ideas prevented me from writing. This morning a trailing thought from my dream flowed by. The dream was about me parking my car and walking. It began to snow and I decided to return, but couldn’t find my car. I don’t know what happened then. I woke up. I didn’t want to write about that.
Friday and Saturday I fried sausage at the annual Ohiopyle Pancake, Buckwheat Cake & Sausage festival. Of course my body complained, but there are other men who are the same age or in worse health than me, so I continue to go. This was the 75th anniversary of the festival and I’ve worked nearly fifty of them. My son Andrew and his family and my daughter Anna and her husband came out and we ate together. I saw my dietician Alex who came out with his friends and enjoyed the food as well.
The work of frying sausage isn’t strenuous, but the leaning over the griddles is hard on the back and legs. Each griddle is about eighteen inches deep by twenty-eight inches wide and there are twelve griddles, six on each side. The heat of the first six griddles is kept low, starting the cooking process. The sausage patties are then passed over to the second set of griddles to finish the frying process. Forty-two patties fit tightly on each griddle. The meat patties must be watched carefully so they don’t burn or stick to the surface of the griddles.
The flames beneath the griddles must be monitored or the griddles will get to hot. Sometimes if the air current changes direction or strength, it can quickly affect the flames and the heat. What causes us to return year after year? It’s the camaraderie. It’s the friendships that have developed over the many years. Some friends have passed away, others have filled in, and new bonds have developed.