Last evening while traveling home from Nebraska on I-90 through South Dakota, I was leaning back in the passenger seat with not a lot to do. I had already used  all my thread I had along and could no longer work on my needlework project. When dusk began to override daylight, John Grisham had been put aside too.

It was then that I noticed the thin sliver of a moon making its appearance at the top of the darkening sky. With no pressing issues to occupy my brain, the small scientific portion of my mind began to exercise. Was this a waxing moon or a waning moon? At some point in time I had read about each, but it must have been stored in the deep gullies of brain matter and smothered with more urgent knowledge – maybe how to distinguish an Eastern bluebird from a western bluebird or ten tips to cooking the perfect Thanksgiving dinner.  I asked my husband if his gullies were less deep, but apparently not.

With all this pondering about waxing and waning moons, I began to wonder which one it was that took a place on the  old outhouse doors. And why did outhouse doors have one in the first place? From personal experience I am certain that not all outhouses did have a moon. As a kindergartener I spent a lot longer in the old schoolhouse outhouse than I had planned on when I had asked to be excused. When the rusty lock on the outside flipped down and locked me inside, I had ample time between unheard screams of “help” to study every characteristic of each bare board that made up the rustic shelter.

With the use of laptop computers and smart phones, there is not a good excuse to remain ignorant, so this morning with a cup of coffee on the stand beside me, I settled into my large comfy chair and opened the laptop. My first ambition was to find out what a waxing and waning moon is. I learned that waxing means increasing; a waxing moon is in the process of becoming a full moon. Waning means decreasing; a waning moon is in the process of becoming a new moon. In the northern hemisphere, a sliver of moon in the shape of a backward “C” like we saw last night, is a waxing moon and is on the journey of becoming a full moon on January 11th. Had it been in the shape of a true “C” it would have been a waning moon.

Now, with that straight in my mind for the time being, my curiosity still kept me captive with the question of the crescent moon on the old outhouse. Come to find out, years and years ago, a crescent moon was placed on the women’s bathrooms, and a star or sunburst was placed on the men’s. The moon stood for “Luna” and was a symbol of womanhood. The male counterpart was “Sol” symbolized by the star or sunburst. The women’s bathrooms of old were better maintained than the men’s. The outhouses with the stars and sunbursts became in such disrepair that they soon became a thing of the past. Both genders began using the same building. For whatever reason, my research claims that most of the moons placed in the doors were waning moons, but no explanation is given as to why. Maybe waning moons were easier to cut out with the types of saws they used – that’s my theory.  The practicality of a moon in the outhouse door was that it allowed for some fresh ventilation and enough light to tend to business.

There were many outhouses that didn’t have the good fortune of a moon in the door. I  remember back to 1960 to that outhouse I was imprisoned in south of Osmond, Nebraska. It had no moon, no ventilation, and no light. I was never so happy to see my brother when Miss Libby finally sent him out to check on me.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

Christmas is known as the season for giving, and indeed it is. Not only do we give gifts, but we also give away smiles as we meet strangers on the street. We willingly drop our extra coins into the Salvation Army’s red buckets. We bake goodies and distribute them to our neighbors, pastors, co-workers, and friends. The Bible tells us in Matthew 6:3-4 that giving secretly is the best kind of giving. But when you do a kindness to someone, do it secretly – don’t tell your left hand what your right hand is doing. And your Father who knows all secrets will reward you. (Living Bible)

From this verse came the idea of introducing a “mystery provider” or “MP” into the sequel of “Bound by Secrecy” that I am currently writing. This month, because it is the season for giving, I am choosing to give my readers a glimpse into a scene of my book. In this scene the town folk of the small town of Hooper are most curious about who among them might be the “mystery provider.” Enjoy the scene and hopefully I can “give” you the book in its entirety by the end of 2017.

***

Bob was one of those patients that Doc wished every patient might resemble. He had a concern for others that went beyond the usual. It made him snicker as he remembered Laurel Reever complaining that it was faster going through the Wal-Mart check-out line in Kansas City on Christmas Eve than it was getting to the counter at the Co-op here in town. Bob had at least two or three questions to ask every customer. He wasn’t a busy body – just concerned.

Doc tucked the chart beneath his arm and entered the room. “Hey Bob. Seems as if you are following me around town or I’m following you.”

Bob grinned. “Things are sure abuzz over there at the Red Rooster today with all the talk of the mystery provider.”

“Ah, come on Bob. You’re the mystery man. Admit it. I won’t tell a soul. “

“I’m honored that you think so Doc, but it’s not me. With the way the world is going, it’s real nice to have something like this happening – it gives folks a reason to smile.”

Doc had to agree, and it would be just like Bob to do something to make folks happy. He’d done it in the past – like that frigid January day when he passed out wool socks to the road construction crew working on the old Sumalac Bridge down by the highway. Doc wasn’t convinced the mystery man wasn’t this guy sitting on his exam table; even if he denied it. It would be just like Bob to want to carry his game out a while longer and make a few more people happy. Doc could appreciate that. Maybe it was Bob, maybe not. But, ever since the various anonymous gifts started showing up around town, folks were smiling more. There was cheerful chatter and speculation about who the generous giver could be. The gifts weren’t expensive, but always useful to the person that received it. More times than not, the gift went to a person that needed a hand up in some way. The talk at the Red Rooster this morning revolved around the new axe handle that was left beside Jim Miner’s wood shed. Jim lived across the old tracks and made enough money cutting wood to keep food on the table. Somehow, the anonymous giver must have gotten wind that Jim’s old axe handle had finally split in two. Yesterday, Jim had carried the new custom made axe handle down Main Street, showing everyone how his name was engraved into the oak piece. It was finer than any axe handle a person could buy at Bomgaars Ranch Supply .

***

This season, let’s consider giving an anonymous gift to someone that could use a hands up. There’s no more joyful giving than that which is given without an expectation.

Until next month…keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin.’

At the writing group I attend we are often given writing prompts. The leader will say, “I want you to write whatever comes to mind after I give you the following  sentence.”  We have about 10 minutes to finish the task. It’s not a lot of time to scribble down some thoughts that you hope sound intelligible, because – you  may have guessed – after the time is up we go around the room and read what we have written in front of some pretty polished writers.

At the October meeting we talked about “fear and anxiety”; the symptoms of both, and how each of them has the potential of doing some strange things to our minds and bodies.  We discussed the difference between the two. I concluded that I do not like what either one does to me. Whether it’s fear or anxiety, I eat to much ice cream (or whatever sweet happens to be available), don’t sleep, and loose all concentration on anything but the problem. I wish I could go to bed, cover up my head and make it all go away – which I’ve tried, and it doesn’t work.

The New American Standard Bible includes the phrase “do not fear” fifty-seven times and “do not be afraid” forty-six times. God obviously had an easier time saying it than I do doing it.  Instead of admitting to disobedience by not following His commands, I’d like to think God incorporated these words into His Word this many times because He knew there was going to be a large amount of folks that would struggle with this. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!)

After a lively twenty minute discussion on fear and anxiety at our meeting, it was time for our writing prompt. “Write about a time when you were scared, fearful, or filled with anxiety.” I wrote of one of the first fears I can remember and  entitled my short story, “Grandma’s Sinister Alarm Clock.”

I should have been asleep, but my eyes were propped open as if 2×4’s were lodged between the lids.                 Grandma Martha slept soundly in the other bed that occupied her long narrow bedroom. I loved Grandma, but her house was big, old, and had sounds our familiar house did not. A very disturbing sound at this moment was the loud, rhythmic tick of the battery operated alarm clock sitting on the tall oak dresser – not 6 feet from me. In the moonlight that entered through the north window, I could make out the black and white sinister face of the clock. The face wasn’t what frightened me most, however; it only added to the malign voice of the clock…the constant outcry of the tick…tick…tick. How could Grandma sleep with this clock that sounded as if it came straight off an Alfred Hitchcock movie? Any moment now, it was likely to jump off that dresser and onto my bed. It would strangle me with those arms and hands that would magically extend into the darkness. 

Hours later, my six year old imaginative mind finally exhausted itself into slumber.

When I awoke, pleasant sounds of Grandma working in the kitchen drifted into the bedroom. Bright, happy sunlight streamed through the window where just a few hours ago, moonlight had cast an eerie ambiance across the room. I jumped up and hurriedly ridded myself of my baby doll pajamas.  I yanked on my summer shorts and T-shirt. I couldn’t wait to see what Grandma was fixing for breakfast.

I skipped out of the room, oblivious to the tormenting sound of a harmless alarm clock sitting on the dresser.

FYI – Check out the book page for information regarding” Chicken Soup for the Soul – Angels and Miracles”. I am the author of one of the 101 stories.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

September is one of the most beautiful months God created – at least in our part of the country. I enjoy each season and the diversities they bring. To me, fall not only means trees gowned in beautiful oranges, yellows, and reds, but it also means apple cider candles, cute knit hats in earthy tones, hot tea sipped beneath a light blanket on the porch, and walks down the country lane while savoring the rich woodsy smell that rises from a nearby chimney. It’s a time of preparation as many gather in their garden produce; filling mason jars with green beans, red beets, and yellow corn. What a pleasant and securing sight to see colorful quarts and pints lined up on kitchen counters, waiting to cool before they are carried down to the shelves where they will be stored and readily accessible for the colder months ahead. I do my share of gathering for the colder months ahead, but in the form of books placed on my Kindle or on my shelf. I’ll make sure I have a Tracie Peterson, a Max Lucado, a Debbie Macomber, and a Henry Ripplinger at my fingertips for upcoming cold nights in front of the fireplace.

As much as I love fall, it also brings a touch of sadness to my soul as September 23rd approaches. Just as the fruit of our gardens end their seasons, so it is that my father ended his earthly season on that beautiful fall day two years ago. He was all about making lives easier for those he loved and he continued doing that even up to death. As a nurse, I have witnessed many deaths, and those patients that are dependent on oxygen are very seldom dealt easy deaths as their  lungs often “fight” for every breath in the last hours of life.  I dreaded the time when we would be gathered around Dad’s bed watching this happen to the father that meant so much to us. My brother Dave sat in the easy chair near the window of Dad’s hospital room on the afternoon of  September 23rd.  With no previous warning and no difficult breaths, the cardiac monitor sounded. Dave looked up, and Dad was gone. It was as if Dad was still making our lives as easy as he could, and we were spared the agony of watching him struggle.

His family continues to miss him – his smile, his laughter, his wise words, and his patient demeanor. But it is with great thankfulness that we look back and know we were given a gift for those 85 years when we shared a special husband, dad, and grandpa. Not one of us would wish him back to endure the earthly physical limitations and trials that were appointed him, but oh my, we look forward to that day when we will see him again in his heavenly glory.

Fall marches on and it’s a great season. It reminds me to tell those I love that they are loved.

Until next month – “Keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

Before Labor Day became a federal holiday in 1894, many states were already celebrating the holiday.  In 1887  Oregon became the first state to pass the holiday as law followed soon thereafter by Colorado, Massachusetts, New Jersey, and New York.  By 1894 twenty three more states would be celebrating the social and economic achievements of American workers. President Grover Cleveland passed the bill to make it a national holiday in hopes of appeasing the nation’s workers before the election  that would give him a second term. Plenty of American Railway Union workers had reason to be upset with the president following a deadly railroad strike when workers for George Pullman’s sleeping car company became outraged that Mr. Pullman cut their wages but left their rent at the usual amount. The 150,000 members of the union refused to work on trains carrying Pullman cars. The strike disrupted train travel across the nation and prompted President Cleveland to send in troops to end the strike. Many of the workers were wounded and killed. TIME magazine called it “one of the bloodiest strikes in U.S. history.” President Cleveland’s efforts to honor the worker with a holiday did not secure him the election.

As years passed, there have been many celebrated labor giants, but the most well known of labor icons has  been “Rosie the Riveter.” As the World War II posters proclaimed; she rolled up her sleeves, flexed her arm muscles and said, “We Can Do It!” This government campaign brought millions of women out of the home and into the workforce.

The familiar Rosie poster of the woman with the red and white polka dot bandana and blue  coveralls against a bright yellow background is not the original Rosie. The original painted Rosie – popular during the war  and created by Norman Rockwell – is found on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post of the 1943 Memorial Day issue. This image depicts a much more muscular woman wearing overalls, goggles and pins of honor on her lapel. A riveting tool lays across her lap and “Rosie” is painted on her lunchbox. She is stepping on a copy of Adolph Hitler’s book “Mein Kampf.” The Rosie most familiar to folks sixty and younger, was created by artist J. Howard Miller when he was commissioned by Westinghouse to make a series of posters to promote the war effort. It was never the intention of Miller or Westinghouse to make that image into “Rosie.” Before any of the art work of “Rosie” came into existence, she made her first appearance in song. The song, “Rosie the Riverter” by Redd Evans and John Jacob Loeb left us to picture in our individual minds our own Rosie’s.

Whether you see Rosie as the woman in the song or the one on the Saturday Evening Post or the one on the Westinghouse posters, there’s no doubt she did her part in uniting women as a major part of the work force during WWII. By 1945 nearly one out of four married women worked outside the home. The aviation industry saw the greatest increase in female workers. Women represented 65% of the industry’s total workforce, compared to just 1 % in the pre-war days. It’s no wonder that Rosie the Riverter is still considered the most successful government advertising campaign in history.

Rosie the Riverter lyrics:

While other girls attend their fav’rite                                    
cocktail bar
Sipping Martinis, munching caviar
There’s a girl who’s really putting 
them to shame
Rosie is her name

All the day long whether rain or shine
She’s a part of the assembly line
She’s making history, 
working for victory
Rosie the Riveter
Keeps a sharp lookout for sabotage
Sitting up there on the fuselage
That little frail can do more than a 
male will do
Rosie the Riveter

Rosie’s got a boyfriend, Charlie
Charlie, he’s a Marine
Rosie is protecting Charlie
Working overtime on the 
riveting machine
When they gave her a production “E”
She was as proud as a girl could be
There’s something true about
Red, white, and blue about
Rosie the Riveter

Everyone stops to admire the scene
Rosie at work on the B-Nineteen
She’s never twittery, nervous or jittery
Rosie the Riveter
What if she’s smeared full of
oil and grease
Doing her bit for the old Lendlease
She keeps the gang around
They love to hang around
Rosie the Riveter

Rosie buys a lot of war bonds
That girl really has sense
Wishes she could purchase 
more bonds
Putting all her cash into national
defense
Senator Jones who is “in the know”
Shouted these words on the radio
Berlin will hear about
Moscow will cheer about
Rosie the Riveter!

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.
_____________________