Lost in the Shuffle

The other day I got an unsolicited phone call which turned out to be from a company that sells family videos. Lucy tries to keep me from buying or donating over the phone, and this episode clinches it.

I didn’t exactly trust the salesman’s sales pitch. It sounded almost like a computer voice; friendly enough but not warm. He said they owed us a refund of $5.00 and mentioned a film we would be interested in, especially when I told him there are children in the house.

I asked about the cost, and he said an amount which was around $12.00. I asked about VHS format, and he said it was DVD. I told him we don’t have a DVD working, could he send it VHS format. He agreed.

When I got the package, there were two DVDs and the cost was $25.75. They were cartoons, which were OK but I had expected something else. I decided to send them back. I included a letter stating that the salesman may have been trying to just make a sale by the way his sales pitch was presented. What was sent was not what I expected.

Well, the envelope was already opened and not in condition to send it back so I finally found a bubble envelope that everything would fit in. I was going to take it to the post office and I laid it on the Amish-made electric stove in the living room. It was there over the weekend.

I left the envelope open so Lucy could read the letter I wrote to them. On Monday she finally read it, but said that the DVDs were not in the envelope.

What?! I was not happy about that at all. In addition the envelope was ripped a little. Of course, these kinds of things could be a temptation to little boys, and I had thought about that, but I figured they would leave it alone. There are four boys in the house. I usually place letters to mail at that same spot and nobody touches them.

I was in a dither. Three-year-old Nolan was sitting on the couch and I mentioned about someone taking them. He responded in his defense, “I didn’t take them." The look on his face suggested indignation.

I had to go to hemodialysis but before I went I breathed a prayer in a similar line as “thank you Lord for taking care of the problem” and I tried to put it out of my mind.

But the depressed feeling would crop up again once in awhile and I kept suppressing it, knowing that God hears our prayers. I didn’t want to openly accuse anyone, I made sure the right people knew about it, especially their mother.

At bedtime I couldn’t sleep. Who could it have been—Nolan had said he didn’t do it and I believed him. I tried not to be accusatory even in my mind. At one point I got up late at night and looked to see if the DVDs had dropped out of the envelope onto the floor or under the furniture. But I remembered that I had prayed and endeavored to keep it out of my mind as best I could. Let the love in the Universe take care of it. But even under those circumstances, it is difficult to get a good night’s rest. I actually felt sick at heart at unguarded moments.

In the morning I got up and told Lucy, “How are we going to find out where the DVDs are?” Lucy asked me where the envelope was. I told her it was on my nightstand.

She got the envelope and gently talked to Nolan. When she mentioned the rip in the envelope he said that he tried to get the bubbles. Then he confessed that he hid the DVDs under the steps because he didn’t want his older brothers to get them. “They’re mine,” he said emphatically. Apparently, when he saw the cartoon characters on the packages he took possession, but he voluntarily gave them back to Lucy when he was found out.

So that was a major problem solved. I was glad that it did not have to escalate to bad feelings all around. I taped up the rip and sealed the envelope with the DVDs safely inside and took it to the post office.

The children in the house are good kids, if rather rambunctious at times.

So what about Nolan? The little fibber! I would not discipline him for something that he did in innocence. It wasn't my place anyway; we only take care of him when his parents are at work. It can be a good learning experience for him in the way it turned out. Like I said, such things are an attraction to little boys. It was my fault that it happened in the first place. Nevertheless, I breathed a prayer of thanks. We'll just have to work on helping him to tell things like it is.

Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
Proverbs 3:5 & 6

Christmas at school

These little angels put on a show for the local Mifflin School parents, relatives, and friends in the Mansfield area. Over 100 people showed up. This is the first Christmas program featuring the kindergarten students. Lucy and Wes attended because Nathan (third from right, top row) was in the program. His brother Nolan also came with us.

Jonathan

It was around 1989 or 1990 when I attended my niece’s high school graduation in Souderton, PA. And afterwards we had a party at my brother Ron’s house. One of their neighbors was invited over and the party didn’t really liven up until they got there. They brought their son Jonathan, an inquisitive, talkative five-year-old who was smartly dressed up in suit and tie. The first comment he made when he walked in the door was, as he looked around the room, “Mom, thewe awe no othew childwen hewe.”

“No,” his mother replied, “this is a graduation party. Just behave yourself.”

Jonathan did have the run of the house and yard, but his mother kept a constant vigil on his whereabouts. “Jonathan, what are you doing?” … “Jonathan, don’t spill it on your clothes.” … “Jonathan, don’t go beyond the fence.” … “Jonathan, didn’t I tell you not to go beyond the fence?” … “Jonathan, come here. Now look into my eyes and promise you won’t go farther than the fence. It’s dark out there.”

Thanks to Jonathan’s nature, he apparently wasn’t too intimidated by his mother—he obediently complied, and promptly forgot. The exuberance of his own curiosity and outlook on life won out. But his mother began to realize the scenes she was creating for the rest of the group. Even her husband had a look of chagrin on his face. She was becoming the center of attraction although we were sitting out on the patio away from the main group. So she explained it to me.

She married late, is over forty, and Jonathan is her only child. And frankly she wasn’t accustomed to how to raise a child. She felt he was so fragile, and didn’t really know his limits, or what limits to set for him.

I then decided to help her with my own perspective. I told her that I remember when I was six years old, and Ron was five. We climbed 50-foot silos, whether empty or full—in the dark, to catch pigeons. As I described it to her (quite descriptively, I admit) she began to be affected by my story. I could see her getting a little pale as she listened transfixed.

She exclaimed at one point, “Weren’t you afraid of falling?” I told her we were conscious of the danger, but we were careful.

“Did you ever fall?”

“Yes,” I replied, “when I was eight years old I climbed the silo to throw silage down for a herd of 40 cows. In the process of checking how much I had thrown down, I slipped on a rung just as I was starting to climb down and fell hind-end-to all the way to the bottom—about 30 feet I’d say. Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt.”

It was too much for her sensibilities and she bolted to another topic of discussion.

Growing up

I remember living on four farms in my life. Actually, it was five, but I don't remember living on the first one. Dad was a hired hand until he bought the last farm...a chicken farm.

The first farm I remember was on the W. W. Benner farm near Coatesville, Pa. (A pharmaceutical laboratory is there now. The house we lived in was torn down where the parking lot now stands.) Mr. Benner was a gentleman farmer, you might say, who had a herd of pure-bred registered Guernseys which Dad took care of, along with a couple of other hired hands. I'm the oldest in the family but I don't remember life without any brothers or sisters because Ronald was born 14 months later, then my sister Sallie, and then Joyce, all about a year or so apart. You can believe we were a handful for Mom and Dad. But being on a farm had its advantages. After we developed our toddling skills we soon had the run of the place. I remember when the next one was born; Arlene. Then there were five of us.

I remember that time distinctly. I was five years old, and Ronny was four. Dad took Mom away and told us that she was going to get us a baby brother or sister. Ronny and I asked for a baby brother. In fact, we prayed for one in our bedtime prayers. We had two sisters already, and with another one we would be crowded with girls. Would you know it, we got another baby sister! I remember thinking, why didn't they just wait until a brother was available? But we doted on our baby sister Arlene. We were about old enough to lend a helping hand sometimes.

Mom must have been a blonde in her day. Dad's hair was almost black. We kids were a mixture of blonde and brown. Ron, Joyce and Arlene were blondes, while Sallie and I had brown hair. Later Jane and Marge came as blondes.

As children we developed somewhat of an affinity to some of the cows that were in the barn on the Benner farm. They all had names; and two that come to mind are Hester and Hector. They all gave the richest milk and during the summer Dad would get out the ice cream freezer and whip up a batch of homemade ice cream. Mom would cook up the recipe and pour it into the container; Dad would pack the wooden bucket with ice and salt and the youngest would start turning the crank, then an older and stronger one would continue, and Dad would finish it up. The results were delectable, to say the least.

Dad always had a garden. He grew everything there was to grow in a temperate climate: corn, string beans, lima beans, pole beans, wax beans, peas, carrots, celery, kohlrabi, white potatoes, sweet potatoes, rhubarb, cantaloupe, melons, cucumbers, radishes, even peanuts occasionally. Invariably,, he'd find wild groundcherries which he'd transplant into rows and later harvest for use in ground cherry pies. Ground cherry pie was a staple in our family when they were in season.

Life for us kids on the Benner farm was rather idylic as I remember it. We had our share of sadness and happiness, but for the most part they were pleasant memories. I do remember the first time I went to the dentist though, which was a sheer terror to me. I had been in hospita at 3 years old with major surgery and it wasn't many months later that I had an infected tooth. Off to the dentist I went, with Dad. But when I saw what the dentist was doing, I was struck with sheer panic and I let everyone know it. He was going to put me to sleep. I knew the procedure from what I experienced in the hospital. I still have the scars of a tracheotomy that was necessary a couple years before in the hospital, that attested to the degree of reaction, whether allergic or panic, that ether gas afforded me. It's not easy to convey one's feelings in a calm, rational manner when you're a small child, but a few hefty screams of terror did the trick. The dentist gave up. I did not get my tooth pulled.

We finally moved to another farm near Phoenixville, Pa. where Dad had the task of milking 40 cows. That too was quite a place to remember. I was about five or six then and sometime later I started school. I was kept back a year until Ron was old enough to go to school "to keep an eye on you", meaning me.

After a short number of years, Dad finally saw an ad in the paper for a hired hand needed to help run a farm. Instead of calling the number and asking about the particulars, he had us kids look up the number in the phone book. A to M is a long way to look for a name but we found it under Mack. Dad happened to know them and he then called them up. We moved

That was where Ron and I raised rabbits, and trapped for muskrat. The first victim of trapping season was a mallard duck which was caught by the tip of the foot. We let it go...no fur!

Then one day Dad bought a chicken farm; Pine Top Farm it was called. There were flocks of hens already in progress and we spent our time learning to gather, wash and grade eggs. The transition meant that we stayed in a cottage on the premises, while the owners, the Tuchinski's showed us how to go about the work. That was in 1956. I was 12 years old. Jane and Marge had come along by this time, and Ron and I were rather frantic. No more brothers? We had five sisters now.

The novelty of chicken farming wore rather thin over time, what with all the young hens that literally almost raised the roof as soon as you entered their pen. They were a flighty bunch and one had to be rather quiet; no sudden moves or the whole chicken house would explode with dust and feathers. And there were two other buildings full of chickens too. The older flocks were more reasonable.

Two years later, in February 1958, we finally got our prayers answered. We got a baby brother, David. I now had two brothers and five sisters. We were quite proud of the kid.

But tragedy almost struck. Ron and I were away at the neighbors a couple of miles away and when we returned on our bicycles we found the sunporch, Mom and Dad's bedroom, was entirely gutted out by fire. It was March and a heavy snow had knocked out the electricity for a few days. The bedroom was kept warm for the baby by a kerosene stove. It was knocked over and flames caught onto the diapers stacked by the bassinette. Mom leaped over the flames, snatched month-old David and ran for safety. Dad ran in, called the fire company, and shut everything tight. The flames came within about 3 feet of the staircase, otherwise the whole house could have gone up.

Kind neighbors took us in for awhile. The Mennonites built a two-story renovation, which enlarged the house considerably. For a family of eight kids, it was a godsend.

Dad gave up chicken farming years before he finally sold the place. However, he continued with truck gardening. One year he planted five acres of sweet corn, and lost count of the harvest at 25,000 ears. One year he disked down the remnants of the corn crop and sowed a quarter-pound of turnip seed over the acreage. We had turnips you wouldn't believe! Tons of them. We sold them to neighbors, and to my Mom's sister's supermarket--Landis Supermarket in Telford.

One day there was another fire. The largest chicken house on the place burned down. Spontaneous combustion, they said. The chicken house wasn't cleaned out after the last flock of chickens years before. The resulting insurance claim helped Dad on his feet financially, and when he sold the farm, he was on Easy Street. Dad and Mom moved to New Jersey in retirement.

You can thank Jack and Jane (my sister) Hobson for the care they gave to our parents in the last years. Dad passed away in 1999 and Mom went in 2006.

Children and animals

In 1995 Lucy and I lived in Shenandoah, Ohio in an old former schoolhouse, and we decided to invest in a couple of young beef cows, a Jersey and a Holstein. One day I was sitting by the fence when my brother-in-law Joe arrived with his family. Five-year-old Jonathan and three-year-old Rachel spotted the animals. Jonathan called out, “Do the cows have names?” “Yes,” I answered, deliberately solicitous, wondering what he would say, and pointing to the Jersey, “that one is Brisket…and that one is Rump Roast.” Jonathan thought for a moment, “Did you name them, or did Lucy?” (We weren’t going to name them but when a neighbor visited and asked the same question, I blurted out a couple of choices I had in mind, just for the humor of it, and the names stuck.)

Kids can be little divils at times, for no apparent reason. I lived in an apartment in a five story building in Maple Shade, New Jersey in 1993. I was coming home Sunday evening and found the elevator door open, as sometimes is the case, but I automatically checked the on/off switch above the button panel. This time it was off. I flipped it on. A 10- to 12-year-old boyI never saw before, carrying roller skates, followed me onto the elevator. I pressed 5; he pressed 3, and the elevator moved upward. Not a word was exchanged. He stood by the button panel and I thought he acted a little strange. He looked like he was leaning against the wall but I saw his hand was over the elevator switch. He was apparently bent on a little mischief at my expense. Just as the elevator stopped at his floor, he gave a cough and headed for the open door. The switch was off. Just before stepping out he patronizingly exclaimed, “Fifth floor, right?” as he pressed the number 5 button. He stepped outside and I replied, “Right,” as I stepped forward and flipped the switch back on. The last scene before the door closed was he staring at me with a rather wide-eyed and not-so-innocent expression on his face—and I with a benign expression on my face I’m sure, staring back at him. I almost took it personally…a real live Tom Sawyer.

I wrote the above to a penfriend of mine, Paul, who is a retired schoolteacher. He wrote about his experiences with children:

"You mentioned about the youngster playing a prank on you on the elevator. This is typical of children and I must say I enjoyed all the children who tried to outsmart me in the classroom or on the playground, wherever they thought they had a chance to best me. It was such a hard task to keep a straight face when knowing what they intended to do to me, that I was there waiting for them when they were about to pull the string which would bring something down on me. I looked innocent and unaware of what they planned, but noted out of the corner of my eye the surprise on their faces when caught in their own mischief! I never got angry at their pranks, but loved them for trying to get me in any sort of trick. Some teachers would blow their gasket. I merely played it cool and laughed myself to tears at times when they found out I had caught them."I always felt they were thinking when they tried to outsmart me, and since most of their pranks were harmless, I didn't mind. They knew my temperament and knew that I could give as good as I got, so they had to be careful, for I would hand things back to the Tom Sawyers of the room, and look so innocent while in the process."

I lived in Maple Shade, NJ, in the 90s, like I said earlier. Along came school time and the bus driver picked up young people from the apartments to take to school. The problem was that she chose to park the bus right at the exit to take on the numerous children. Of course, many of us had to go to work at the same time and we were forced to wait for the straggling kids to get onto the bus. And they were sure to take their time. Several of us auto drivers had to wait, but then I had an idea. I knew the others were not happy about being forced to wait for the bus to leave. In a burst of temperamental inspiration, I got out of line, darting down a row of parked cars, taking a long way around away from the bus, to leave for work. A couple of others followed. The bus driver blew her horn. It worked! The next school day saw the bus at the far end of the parking lot taking on the regular load of kids. For the rest of the school year we had no problem.

In 2003 Lucy and I moved to our present location, along with Jason and Minerva, Lucy’s niece. They bought a boxer pup and named it Bruno. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want a pet anymore (see PENNY, Nov. 19, 2007), but Bruno was a dog I doted on, and he appreciated the attention. He was locked up at night to keep him from wandering. Then one morning, before dawn, there was a knock on the door. A woman, rather distraught, asked if we had a dog. “Yes, we have a boxer.” She said she hit a dog and it was lying by the road. I investigated and found Bruno lying on the grass, unable to get up, but conscious. I called Jason and he came with his pickup truck and took it to the house. I told the woman that Bruno was supposed to be inside during the night and this was one time when that rule was forgotten. Later in the morning they took Bruno to the vet. The xrays showed him to have numerous broken bones and it was merciful to put him to sleep. I was saddened by it although he was not my dog. That is one reason I don’t care to have a pet.

The first pet I had was Tuffy, in 1954, and my brother Ron had a dog named Fluffy. They were playful dogs, but Tuffy was more rambunctious, being a male dog. In the barn Tuffy got into mischief so often that Dad was finally fed up with it. While I was elsewhere he gave it the death penalty and I saw Tuffy no more. Dad was not a cruel person but it was rather ignoble of him to have someone carry out the sentence for him, leaving me without a pet. Meanwhile, Fluffy carried on, until one day Dorothy Weaver, who lived in the house below ours, was driving down the lane toward her house and I crossed the lane with Fluffy following me, and she got run over right in front of me. I was sick at heart and pronounced guilty by my family of causing her demise. Is it any wonder I don’t want a pet anymore? Years later I was given a puppy in reward for the summer work I performed on our neighbor’s farm. Penny was an intelligent dog and I was happy to have her as a pet. But, as seems to be my lot, she died unexpectedly when a motorcycle came roaring by our place. Penny was across the road with my parents and, frightened, she ran back for the safety of the house, and ran into the motorcycle. My cousin Arvin later apologized to me, but that was the end of my keeping any pet.

These are rather sad stories but it is advantageous to understand that we will most likely meet our pets when we finish our own time here on earth. That is a thought a lot of people like to believe, because so many pets are loved and treated like loving children.

USDA

Working for the Federal Government in 1970 was a personal accomplishment for me, but also it brought me close to situations I wasn’t used to, coming from a Mennonite background. Bad language and salacious stories were some of them. One man, Jenkins, regaled the roomful of inspectors, of which I was one, with his sexploits of the weekend. No one really cared for his forwardness and some even left the room at times.

One Friday in March I brought in a $6 book from home on ways to save on income taxes. Jenkins eyed it several times during the day and finally asked me if he could borrow it over the weekend. I felt I would never see the book again so I helpfully suggested that if he gave me $6 he could keep it, to the amusement of everyone in the room. A scowl crossed his face and he got up and stalked out of the room, muttering something derogatory about my character.

I had come into the service of the U.S. Department of Agriculture not really knowing what to expect. I was fresh off the farm, not much into the world’s way of seeing things, but eager to learn more about life outside my plane of awareness. Dr. Barsh was my supervisor, a GS-11 government veterinarian. He had been a feisty government worker in his day but now his demeanor was tempered by declining health and many years of service in the agricultural industry, a fact which I was apprised of by other inspectors who knew him in his younger days. Dr. Barsh, I was told, was a real terror then. If his demands for cleanliness and proper procedures in the workplace were not met, he would sometimes snatch off his hard hat and slam it to the floor, exhibiting a temperament generally expected of spoiled brats.

Fortunately, he liked me and we got along fine—except for one day early on when I rubbed his feathers the wrong way. In an unthinking moment I made a rather stupid remark after which he exploded and sent me to the office for reflection, or further reprimand.

At the time I had very keen eyesight. One of the diseases chickens are cursed with is leukosis, which is manifested during post-mortem examination by spots on the spleen or liver, or anywhere else. A single spot, no matter how small, would determine the chicken go be inedible by the rules of government regulation. I happened to see a tiny spot, so I hanged the chicken back on the rack for Dr. Barsh to make a determination as he made his rounds of the inspectors’ stations. He questioned me about it and I remarked that maybe he couldn’t see the spot, it was pretty small. Well, Dr. Barsh exploded, fairly shouting at me and said if he could not see it, it isn’t there, and ordered me off the floor.

It was the first (and last) harsh reprimand I got, but I didn’t know what consequences awaited me as I waited in the government office. He sound just like my Dad. After awhile he came in, sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulder and apologized for his outburst, something my father really never did. By that demonstration of compassion, I saw a side of Dr. Barsh that appealed to my sense of fairness and found it was not so difficult to stay on his good side.

As I worked on the eviscerating line, inspecting thousands of chickens per day, I also had my duty to study government regulations and procedures of proper inspection of the premises and of the products which were manufactured in the plant: chicken parts, batter-dipped chicken, chicken roll. I had to learn the necessary details of avian anatomy, systemic and local diseases, biophysics, and what my job description as a Career Conditional GS-5 government inspector entailed.

I was initially assigned to government inspection at Victor Weaver’s poultry processing plant in New Holland, PA. That was to be my home station. But I was told to report to the Bird-in-Hand Food Company in Bird-in-Hand in lower Lancaster County across the mountains from New Holland.

Occasionally Dr. Barsh’s boss would come in from Harrisburg to check on us. In meeting him, he informed me that I was entitled to a mileage and per diem allowance since I was actually not working at the station I was assigned to. Ordinarily, mileage is calculated from the home station to the station temporarily assigned. Since I had never been to my home station, I was allowed mileage from home where I lived to Bird-in-Hand, a distance of 110 miles per day roundtrip. This was mentioned a few weeks after I started and fortunately I had logged the miles on my brand-new 1969 Datsun, only for the novelty of keeping track of the use and abuse of a new car—my very first car.

The other inspectors told me I probably wouldn’t get the money. They had filed mileage allowances and often didn’t get a penny, thanks to government bureaucracy. But after Dr. Barsh learned I had kept a log of my driving record, he asked for the booklet for over the weekend and he filled out the necessary papers for me. He told me I could travel back and forth from home if I wanted to but he would like me to stay in a motel for one night, being sure to get a receipt to establish the per diem rate.

We had lots of paperwork to fill out every day and I signed lots of documents in the course of my work. Dr. Barsh was a stickler for detail and proper procedure, and any paperwork that required his signature had to be filled out properly before he even touched it. Apparently his signature meant something—he had that kind of reputation. I got the money, to the tune of over $300 allowance per month for the next two months, until I “graduated” from preliminary training under Dr. Barsh and was transferred to my originally assigned station in New Holland.

The day I began in New Holland was the day I met new faces in a new environment. The crew of seven or eight inspectors wanted to know what qualifications I had, who trained me, etc. When I told them Dr. Barsh trained me, they expressed their confidence in me.

But I had some misgivings about my own expertise, or my own enthusiasm for the job. Often I discarded chickens which were determined to be diseased but other inspectors weren’t as particular. Was I being too discriminatory? According to the regulations, I was apparently on target. Leukosis is a disease which is not known to be transmittable to humans, yet a spot on the spleen, and especially the liver results in condemning the whole bird. The reasoning is that if the liver shows signs of leukosis, the whole bird could be infected. I’ve seen some pretty ugly stuff during my tenure as inspector.

There are a few privileges in being a federal government inspector. One of them is having a plant employee do all the dirty work for you. Insurance regulations do not allow an inspector to handle a knife, so an inspector’s trimmer is required to do the job for him. He/she cuts off a broken wing here, a bruised leg there, picks condemned birds off the line, and is useful to allow inspectors to concentrate on making a 3- to 5-second decision about the fate of each eviscerated carcass passing before him on a moving line.

One day a GS-18 came by—a top-level government official, Dr. Youn. I was alerted about his presence and cautioned that he would be checking out the whole crew as we worked. I made sure I went according to the book. And sometime during the day I spotted him out of the corner of my eye, watching me intently. It was easier inspecting chickens in my own way, rather than by the book, but when I caught sight of him, I switched to the book method. Later we all got the results, and a lecture from our supervisor. (If I remember right, Dr. Barsh was temporarily assigned to New Holland at the time.) He expressed the importance of going by the book, and mentioned that Dr. Youn was disappointed that only one of the whole crew was inspecting properly. Later, he affirmed to me that I had indeed gone through proper inspection procedures. He told me that he was going to recommend I be sent to Gainesville, FL for full training once I passed the Career Conditional status.

Career Conditional status is a probationary period of one year where a trainee familiarizes with government regulations and inspection procedures. After that period, if the trainee wishes to continue in government service, he is given further tests and training and given a hefty GS-7 promotion. The first day of work Dr. Barsh told me to read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair, a book which was instrumental in passing the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. It was fascinating reading to me, if rather gruesome.

There are a whole host of ailments a chicken can acquire in its short lifespan: leukosis, airsaculitis, synovitis, and rarely, tuberculosis, being a few of them. Discarded chickens are recycled in some plants, at least at the time I was inspector. They were sent to the cookers where they were rendered into a mass of protein, the tallow (fat) removed and the remainder sent to the grinder where it was pulverized to a high-quality dry fat-free high-protein chicken feed. And it smelled just like regular feed, not oily at all. The tallow was shipped to some soap company.

Another trainee who entered government service at the same time was a Puerto Rican woman, Maria. She was of a different status than the other Puerto Rican people I had met and worked with over the years. She was white and had a cultured bearing about her. Over the several years I had previously worked in a poultry processing plant, I had picked up a handful of Spanish words and phrases. When I mentioned them, she remarked that some of them were street language and not good Spanish. She helped me refine some phrases.

Meanwhile, the Spanish workers found I knew some Spanish, and so did Management. One day the foreman asked me if I would be able to use a trimmer who spoke only Spanish; he wanted to train her to be an inspector’s helper. I told him I was not fluent in Spanish…I would give it a try but if there’s any problem I would have to stop the line oftener if I couldn’t convey the orders, or discontinue using her. So I tried it…until Dr. Barsh got wind of it. He took Maria and me aside and, in no uncertain terms, demanded that government regulations did not permit anything other than English spoken in the service of the U.S. government and we were not to converse in Spanish to any of the employees while working. Maria was dumbstruck. It was her native language. Whether she followed his orders is a matter of conjecture. I told the foreman to switch to an English-speaking trimmer and nothing more was said about it.

I alternated between New Holland and Bird-in-Hand during the course of the year and had a number of experiences which helped me acquire a more aggressive demeanor than what I was taught at home. I was gradually losing some of my timidity, which I was glad to get rid of.

Every several weeks I had the duty to report very early in the morning for an inspection of the premises before startup, leaving home at 4:30 a.m. On the first morning, bleary-eyed, but equal to the task, I inspected the equipment and environment at the Bird-in-Hand plant. It was quite dirty and I pointed out the offending spots to the foreman on duty, noting each of the areas on paper. He politely nodded but generally ignored the orders. I was just a trainee, what clout did I have? My supervisor was not yet on duty. Some of the equipment was dirty. The giblets from the day before were not cleaned properly. Even whole tanksful of chickens, stored in ice, were found to be less than standard. And there was really nothing I could do about it.

But…without warning, a few USDA government officials from Washington came to the plant that morning before startup. They made the same inspection I did, and they had the clout, and boy did they use it! Three hours after normal startup the plant was once again permitted to begin, after cleaning up much of the previous day’s run of carcasses in those tanks, and the giblets, and the equipment. I was not called into account for Management’s failure. They knew I had inspected the premises but they also knew I had no real authority to enforce anything, being just a trainee.

But one day I did enforce an order, authority or not. I had to stay after the main plant was finished. There were still workers working in the cut-up department where they were cutting up chickens and putting the parts in 60-pound wooden boxes lined with paper. Their habit was to stack several boxes full before sending them to the cooler. The room they were working in was hardly cool and my sense of culinary propriety came into play.

Bacteria thrives in temperatures above 40 degrees; below 40 it is diminished considerably. Much of the problem with processed food is that it is not often dealt with properly; it loses quality and often becomes unhealthy if not sped along its course. My supervisor was not around so I ordered them—politely—to put the boxes in the refrigerator as soon as each was filled. They grumbled but complied.

The premises are always to be “kitchen-clean.” New Holland was one plant that was closest to that designation. But when my turn came to pull early morning inspection, I found something that had been neglected for months, if not years. In the cut-up department there were metal benches about 4-6 inches high whereon stood the workers as they cut up the poultry product. I happened to look underneath one of them and found it filthy. I found this on the Friday before, and alerted the foreman about it, telling him the entire lot of benches where to be steam-cleaned by Monday.

Monday morning I came in and found them untouched. I overturned each one, and told the foreman. The result was that the plant was delayed in startup and Management was not too pleased. Dr. Barsh heard about it and asked me for the details. He told me I should have written down the orders to remind those in charge. It would have saved a headache. Hundreds of dollars per hour are lost when startup is delayed. Employees are paid during the time, etc., etc. It was Dr. Barsh’s responsibility and was part of my training, but the plant was at the mercy of some of our shortsightedness.

One day at New Holland, when I was under the supervision of another supervisor, Dr. Youn returned to interrogate the supervisor in charge (I forget his name) who was allegedly failing in his duties as a supervisor. I often noticed he was the type of person to walk about, disappear for awhile, and generally not be available when some crucial decisions had to be made. Perhaps one of us inspectors complained.

During breaks we, of course, overheard some of the interrogation and were glad we were not in the supervisor’s shoes. The questions were on procedures, where certain government manuals were located, what his duties were. He sat there answering some and unable to answer others. I was a little keyed up by what I was overhearing and during one question on the location of a certain manual, and noting that he was unable to answer, I went over to the bookcase and pulled out the manual and showed it to them. Embarrassed, I quickly put the book back and generally minded my own business. Later Dr. Youn gave him a reprimand, stating that he did not know answers to questions as a GS-11 that a GS-5 trainee could answer. Later, he was transferred to another job in a lesser capacity.

I valued what I learned in all these experiences, but I could not see inspecting chickens for the rest of my life and I started taking leaves of absence more frequently.

Dr. Barsh came back to supervise and one day he became ill. As cantankerous as he was, he refused medical leave. He may have been having a heart attack or something but he did not leave. It would pass, he said. He stayed in the office sweating profusely and dressed down to his undershirt.

He was in no shape to refuse medical attention. He was a four-pack-a-day smoker and his lungs were about shot. He often had coughing fits until he lit up a cigarette. But we each baby-sat him that day. One inspector relieved each of us in turn for a break and we stayed with Dr. Barsh in case he collapsed or something. Yes, it was rather wild.

When my break came, we talked. I told him, “Doc, you ought to see a doctor.” Dr. Barsh gave me a heart-to-heart talk about my increasing absenteeism. He pointed out the benefits of government work, but encouraged me to make a decision either way, whether I wanted to continue in government service. If I continued and got promoted, it would be difficult to quit if I wanted to later on. Now in Career Conditional status I had the option to resign without any marks against me.

As he spoke he idly reached into his pocket for a match, and lit it, putting it toward his lips, until he realized what he was doing. He glanced at me sheepishly and hurriedly distinguished it with a flick of his hand. Then he pulled out a cigarette and started over. A fleeting smile must have crossed my face, but my restraint was admirable. He was not in a humorous mood today.

I took his advice. I had previously been offered a job in the graphic arts industry if I ever wanted to switch careers. I weighed the evidence, the consequences, the opportunities, and resigned from the service of the United States Department of Agriculture, richer for the experience.

Harry

I mentioned in my October 28 blog entry that I broke my leg in January 2005. What I didn’t mention was when I was put into the Oak Grove Convalescent Center to recover in February. I was on kidney dialysis and did not have a way of going to Kidney Center from home. Sending me to the Convalescent Center gave me the opportunity to go to dialysis by way of their own vehicle, since it was covered by insurance. There were other dialysis patients who also went to the Kidney Center every other day.

When I was wheelchaired to my room at Oak Grove, I began to feel rather depressed about the situation I was in. It was a small room, rather devoid of excitement or interest, and I guess I began to feel a little sorry for myself. I am not old enough to be in a Nursing Home, or so I thought. Later I found people younger than me.

I noticed my room mate which I later learned was Harry. He was a 74 year old man who didn’t seem to have a very good outlook. And for good reason. He was there for several months, and had been in another nursing home for several months. It would be enough to drive me to distraction too. Furthermore, he had had colon surgery before and the resulting situation was not conducive to positive optimism. He was not a happy man, and the nurses were not very cordial to him either. They had to come to his assistance several times a day.

Because of my own perceived plight, I began to pay attention to him. He was on the other side of the curtain and I started talking to him, introducing myself. He was pleasant enough to me, but did not have anything good to say about the plight he was in, and the attitude of the nurses and caretakers. I began to talk to him about Universal Law, like begets like, in as simple terms as I understood it. What you put out returns to you in like manner.

Late that night, nurses woke us up to give us medication, probably sleeping pills. Two nurses were arguing with Harry. I asked my nurse, “Why are they arguing with him?” She replied, “Oh, he’s quite a difficult patient.”

I saw my opportunity to make my stay worthwhile. In the morning I continued to tell him about how to relate to people you don’t like, or don’t seem to like you. I told him that thoughts have power, and that our thoughts can create the reality we find ourselves in. You put out negative thoughts, negative thoughts and situations will return. Like begets like. You put out positive thoughts, and they will return in kind.

I suggested that when a nurse or caretaker comes to his assistance, think about something he likes about that person, no matter how he feels about that person. Turn the tables on the continuing situation. It will work.

I hoped it would work. I never coached a person like that before, especially a man older than I was and probably set in his ways. But throughout the weekend he gradually seemed to be more acquiescent. There was not as much commotion, although his needs were the same. You could justify his attitude by what he had to deal with. He could not run to the restroom and he often had to be cleaned up, is the plain description of his plight. He didn’t like it and the nurses had to constantly come to his aid, and his attitude had put them on the offensive sometimes.

But by Sunday he was a saint. The nurses exclaimed about his about-face attitude. It was something entirely different from the way they had to handle him before. He was actually pleasant. One nurse exclaimed, “Wes, what did you do to him?” I replied, “Nothing, he had it within him all the time.”

I had ordered an accordion and it happened to arrive at my home while I was in the nursing home. I asked that it be brought to me. Jim and Bonnie visited with me and brought it along. I started playing it, and patients from other rooms came around to see who was originating the music. And they had smiles on their faces. At one moment, when we were alone, a song came to me, with the words, and I played it for Harry. It had to do with our mutual confinement in this place. It was a bit bawdy, but fit the situation we were in, with words you should not repeat in Sunday School. It was the first time I saw him laugh.

Occasionally there was someone playing the piano. I took the opportunity to wheelchair myself over to the piano room, close the double doors, and play to my heart’s content. A nurse came and opened the doors wide. She explained that the patients want to hear. I’m not an accomplished piano player, but I tried to play songs that were uplifting for all the sorry people who needed to hear it. If it cheered me up, it most likely cheered others also.

Meanwhile, Lucy called the local radio station, WMAN and, by telephone, broadcast to the whole listening area the need for a driver for a patient who needs to go to dialysis three times a week. Four people responded and I picked one of them and signed myself out of the nursing home to finally go home. After a couple of weeks or so, I realized I could drive myself in spite of my full cast. It was on the left leg, and with an automatic drive there was no need to have to use it. It all worked out OK.

Quite a number of months passed. I had Harry’s home phone number and I called up his wife and asked about Harry. I was taken aback when she told me he had passed away.

My reasoning is that he needed to find a way to love in an unlovely situation, to come to terms with his own feelings, to make it easier to pass on without fear. God is in control of our lives when we allow it—and we can allow it in order to fulfill the reason for our existence. We have free will but God will answer us when we ask. God bless you, Harry, wherever you are.

Almost . . .

It was around 1965 I believe. A few years after the picture at the right was taken. I had my newfound freedom off the farm. I was old enough to drive, although I didn’t have a car, and independent enough to go a distance to visit my relatives. I used Dad’s car.

It was early afternoon when I drove about 40 miles to Philadelphia to visit my second-cousins somewhere near Second Street and Girard Avenue, if I remember right. On that day I was nicely dressed in a suit and tie. Anyway, I drove toward the waterfront not far from the Delaware River. I was on a street in a quiet part of town, and I got thirsty. I saw a small grocery store and parked a couple car lengths beyond it. I carefully locked the passenger side door. You never know what could happen in a strange neighborhood. I had in mind to get something to drink, like orange juice. I entered the small store and bought a small container of orange juice and engaged in conversation with the proprietors as I drank it. They were a Russian husband and wife who had this store for years. They did not especially like the city but it was a living for them to have the small neighborhood convenience store.

I finally stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk. Suddenly the door of a bar opened across the street and a woman stumbled out and toward me. I watched as she came close and then she fell down just a couple yards from me. A man rushed out and came up to her exclaiming, “Mama!”, and carefully helped her up. He brought her over to me and asked if I would please take her home, just a few blocks down the street. She was ill, he said.

I was not exactly naïve but I was in a quandary—doing a good deed, or possibly getting into a trap. I was not the kind of person to be used to the strange activities of strangers in a big city. As I hesitated, the woman walked over to the car and tried the door on the passenger's side. She stood waiting as the man explained her illness and the need for someone to take her home. In my hesitancy I was almost ready to help them out as I slowly wandered toward the car.

Suddenly, from the store came a call, “Mister…Mister…you forgot something!” The Russian lady was outside the store and waving a handkerchief in my direction. “You forgot something!” I answered to the ruse and walked back to the safety of the store. Both proprietors gave me an orientation lesson on the devious misadventures that occasionally occurred in the neighborhood. “It’s a bum city,” they said. “They have already stolen from people... and killed people. They would do just what they tried to do to you. It’s a bum city!” As I waited inside the store, both the would-be thieves went back into the bar.

I thanked the Russian couple profusely, and when the street was empty once again, I left, chastened by the experience.

Psalm 91:11 Because thou hast made the LORD, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

That’s not to say I’m treated with any particular favor more than anyone else could. It apparently was to be a lesson learned—learning to be careful in a city of strangers, even if it is called The City of Brotherly Love. I thank God that it was not a worse experience. After all, I don't exactly lack for bad experiences, but that's another story or two.

Penny

Picture at left: My brother David playing with Penny.

Back in the early 60s, I used to have a dog. Penny was her name. She was a small dog, the runt of the litter. She was given to me by a neighbor for helping them during one summer’s haying season.

Penny was a mongrel. Her mother was a pure-bred standard Manchester; those dogs who look a little like miniature Dobermans. Her father was from a friendly neighborhood. Penny’s brothers and sisters were all black with a tan spot above each eye, a tan underbelly and tan feet, just like their mother. Penny didn’t have a stitch of black on her; she was tan all over, about the color of a penny.

I was happy to be given a pet, but was concerned about taking her from her mother—and training her. But I didn’t need to worry. We got along just fine, and she learned right away what newspapers spread on the floor meant. Pretty soon she learned to ask us to let her outside to take care of her own necessities.

She was one smart dog all right. If she wanted to go outside, she’d reach up with both paws to turn the handle. She never could open the door, but she attracted our attention and we opened it for her. If we were too busy to notice, she would give a short bark. If we were still too preoccupied to get the message, she would run to one of us and bark her way out the door.

She was always a pleasant dog. She played Fetch with my kid brother—or me. She helped run the bases for us when we played baseball in the back yard. She worried the cats on occasion. She alerted us to visitors, but kept quiet when ordered. Rabbits in the garden fled in fright when she appeared, but she wouldn’t harm anyone or anything.

She grew to maturity as a dog well-trained and was allowed the run of the place. Her nocturnal haven was a corner box in the family room. If she needed to go outside at night, she’d trot into my room, her toenails clicking on the linoleum floor. Sometimes she’d come into my room just to have a soft place to lay on my bed. In the darkness I’d wake up to hear her footsteps trotting toward me, then a pause as she leapt, then a sleep-disturbing bounce as she landed on top. In the wintertime she sought the warmth of my bed more often, my personal foot-warmer.

As she grew up she also started dating canine suitors who came calling. She was rather serious about one in particular and it soon became obvious that she was in a family way. We had to wait for about two months for the blessed event.

Her time finally arrived one cold winter evening. It was evident by her restless behavior. It was quite noticeable when the rest of the family retired for the night. I was left to look after her welfare. She didn’t stay in her box. She didn’t stay put anywhere. She was in labor and I didn’t really know what to do about it but to let nature take its course.

I solved the problem by coaxing her to the warmest place in the house, the bathroom. I placed Mom’s best towels on the floor for a soft place for Penny, right by the radiator. I convinced her to stay and she finally was in such a strait that she had no choice but to yield to her newfound instincts in giving birth.

I was fascinated by the whole process. She didn’t know what was going on—only that she was in pain. I had often seen tiny puppies and kittens, and even tinier mice. I had watched calves being born on several occasions. But I never saw the miracle of birth at such an intimate range before. I didn’t want to upset her by my presence but I didn’t want to leave either. I talked to her in reassuring tones and she soon paid no attention to me. Her attention was drawn to an emerging pup; a black pup with a tan spot above each eye, a tan underbelly and tan feet, just like its grandmother. Soon another emerged, same color. Then another, another, another and another. Six identical-looking puppies—four boys and two girls. Six squirming little puppies ravenously hungry. Their eyes were tightly closed but they soon found their way to the dinner table. Soon they were feeding contentedly at mother’s ample bosom while she cleaned them dry, nuzzling each of them in turn. I picked one up and she nervously but politely objected. I let her watch what I was doing and she soon paid no attention as I checked each one out.

The next morning everyone was greeted by the sight of one proud mother dog with her litter of six healthy puppies. However, she would not allow anyone near them but me. She didn’t trust anyone else.

Penny eventually gave birth to another litter of pups. She was still the playful dog and she romped with her offspring. She even had time for us like she used to.

One day, while I was at work, tragedy struck. I came home to the sad news that Penny had been hit by a motorcycle. She was across the road with my parents and, hearing a motorcycle speeding up the hill; she headed for the safety of the house, and ran right into the motorcycle. It had happened just shortly before and she lay dying in the little cottage near the house. I was heartbroken, and she couldn’t even acknowledge my attempts to comfort her.

She soon passed away and we gave her a decent burial. I laid her gently in a nice cardboard box, said a prayer, and buried her near the garden. A bright spot in our lives was dimmed by her passing.

But that’s not quite the end of the story. About a month later during the night, I was startled awake by the sound of trotting footsteps coming toward me in the darkness, a pause, and then a bounce on my bed. I saw nothing but I was not afraid. I lay there wondering whether I was dreaming, and gradually drifted off again, content that Penny had come to bid her final farewell. I woke up later to a beautiful sunny morning, and happy for the experience.

This is a true story.

Zachery

I believe it was in 1982 that a group of us from Mt. Laurel, NJ went to Great Adventure in Jackson, NJ for…a great adventure. It all started when a young couple with their five-year-old son, Nuno, visited the States from the Azores. Nuno had trouble with his eyes and he was scheduled for surgery. My role in the excursion was to take pictures of Nuno and his parents as they went through the park, enjoying the rides and everything that the theme park had to offer. The pictures would be given to them to take back home as a memento of their trip.

It was a beautiful day as we wandered through the park. At most of the attractions, I snapped pictures and couldn’t help noticing the interaction between Nuno and his parents. They were having fun, and it was evident that the parents were doting on their small son. It started to affect me emotionally.

I was the kind of guy who was a bit of a loner. Being ill too often, hospitalized occasionally, having a rather depressing outlook for myself, I stayed pretty much to myself. I participated in the church activities in music, I had my hobbies, but I didn’t have an optimistic outlook about a normal future, such as personal companionship. I had my reasons, but to others they might not have been valid reasons. But that was my way of looking at things and I didn’t really let anyone know my deep feelings about anything.

Watching Nuno and his parents awakened a sense of needing to belong to the status quo, to participate in the normal routine of life, to have companionship with its accompanying sense of enjoying life together with someone special. After all, I was in my 30s. It was about time to leave my rather immature outlook and milquetoast disposition.

There were others in the group that day, including a couple of Portuguese ladies. We were attracted to the Haunted House exhibit, but there was quite a line, but we all queued up and slowly made our way toward the entrance. Small groups were periodically separated from the line to enter the Haunted House.

While we were waiting, a boy of about nine years old was also waiting in front of me. He appeared to be alone and he started to engage me in conversation. To be polite, I asked him questions in the process. He had been through the Haunted House before but he wanted to go again. His parents were in the park but they didn’t want to go through the line again. He was quite energetic and continued his chatter all the way through the line, mostly directed at me.

When we came to the front of the line, the park attendant separated a group out of the line, including the Mt. Laurel group I was with. The boy was forced to stay behind for the next group and the barrier was closed. Suddenly, the boy crowded through the barrier, came up to me, and standing tall and courageous, said, “Mister, do you mind if I hold your hand?” The audience around us chuckled in amusement. I was a little uncomfortable at the sudden personal attention, but I gamely replied, “Sure,” and I took him by the hand as we filed into the Haunted House. It’s good to know who you’re holding hands with so I asked him his name. “Zachery,” he replied. The Portuguese ladies smiled at the familiar name. “Zachariash,” they repeated in Portuguese.

The Haunted House was dark and intentionally forbidding. Witches and monsters, ghouls and goblins were situated at certain areas of the path attempting to thrill the passersby with scare tactics. Zachery knew where they all were. When we came to a monster, he’d switch to my right or left, opposite from it, taking my hand each time. He wasn’t scared now, he had someone with him!

We went through the rather dark hallways. There were recorded noises to add to the spooky atmosphere. One room was lit by strobe lights which flashed repeatedly. The whole walk through the house was quite exciting.

But there was something that horrified me for a few seconds as we walked through. It looked like a fire trap. Someone could light a match or lighter and it looked like it could ignite pretty fast.

When we came to the exit, Zachery spotted his parents close by in the crowd. They were smiling as I said, “This kid is one brave fellow.” My one disappointment about the incident was that I never took his picture.

This whole incident with Zachery gave me a certain confidence that I didn’t need to be the loner I thought myself to be. I can be sociable. I had made one little fellow happy for just being there for support. People like me. I should just like myself more. There are a lot of good things to enjoy in life besides keeping to one’s sorry self. Get out and look around at the possibilities.

Years later I found someone special. But that’s another story.

About two years later, it happened. On May 11, 1984, the Haunted House at Great Adventure in Jackson, New Jersey, was destroyed…and eight teenagers with it. There was a witness that said that a 14-year-old boy had used a lighter to go down a hallway where the strobe lights had malfunctioned and bumped into the wall, which ignited. The story can be seen here.

Alvin's dilemma

I was in a one-room schoolhouse in first and second grade. One day, in second grade, the teacher had a reading class at the fifth grade level. The fifth-graders stood on the stage and read their lesson aloud for the teacher, Miss Stauffer. Everything was going smoothly until Alvin's turn came. He kept stumbling over the words. The teacher was sitting at the back of the room in one of the student desks and she exclaimed, "Alvin, you're doing very poorly today," and looking over toward the second grade row, she said, "Even a second grader could read what you're stumbling over." Everyone in the room was at attention, and Miss Stauffer singled me out, "Wesley, come here and read this sentence for Alvin."

Fleetingly, I had in mind to sabotage the teacher's efforts. I was small for my age, and Alvin was the tallest in the whole schoolroom, but I meekly walked over and read the sentence...and paid for it at recess. Well, being called a Teacher's Pet isn't the worst that could happen so I didn't fare too badly.

That night I dreamed that Alvin and I were out on the school porch and he was trying the hardest to talk but couldn't. He struggled with it until his throat literally blew out, and then I woke up. It was quite a nightmarish dream to have for an eight-year-old but I remembered it years later when I met his sister Dora at a reunion. I described the incident, and the dream in our conversation.

She had a perturbed look on her face as she opined that the teacher was out of place to treat a student like that, and then described what her brother had to deal with. Alvin was a stutterer and he was rather slow at home and his father was not very kind to him. Finally at the age of 20 Alvin had a nervous breakdown and had to be treated for mental illness.

I was disturbed from hearing that and I later cried for Alvin while thinking about it. He did not deserve the treatment that his sister described to me. He needed to have a reprieve from his difficulties somehow. But what was done was done, and one cannot change the past, can one?

A few months later I talked to Dora on the telephone, and she explained further some of her previous family situations. In course of conversation, it was suggested I could call Alvin, just to talk--to help him to feel better perhaps. She gave me his phone number.

It was months later, after thinking about Alvin once in awhile, that I decided to give him a call. I didn't know if he would remember me, but I thought I'd give it a try anyway. What can one lose? And maybe one could gain a friend.

It was Sunday afternoon and I called. His wife answered and I told her who I was...a former classmate of Alvin's. I didn't know if he would remember me. He came to the phone and we started talking, and he did remember me. In fact, he said he contacted a number of classmates to apologize for his behavior during the school years. Apparently, he was a bit of a bully and after all these years wanted to institute redress for what he perceived to be being mean toward his classmates. He told me he wanted to contact me and my brother but didn't know where to find us.

I told him, "Alvin, I don't remember you ever being mean to me." There was silence and then he said, almost crying, "Wesley, you're such a great encourager." Then I almost cried. I'm emotional too, you know. We had a nice conversation and then promised to keep in touch.

Just today, after several months, I called him again and we had a 20-minute conversation. He was glad I called. I feel spiritually obligated to stay in touch with him. He needs our prayers. And I need his.

We need to stay in touch with the spiritual side of ourselves because that is the eternal part of us. Get as much straightened as you can, and then there will be nothing to make retribution for. People helping people is a spiritual mandate for peace and contentment--our salvation. We can only do as occasion serves and we will be blessed for it. We do it out of love, for love is of God.

I John 4:7 Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. I didn't say it, the writer of I John did, but we all could say that, if we understand it. Charity toward one another will take us far.

The names in this story have been mostly changed, out of respect for the situation. On a certain level, the past can be changed, when it is revisited in mind, and allowed to gain a new and broader perspective, coupled with forgiveness.

The Dentist

I was just a few months out of the hospital in those days, after major surgery; I believe it was April 1948. It was Spring and I had a toothache. Even at four years old Dad suggested I be taken to the dentist to have it checked out. So he took me in his 1939 Nash and we entered the dentist's office. When my turn came I was seated in the chair and the dentist made preparations to examine my teeth. I still had my deciduous teeth and I don't remember what he wanted to do, or what he said he would do, but I became terrified with what he was doing. I was sure he was going to put me to sleep, and he probably was. But he never got that far. Hell would have to freeze over before I was going to go through it again, although I didn't consciously remember the episodes of the months before when I was in the hospital.

I put up a panic-stricken fight heard throughout the building, if not the whole neighborhood, and the dentist gave up. He told Dad to take me home--he wasn't able to do anything. At home I was still musing about the incident, especially when Dad berated me for not allowing the dentist to do what he had to do. "You're four years old and you're just a big baby!" he stormed. And I remember thinking to myself, "Yes, I guess I am a big baby" and I didn't feel guilty about it. I don't remember anything about what happened to my toothache, but I know I never went back to that dentist.

Years later, when I lived in New Jersey, I had a kinder disposition toward dentists. I was an adult this time, and this particular dentist checked my teeth every several months. He had the habit of asking questions when you had your mouth wide open. It happened every time. I'm sure it was intentional.

Then one day I had a tooth problem and got a dentist appointment. I wrote up questions and answers on 3x5 cards and put them in my shirt pocket. It was about the time when two of my sisters got married in a double wedding and I knew he would ask about them, so I also wrote down the names of their spouses. I wrote answers to other questions I thought he would ask. There were at least a half dozen cards in my pocket. I also wrote down the location of the tooth problem I had and put it on top. I was ready to sabotage his efforts.

As I sat in the chair I explained to him where the problem was, and after some small talk he told me to open my mouth. He took his mirror and looked all around inside and said, "Hmm, upper left, I don't see anything." I whipped out my cards and handed him the first one--"lower right." His expression didn't change perceptibly but he said, "Let me see those cards," and he took them out of my hand and looked through them, reading each one. I guess he had all his questions answered--he didn't say much after that.

One more scary story: This time I was in Ohio. I had had a few kidney surgeries and lithotripsies because of kidney stones so I was prepared for anything. I went to the dentist and he had to drill out an infected tooth. I told him I didn't want novacaine. I felt I could handle it. I had been in hospital and withstood a lot of excruciating situations so I felt rather invincible. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I'm sure," I replied. He started drilling...and drilling... I gripped the chair handles and took it stoicly. Finally he stopped, "I don't believe it," he told his assistants, "I'm hitting a nerve and he's not even flinching." Well, I had tears in my eyes and they almost had to pry my hands off the arm rests but it wasn't as bad as what I had experienced a few times in hospital. And I'm not a masochist.

The younger assistant asked incredibly, "Are you from the CIA?"

I replied jokingly, "Just don't mention it to anybody." They looked at each other. You could have heard a pin drop. She had to have taken me seriously because she reacted with a guilty look on her face. She treated me almost like royalty on my way out of the office. I felt rather bad that I didn't clarify the humor. Was she that naive?

Today I don't mind dentists. Techniques have improved and it's not as threatening as it seemed to be years ago.

Hospital stay

In November 1947 I was in Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia, and remember it like it was last week, or yesterday as I write this. I was three years old. I was in a crib on one side of the room and a nurse brought in a baby and placed him in a crib on the other side. Later, they brought in a gurney and placed him on it and wheeled him out. Later in the day, the gurney came back with the sleeping baby who had a pacifier in his mouth. Somehow it struck a familiar chord with me.

A day or so later the gurney came back. The orderly asked me if I wanted a ride. My antennas went up. There was something a little odd about his invitation and I didn’t want to go. I shook my head. The orderly persisted, “Don’t you want a ride? We’ll just go down the hall. You like rides, don’t you?” I resisted, but finally gave in after more promises of taking me for just a little ride. He sat me on top and soon we started moving, out the door, he turned right and proceeded down the hall. I felt like the King of the Mountain.

The feeling was woefully short-lived. I suddenly remembered what might happen. I had been in an operating room several times before sometime after the age of one. I became afraid of the tanks next to the operating table; tanks that were the cause of that awful odor which must have come from them. They gave me ether to put me to sleep and I developed a fear that persisted long afterward.

This time I knew what they were going to do. I started to cry. The orderly kept up the pace, even pushed the gurney a little faster. By the time I got to the end of the hall and turned left, I was in full cry and screaming, and by the time I was halfway down the next hall I was crying, “Don’t put anything over my nose! Don’t put anything over my nose!” The orderly hurriedly wheeled me into the Operating Room and they gently laid this terror-stricken kid on the operating table as he kept crying, “Don’t put anything over my nose…” A nurse at the other end of the room called out calmly, “No, we won’t put anything over your nose.” Just then a hand clapped gauze over my face from behind and sprinkled the dreaded ether. I saw circles and sparks and passed out in seconds.

I can only guess what they did afterwards, after breathing a collective sigh of relief. They probed, prodded, cut, snipped, rearranged, swabbed, sewed, and bandaged. I was oblivious of it all—I was in a blessed drugged sleep.

I woke up to find that I was bandaged tightly around the waist. They wheeled me back to my room. The nurses were immediately in attendance, declaring to me and everyone how brave I was. One nurse explained to me that I was to stay in my bed for awhile. “Do not get up until we tell you,” she warned.

My parents lived about 40 miles away and Dad showed up once in awhile. He told me later that I was listed as “The Darling of the Nurses.” They were the ones who saw to my health and welfare, saw that I was clothed and fed. Otherwise, it was rather lonely sometimes.

One evening a man came in, clothed in a suit and tie. I didn’t remember seeing him before, but as I sat in my crib, he walked over to me and asked if I would like some ice cream. Of course, little boys like ice cream—I said yes. He left the room and soon came back with two Dixie cups of vanilla ice cream and two wooden spoons. He opened one for me and then he sat down in a chair nearby. As I ate my ice cream I felt a feeling of importance that someone would spend a little time with me, just a kid. As I remember, he appeared to be in his 20s and he stayed there until he finished his ice cream, and then left. To this day, I don’t know if he was a man or an angel.

I remember being in another room, still recovering from the surgery, and this time I had a roommate about my age. One morning I looked out the window and watched the people walking on the sidewalks far below. Soon my roommate looked out the same window and exclaimed that he saw my Daddy. I remember thinking that he must not be able to recognize my Dad, I never recognized any of those people from the seventh floor. But I expected Dad to show up soon.

Noontime rolled around; no one showed up. A nurse brought our lunch—mashed potatoes, peas, and hamburger. I guess I was disappointed that Dad wasn’t here. I started getting rambunctious. I started throwing the mashed potatoes, peas, and hamburger and persuaded my roommate to join in which he did a bit half-heartedly I thought. The food landed on the floor, some on the wall, and bits of mashed potatoes clung to the ceiling. Soon a nurse came in to see what all the shrieks of laughter were about. She took one look, singled me out as the perpetrator and slapped my hands with a harried, “I ought to make you clean this up yourself!” She sentenced each of us to our individual cribs and firmly raised the bars.

The next shift of nurses saw two little boys meekly sitting in their cribs; haloes slightly askew. They had found out about our little caper but one nurse came and lowered the sides again, “They shouldn’t treat children this way,” she announced in our defense. Later my roommate’s Dad showed up. He had learned about the food fight in Room 721. I watched as he put his arm around his son and talked to him in gentle tones. I felt guilty as sin—and still no Daddy.

I survived the whole ordeal, and so did the nurses I suppose. I was there to acquire a new lease on life. The surgeon had adjusted the internal plumbing to bring about normalcy in a kid who was born with the need for it. But in the process I developed a phobia against ether and alcohol. Every time I got a whiff of rubbing alcohol I would go into a panic. When I was 21 years old I suddenly realized that it didn’t bother me so much, but in subsequent hospital visits I would have a memory of the early days whenever my nose picked up the odor of sterilized sheets.

I wrote the beginning of this story about five years ago and the emotion of that day renewed itself afresh and I was glad I was alone. It is not necessary to see a grown man cry.

Today hospitals are kinder and more considerate of the emotional needs of children. Parents and guardians are allowed to be with a child patient. Doctors, nurses and caretakers are more apt to dress informally to offset the scary severity of a hospital setting.

When I left the hospital I was given the choice of picking one of two toys given to me by the hospital: a toy truck full of toy animals, or alphabet blocks. Dad persuaded me to take the blocks. He knew I had plenty of toys when I got home. I would have preferred the truckload of animals.

Broken leg

On January 11, 2005 I was moving Lucy’s power wheelchair into position for her. When I stepped off I got my foot entangled in the footrest and twisted my leg as I went down to the floor in our bedroom. I heard a crunch as I went down and knew I had broken my leg. I broke out into a sweat and was breathing fast. I was apparently going into shock. I stayed conscious though and told Lucy I broke my leg. She suggested getting up and trying to stand. Just a small movement confirmed my suspicions and I stayed where I was. No way was I going to stand up. I had my cellphone in my pocket and called 911 and stayed on the floor, head halfway under the computer table. As long as I didn’t move I was comfortable.

The firehouse is only a half mile up the road and they were here in short order. One of the paramedics tried to step over part of me and accidentally hit me in the foot. Ow! He apologized profusely.

They bound my leg in a splint and lifted me onto their carrier and took me out to the hospital. In the ER they took an x-ray and found it to be a spiral fracture involving both bones (tibia and fibula) halfway between the knee and ankle. The ER physician explained that they may put in a rod or some pins to put the bones together. They bound my leg tightly in a temporary splint again. As I waited in the ER I called a few people and as I was on the phone with Lucy I suddenly felt a cramp coming on. Oh no! A cramp in a broken leg!? Yow! It felt like a vise and as it grew more intense I panicked. “Help…Help!” A nurse was just outside the door and wandered in slowly at my call. There was nothing she could do about it—and then I heard a loud crack, and the cramp slowly subsided. So, what happened? Later I told the surgeon, Dr. Viau, what happened.

A complicating factor was the rash on that same leg—cellulitis and/or dermatitis. They saw the need to take care of that first—surgery would have to wait. They gave me antibiotics for 3 days before taking me to surgery to set the leg.

In surgery they put me under anesthesia so I never knew what they did to me, until the doctor told me. I don’t remember going to sleep. All I knew when I woke up was that I was in a different room and my leg was in a cast almost from hip to ankle. Dr. Viau told me that when he x-rayed my leg again everything was back in place. He didn’t have to do any surgery, he only needed to put my leg in a cast.

To further complicate matters, I was also on kidney dialysis. They took care of that at the hospital but now that I would be going home, how am I going to handle it? It is costly using ambulance service for the trips to and from dialysis three times a week. The decision was made to send me to Oak Grove Convalescent Center. Insurance would pay for the trips to dialysis. I was there about a week and soon got tired of it. I just needed to go home and maybe have someone take me to dialysis.

Meanwhile, Lucy phoned the radio program Market Place on WMAN and broadcast the need for a driver for a dialysis patient three times a week. There were four responses. I picked one and signed myself out to go home. For about two or three weeks I used the services of a gentleman who picked me up at home, took me to dialysis, went to his home to wait for my call, and took me back home. It was a routine that helped me realize that I could drive myself to dialysis, now that everything felt like it was healing nicely. One day I told him I wouldn't need his service anymore. I was now on my own.

With a full cast, I needed to be careful putting myself in the driver's seat but with an automatic transmission there is no need to use the left foot so it worked out OK. The doctor changed the cast after about six weeks and I continued with a half-cast for several more weeks. I continued on crutches but was able to put more weight on my leg and finally the cast was taken off.

It was then that I found out that I couldn't walk very well because of the pain in my left hip, so ever since then I have resorted to continuing with one crutch. Perhaps I could use a cane but I have so much more control with a crutch. Among other things, I can probably blame it on the fall down the silo chute, which I wrote about yesterday.

Down the silo chute

I remember it well. It was 1952. It was a cloudy and damp day in November. I was eight years old and I was assigned the task of throwing corn silage down for 40 cows that my Dad milked every day. Dad cautioned, "Be careful, the rungs may be slippery." I climbed up the 50 foot silo rung by rung and noticed that it was over half full. I spent some time forking silage down the chute with a multi-tined large fork. I finally stopped and called down the chute to ask if there was enough. No answer.

I backed out of the small doorway and onto the first rung and climbed down and checked for myself. For all the time I spent the pile of silage was pitifully small. I climbed back up again and resumed the task of making sure there was enough silage for those 40 cows. And then I climbed down again to check. Again, there was not enough. I climbed back up and continued. This time I spent a longer time; surely there was enough by now.

I backed out and onto the first rung. Just as I went for the next rung, I slipped off. My hands let go and followed my feet. I was in free fall.

How long does it take to fall 30 feet? Time stood still. I thought of my predicament, my whole life, my brother and sisters and the occasional fights we had, my parents and their struggles to make a living and take care of five children. What is going to happen when I hit bottom? Will it hurt? Will I break my leg, or worse? Will I see Jesus now? Will I be in heaven? All these things entered my mind as I sailed past each rung, missing each one.

Then I landed with a soft thud on the huge pile of silage I had spent time on building. I felt a little twinge of pain in my hip but suddenly all was quiet. I sat there almost in shock. I got up and suddenly realized that I was alive and I started crying like there was no tomorrow. I wandered down the aisle to a couple steps leading out to the door and sat down.

Soon my Dad's boss came in. "What's the matter?"

"I fell down the steps," I replied between sobs.

Then Dad walked in the door. "What on earth is the matter with you?"

"He fell down the steps."

Two years later I was riding with Dad in the car and I suddenly said, "Dad (maybe I called him Pop in those days), I didn't fall down those steps...I fell down the silo chute."

"I thought that's what happened. I went back to the silo and that pile of silage was pretty flat." He never let on he knew; never reprimanded me for it.

That incident changed my life...to look at life with a heart for definite but as yet unknown goals.