Historical events,places, documents, military battles
Fried Scrapple
Warm, soft chewy pretzels
Mennonite women with caps and long skirts
Catholic priests who laugh, pound the pulpit
Hug their flock
Much has changed in Pennsylvania Dutch Country
HOWEVER
Store keepers, teachers, role models
Here in the hinterlands
God’s country remains intact.
Born in the USA
Reflective multicolored pearls bounce skyward
Shimmering snow banks rejoice
Winter’s beauty arrives
A new beginning; January 2, 2016
Quietude in our small town
Five days since a drug bust
It could be worse.
Priests and preachers ruminate hopeful themes
This year will be better than last
Phone rings – our daughter calls: let the good times roll.
Politicians and pundits recover from hangovers.
College bands, cheerleaders: cheer for the home team.
Hope there is hope/
I scan Word press: clever writers probe the paranormal
Smiling, all is well.
Wearing my German heritage is a badge of honor
On time, precise, exact, we block out WWII.
Never again- a phrase oft repeated in our childhood.
Yes, shame runs through generations.
Ah, but this is 2016…
And then !! A bold headline jumps off the internet.
Turkey’s president “ Hitler had some good ideas”.
He brought organizational skills to government.
Yes, he designed the holocaust.
US government outrage – none
US media outrage – none
Presidential reaction – none
Neville Chamberlin lives.
Precursors of evil and death are here
We profess “ Never Again”
Bull Shit – the ghosts of 1939 are alive and well.
Sprinkles of daisy dust gather in the centurion sunlight
Dancing to the gentle notes of the forest glen symphony they
ride the transparent ripples of the long since forgotten spring.
Rhythmically holding hands, the dust’s chorus line forms ripples
barely visible to the casual observer.
Midday sun rays caress the sodden trunks of long since
fallen oaks. Baring the inner core of once proud hard
woods, this idyllic stream shares the beauty of its bottom weeds,
with speckled trout gleefully chasing dinner prey.
Battered wooden slats, wounded concrete boulders, remnants of man’s
brief sojourn in God’s creation, lie silently in the spring brook’s
eternal bed. Undeterred, the spring has recreated its former beauty,
evident to all who pause and meditate, life above, within, and into its depths,
this tiny speck on man’s maps is a tribute to Nature’s regenerative power.
paradise is obliterated. Worse, the summer sunlight is life threatening to these creatures accustomed to a world of total darkness.
What right do I have to intrude?
Gently rolling clumps of enriched black earth in my hands, enjoying grit under finger nails, recalls the wise of great grandmother Fisher ” Treat the earth as God’s gift and you will be rewarded. Abuse her and you will be punished. the earth is one of God’s fondest creations. He created it for us to cherish”. Ah, the Puritan ethic runs deep.
Peering from the underside of her ever present Amish bonnet, Grammy knew whereof she
spoke. the war gardens in which she toiled from sun up to sun down from April to early November in the 1940’s protected our family from the perils of starvation. Some of the less energetic neighbors did not fare as well.
The men of the family? They were members of the greatest generation fighting for their lives as part of the Big Red One, Pennsylvania’s keystone regiment during the Battle of the Bulge.
The women? They toiled amid oppressive heat and noise at chocolate factory.. Standing on unforgiving concrete floors for long hours, my mother never complained. The work was part of her patriotic duty –making chocolate bars for the troops- including her husband.
How did we survive?
Mounded rows of russet potatoes large red tomato plants, spring onions, stalks of pole beans and mint tea plants provided the staples. Additionally, we spent Sunday afternoons scouring the rocky hillsides of the Blue Mountains scrounging for blueberries and non-toxic mushrooms. The blueberries and their lesser respect relatives, mulberries, were subsequently canned and stashed on crude wooden shelves in the coal cellar.
All this begs the question. How inconsequential is the replanting of a lawn when we owe our existence to the pluck and determination of those who came before us?
All this begs the question. How inconsequential is the rep
HELPING OTHERS IN 2013
Self centered, self rewarding, self promotion ..etc..
Several phrases to describe that most concentric of end of year
Activities – The New Years Resolution.
We all know the drill:
Lose weight,
Go to the gym regularly,
Get to work on time
Each and everyone is a worthwhile goal… and resolutions that we take seriously.
These goals are in concert with our New Year’s parties – designed to make us feel
good.
We are celebrating the coming of another change in the calendar.
The uplifting spirit that comes with our success at attaining our goals is both
temporary and thin as a colorless veneer.
Why?
Two reasons – 1st the goals are designed to give us self satisfaction : good idea –
but self satisfaction is only temporary – we buy a new car – then find we want a
replacement.. when the glass is full we seek
another source of joy and satisfaction… always moving on …
A spiritually based Christian axiom is that we gain more benefit when we provide
love and care to others than to ourselves. For example, our inner satisfaction is a
deep, quiet reward when we see the sense of hope we have helped to create in the
eyes of a needy, lost person. Without any thought of
personal reward we have helped a brother .
This unselfish act creates ever growing compound interest in our own inner soul –
and like Mother Theresa – we help whom ever is in need without regard to those
with business or political connections who may pay us back for our kindness.
Yes, let’s make resolutions for 2013. Resolutions to give of our time and talents to
help others before paying attention to ourselves.
God Bless!
The onyx crucifix hung nailed to fading, pale green walls
Above the Formica dining room chairs — near the aging refrigerator.
Years pass. Children are born: grow tall and leave home.
The brick duplex sags beneath the weight of time in the steel town ghetto.
The crucifix remains.
Family dinners, pinochle games, political discussions, high school football scores
All take place as the gray cross silently shows its pain.
Silence?? No one discusses the history of the
old , almost mystical icon which was hidden inside a
pillow case when the part Catholic – part Jewish family
Fled the Nazis as the killers overwhelmed the Danube valley:
Penniless, weak, frightened, they stumbled into the US at Ellis Island.
Names changed to appear American, they labored in the steel
mills and breweries: cleaned houses: sewed the clothing of rich matrons.
Long days, short weekends: they fought to survive the depression:
Observed government agents checking their mail – their choice of
of newspapers-their phone calls to ensure they were not German agents:
Decades pass, the family matriarch passes into the hands of our Lord.
Grown children scramble for the jewelry, furniture,
Assets in bank accounts.
The crucifix remains alone : always watchful: revered
Yet ignored:
Shunted aside on to a pile of “ we don’t want this”– you can have it.
History ignored. Family values disregarded.. then….
Family lore talks about a tiny church on the other side of the
Town: Steel mills and woolen mills closed: This once prosperous
church now sits surrounded by fading row houses, empty lots.
Once a German- Slovak enclave, the parish is in transition.
A welcoming Latino priest –dedicated to saving the history of the parish.
Says hi to the Anglo tourists in search of their roots.
What windows he queries.. oh yes, those windows ..no one can explain them.
Family legend says two lead windows were donated by one of the family elders:
One for his first wife – then for his second after the death of the first.
Yes, we find the family European name on the windows… and a replication
of the crucifix … wow!
The crucifix has indeed been part of the family for decades..
Coincidence? A part of family devotion that could have been lost forever.
The crucifix had been posited a decade since past
as a semi-decoration on the side wall of a business office.
More of an after thought decoration than an object of veneration.
Recently blessed, and understood:
A proud reminder of faith and family courage.
A gift from the Lord that has traveled many miles: Survived through generations.
A story that deserves to be retold to the next generation… not left as “stuff”.
An obligatory message to all of us to pass along our stories of family relics, pictures, and
yes muses to the next generation. Myths which will disappear when we pass on.
Lest we forget… take the time: share your stories and keepsakes with those coming behind
you.. Your traditions deserve to be preserved and repeated.
When: September 1958
Where: Downtown Salisbury North Carolina
Who: 2 freshmen college guys walking down the sidewalk –coming towards them on the
sidewalk – 2 young black men
What happened: the black men walked off the sidewalk on to the street
What else – the Greyhound bus station has a water fountain for “whites only
Forward – WHAT A DIFFERENCE A GENERATION MAKES:
Where – Beaufort South Carolina
Who- Young professionals enjoying the beauty of the river walk and nearby restaurants:
What – Upscale book store in Beaufort – Sizable collection of non fiction publications:
Section on American History includes – Civil War – not “ WAR BETWEEN THE STATES:
African American
Amazing changes in a generation.
Even more amazing is the reinforcement of the value of travel, interaction with those
outside of the cocoon in which we live and work. Contrary to a popular bromide- “ people are
not all alike. We do not have the same values, evolve from the same culture, carry forth the
same belief systems. Thank Goodness. Diversity is complex, indeed fascinating and
a generator of the kalidescope of imagery found in the classic photo montage book “ The Family
of Man”.
Southerners have a wonderful habit of saying hello, or giving a smile and a nod to all
those who cross their paths. Skeptically I wondered if this was a sincere greeting or
merely a habit. The greeting is truly an invitation to pause, take a moment, pass the time
of day.. and most significantly .. to establish a dialogue. What a gift if we take advantage
of this outstretched hand.
Social media and mass news networks are invaluable sources of information. Emails are a
short hand method of conversation.
What do these conveyors have in common? They are void of emotion and eyeball contact.
There is an absence of rubbing elbows, face to face contact, observing others, and
actual conversation. Evaluations, perceptions, testing realities versus perceptions through
the eyes of third parties are filtered with the history and biases of the messenger.
What is missing is the honest, guttural, in your face feedback that comes with
conversational dialogue. It is easy and convenient to hide behind keystrokes and edited
video images.
Today’s challenge is to take a risk.. Talk with ( as compared to) a stranger OR someone whom
you have a tenuous relationship.
Reflect and enjoy – examine who you are, what you think, and where you came from. Let the
Journey begin. A new world awaits you .
Inevitably, inexorably, indescribably father time
controls the clock of life… counting down our time
On this earth until the chimes strike midnight.
For some, the final stages of existence begin with
a societal imposed marker we call “retirement”.
Hello, America !
65 is not a universally mandated shutdown age.
Approaching 65 can be a foreboding signature. What happens when we meet
that milestone? Will the grim reaper appear at our door
step ready to tell us “how many years we have remaining?”
Planners, journalists, pundits, seers of all types market the
concept that we need a “plan”, a vision, some defined pathway
for our golden years.
Society conditions some to think their mental faculties will
Immediately disappear: that they better run to the pharmacist
to begin using the little blue pills: that the world will consider them
as
, used up trash. These get translated into
“ what will I do with my time that continues to reaffirm my self worth?
A sense of gray foreboding overshadows the psyche.
A second group ignores the signposts which say “dangerous curve ahead”,
or “slippery when wet”…. They disregard flashing lights on the horizon and
continue with their journey. This hell bent for election group mutters
about turning 65 . But they are not about to give up being snow birds, their
BMW’s, and fine wines. Identifying a plan to which they commit is
a type of prison sentence –an admission that life will end in a time and
manner beyond their control.
A constant theme within those in this transitional demographic is the presence
or lack thereof .. of self satisfaction and inner peace.
The pessimists (the world is going to end) and the idealists (I can maintain this
lifestyle forever) are both searching. Most pessimists have spent their
adult life looking in the rear view mirror romanticizing the past. The idealists
search for a future – the present is never good enough and the future is ill
defined.
Prepping for retirement – inner peace is one of the foundation stones.
Those described in the two scenarios above are thrashing about for calmness,
a sense of purpose and happiness. Inner piece cannot be created magically
over night when one reaches the magical 65 milestone. The good news –inner
peace is a process which can be enjoyed over an entire lifetime. A process
which is the direct opposite of giving up, being lethargic, or milling about in
the swamps of hopelessness.
This is the proverbial journey—
Looking deep into the eyes of a fellow life traveler
Gives us a glimpse into the depths of their soul.
Hope, love, fear, are all expressed.
All are evident —none are hidden.
Yes, we can run but can’t hide from those who know us.
Hands?
Ever thought about what “hands” say?
Clues to one’s life journey are evident for us to admire.
Stories of rugged artisans speak on the delicate epidermis
as well as tales of musicians and authors are told on this canvas of life.
Rodin’s hands sculpture communicates – what?
Like many works of art – the interpretation changes
Over a period of time – more accurately the viewer’s
Mind’s eye sees a different figure over time.
A picture is included for you to meditate and ponder.
There are the hands of those who are difference makers
In our lives.
Whose hands do you remember? Your parents, the
Next door neighbor, a mentor? There may be a correlation between
those who matter to us and our memory of their hands.
The Hartwell family owned the Hummelstown Sun. A newsy, gossipy
small town paper printed each and every Friday. The linotype
operator was a gifted journalist, artist, and collector of miniature trains.
Intense, focused, and always available to coach, mentor and advise.
Metal was molten and transformed into brick like cubes with words.
Imprinted upon them using a keyboard . The metal was very toxic and
literally peeled away the skin from the hands of this talented man. Protective
bandages encircled his hands.
Blistery, raw, scarred bright red.
Year after year, day after day, he sat in his tiny metal framed, barely
cushioned chair, a bright light focused on
the copy he was transforming into the printed word.
Gifted with an encyclopedic mind, this giant in a small print shop, was a
mentor to us printer’s devils. Those hands, which carried incisive pain, spoke
volumes about determination, about providing space for artistry to overcome
pain and obstacles and about sharing talents with the next generation.
Somehow, his wrapped, blistering hands passed along talents and values. A
skill unique to mentors through the great classic thinkers like Aristotle,
Socrates, Plato.
The hands of a big man dedicated to his craft, making a difference in the small,
metal strewn corner of a small town paper.
On a more provocative level, here is a challenge. Close your eyes and picture
those who are/or have been the closest to you. No limits, no restrictions,
identify someone with whom your life has
been meaningfully intertwined.
Picture their hands. What do they look like? How do they feel?
The question of the day — can you see the hands of someone who
matters to you?
Is their a connection between being able to recall the hands of someone –and
the depth of your relationship? It maybe a pleasant surprise to discover who
comes to mind.
What is said, if anything, about those close to you, whose hands you cannot
bring to the front of your consciousness?
Oh yes, which current Presidential Candidate lived in Hummelstown, PA?
Mile after unspoiled mile: trails once plied by
mules and tow men parallel the watery
ditches where canal boats once labored.
The tow path of the long defunct I and M canal
Winds into the distance:
Hand dug from Illinois to Michigan this short lived
means of transporting goods beckons the walker, jogger
and bicycle rider.
Remnants of locks silently stand sentinel.
Towns such as Utica, and Ottawa, Marseilles cling to the towpath berms
Battling time and technology to remain in existence.
There is an abundance of expected sights along miles of trails in the midst of
flyover country: ducks, deer, water happy reeds and prairie grasses.
Fallen trees, limbs strewn across parts of the walk way.
No surprises here.
So what is not here?
What is missing?
Why walk mile after mile huffing and puffing between arches of trees,
sensing the heroics of tug boat pullers and their companion mules.
In the midst of nowhere on a beautiful November day?
News anchors are today describing the end of the Occupation of Wall Street:
Pictures of sanitation trucks (garbage trucks where I come from): front end
loaders ferrying piles of trash and human waste from pristine city park lands.
Squatters with hands out, voices raised, not a clue about social responsibility.
What is missing on the I & M trails?
Didn’t see 1 not 1 trash can: Didn’t see 1 not 1 graffiti painted wall:
Saw only 1, just 1 walker who put a Wendy’s cup by the walk side:
Blaring boom boxes – zero: Pounding drums – zero.
Government lackeys leaning on their shovels and occasionally picking up
trash – zero.
Over one hundred years of sleepy existence. The trails are nurtured and cared
for by those anonymous friends who make a difference. A dramatic example
of people taking personal responsibility for their land and legacy.
Perhaps a coincidence – perhaps not: Driving north from Ottawa to Harvard
Il, a land flat and fertile: prized farmland generation to generation: one is
struck by the numbers of Old Glories lying proudly from flag poles and posts
of all sorts.
Perhaps a coincidence – perhaps not.
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