MODERN RUINS OF A MUSEUM

by Mark Sliwa

As a kid, I loved to blow stuff up. Gunpowder bombs to destroy my plastic model car collection or a Polish cannon that could shoot a hundred yards.  For those who may not remember, a Polish cannon was five or six Pepsi cans that had the ends cut out. Construction was possible as soda cans were made of metal with a reinforced steel ring at each end. All were duct-taped together to resemble a small bazooka.

The base can was left partially vented at the drinking end and had a pinhole punched in its bottom.  Ammunition was a tennis ball and propellant was lighter fluid.  To operate, we stuffed the ball down the tube with a stick, squirted fluid in the pinhole, lit a match to the hole, and boom! The kick felt like a 12 gauge shotgun as you watched the ball sail across the neighborhood.  I had the most powerful one in the neighborhood until my mother captured it and proceeded to crush it with dad’s workbench vise.

It is no surprise then that a place called Forbes Road Gun Museum held great interest for me as an early teen.  Located in Ligonier Township, Pennsylvania, at the top of Gravel Hill Road, it was a small brick two story Smithsonian of guns, some dating over 500 years. A field artillery cannon sat on the front lawn, commanding respect before one entered. The first floor served as a gunsmith shop and the second as the museum.  An elderly man named Russell Payne was the owner and seemed to know everything about everything as he followed you around the displays. The firearms ranged from a 15^th century Turkish matchlock to machineguns from WWII.  In addition, various military and historical items were arranged in glass cases or hung on the walls. This local treasure trove remained in existence until the late 1990’s when Mr. Payne died.

Fast forward to now. The building still exists in its mostly original state but the ravages of time haven’t been kind. The cannon is long gone. Many of the windows are broken or covered over with plywood and vines climb up the brick walls.  Peering through the front door glass, one sees a pile of debris, old wooden furniture, a metal push button cash register, and in general just a lot of junk. Junk, but cool junk—touchstones to another era. With a window pane already broken by the door handle, I reach through and decide to explore further.  I myself hadn’t been in this building since about 1977.

Musty smells compliment the furnishings. It really doesn’t look much different than my last visit except messier and all the countertops are piled higher with clutter. Stacks of 1940’s Life magazines, with covers proclaiming “Eisenhower on the Rhine” or “Soviets prepare for final assault on Berlin,” take one deeper into the time machine. On the shelves remain many reference books and binders. One shelf has unused letter head stationary and some “Forbes Road Gun Museum” bumper stickers.  Surprisingly, boxes of (now antique) live ammunition still lie about among gunsmith tools, empty shell casings, and other reloading supplies. Moldy leather pistol holsters and cracked wooden rifle stocks on the floor are kicked out of the way as I walk further. I snoop through old customer files and find an original bill of sale for a hunting rifle to R.K. Mellon—the date is 1965. Like Mr. Payne, General Mellon has passed on too.

Each step creaks and groans going up to the second floor. A huge pile of garbage blocks half the path at the top. Past the garbage though, this main hall is empty. Since used as the museum area, the floor is open the entire length of the building. Save for scattered light trash and a lot of dust, it is just a vacant shell. Silhouettes of guns line the walls, more dust preserving a perfect outline of where they once hung. Coming to a small table I chuckle. There is a rotary dial phone with a 412 area code used when Pittsburgh and Ligonier still shared the same prefix. Going down to the far end of the hall there is a desk with a shooting support on it. The window in front of the desk is open pointing out across a field to an overgrown earthen backstop. This is where Mr. Payne would sight in his clients’ rifles. Another box of live shells lies exposed in a partially opened drawer. A senior citizen’s sniper alley. I take a few more mental snapshots and prepare to leave.

Outside, blue sky replaces the dark mustiness. I walk away in silence and feel a light breeze. A metallic boom startles me. Turning around, a battered aluminum screen door sways back and forth—a soft closing bang to a memory of my youth.

To read additional posts by Beanery Writers Group members click on http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbeanerywriters/

WHAT IF     

Julia E. Torockio

What if……….There was a world without prejudices?

What if…………..No one stared, accosted, talked about, or made fun of anyone?

What if………….we all got along all of the time?

Or at least most of the time!

What if there was no hatred, confusion, disrespect, dislike, or contention in the world?

What would a world like that be like?

Would it be better? What do you think?

If this could only be true?

Then this may be a perfect world we live in!

Wouldn’t it? Or would it be?

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as a perfect world or a perfect person!

As long as there is sin in this world, and the devil exists, we must deal with the flesh;

and this so-called ideal world ceases to exist, and will never happen!

There was and is, only one perfect person who ever lived and walked on this earth;

that person was  “The Lord,  Jesus Christ!”

There is only one perfect place, and that place is: Heaven!

But, someday, there will be a New Heaven, and a New Earth, and a New Jerusalem!

There will be a time, when some, will live a new life on this New Earth, and in this New Jerusalem;

for a thousand years with Christ, and in such a time as this, there will be this perfection,

for some, there will be this perfect peace, and this perfect place,

for those whom truly believe, and have accepted Christ in their hearts and lives!

To read more writings by Beanery Writers Group members click on http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbeanerywriters/

LATROBE, PENNSYLVANIA

Julia E. Torockio

     In 2010 Latrobe, Pennsylvania, will celebrate its 150^th anniversary. During this time, the community has developed many stories. Some are well-known and others less well known.

MR. FRED ROGERS

     Most local people know that Latrobe is the home of Mr. Rogers. Is it possible that Latrobe’s friendly nature is influenced by him when he sang “Won’t you be my neighbor?” In his commemoration, the Fred M. Rogers Center, at St Vincent College, was established. It is an ongoing tribute to his contribution.

An earlier tribute to Mr. Rogers is the Rogers-McFeeley Pool, built in 1959, which will remind future swimmers of the contribution that he made not only to South Western Pennsylvania, but to the nation.

THE BANANA SPLIT

     Latrobe residents know about the banana split controversy. They support the idea that this concoction was first made at Tassel Pharmacy (later known as Strickler’s Drugstore), not in Boston, Massachusetts or Wilmington, Ohio. These two towns claim the original making of this ice cream treat. David Strickler, a 23-year old apprentice pharmacist at Tassel’s enjoyed creating sundaes for customers at the drugstore soda fountain. The original banana-based triple ice cream sundae he created in 1904 cost ten cents. Even though it cost twice as much as the other sundaes, it eventually caught on with students at nearby St. Vincent College. At Latrobe’s 100^th anniversary of the banana split the National Ice Cream Retailers Association certified Latrobe as its birthplace. The early Walgreen Drugstore in Chicago spread its popularity by adopting it as a signature dessert.

HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR ROBERT REIBEISEN MELDLER

     Robert Reibeisen Mendler is among the last Holocaust survivors in the United States, and the only survivor living in Latrobe. He spent his teenage years in concentration camps. After coming to America, he worked with his uncle at Mendler’s Shoe Store in Latrobe. He later took over the store. Currently in his 80s, his mind is sharp— but physically he is suffering the effects of his camp experience.

THE ITALIAN OVEN

     The Italian Oven originated in Latrobe. Founded by Jim and Janice Frye, it spread throughout other Southwestern communities. Ironically, and unfortunately, it folded in the Latrobe community.

THEATER

     In 1947, the Latrobe Recreation Board sponsored “The Community Players,” from which evolved the Latrobe Little Theater in 1949, then the Red Barn Theater—which disbanded in 1956. Other Latrobe theaters included the Showalter Opera House, the Manos, The Grand, and the Olympic. Most were located in downtown Latrobe.

In 1952 the Mission Inn Restaurant and Night Club (currently the Wingate Inn/Hotel at the junction of routes of 30 and 981) invited members of the Latrobe Little Theater to do a dinner show. In 1952 they became the Mission Players.

LATROBE SPORTS—STEELERS GATHERING PLACE

     Like other communities in Southwestern Pennsylvania, Latrobe is big in sports. Football is historically important to the community because it originated here—Zimbo’s was one of the first All Pro Football teams in the United States. At the end of July Pittsburgh Steeler’s gather at St. Vincent College for training camp. Visitors from all over the region join the community residents who gather at the college to watch the training and meet the players.

GOLFER ARNOLD PALMER

Golfer Arnold Palmer may have come to fame under the influence of his father “Deke” (short for Deacon). His ninety-two professional wins include seven major championships. His sport is enhanced by his giving back to the community. His philanthropies include hospitals and treatment centers, and his causes focus on those in need.

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     Residents of Latrobe not only have a rich history, it is an interesting, peaceful, friendly and safe place to live. There are many more facts about the town that could be discovered with a little individual research.

The bottom line is that Latrobe is a nice place to live, work, play and discover.

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To read more writings by Beanery Writers Group members click on http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbeanerywriters/

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SOURCES:

Wikipedia

Various issues of Around Latrobe Magazine

Listen to Our Words (Oral Histories of the Jewish Community of Westmoreland County), Pennsylvania by St. Vincent College

www.carolyncholland.wordpress.com (category HOLOCAUST)

The Making of Latrobe by Jim L. (Adams Memorial Library)

Happy Birthday, Arnie, Tribune-Review editorial, September 10, 2009

BARREL MOLASSES AND SHOTGUN SHELLS

Joe F. Stierheim

     Many years ago I made regular trips to northern Pennsylvania. Along my route was a small store that had a sign along the highway that advertised: “Barrel Molasses and Shotgun Shells.” That sign always fascinated me. The store appeared to be a “Mom and Pop” sort of place, catering to members of the local populace and stocking what was needed and wanted by them. I have not traveled that section of what was then a two-lane road for quite some time. I am pretty sure that the country there has changed, the highway no longer a two-lane road and no longer lined by farmland, villages, and the occasional business. The store with its unique sign is probably no longer there, long ago having been replaced or at least forced out of business by a supermarket or other chain retail establishment. The local people, I am sure, buy their shotgun shells at Gander Mountain or Walmart and haven’t the slightest interest in finding an establishment at which to purchase barrel molasses.

In the small Pennsylvania town where I grew up in the 1930s and 40s, there were a few unique businesses. One was an old general store that looked exactly as a general store should. It was a big frame building with large windows lining a porch that ran its width. In the windows were samples of the store’s wares: clothing, tools, feed and farming supplies, building materials—just about everything needed by the local rural population. Inside, a balcony ran around the entire rectangular space and on it I remember there being, among other things, shelves of yard goods and tables for displaying and vending them. The store wasn’t aware of good merchandising practice. The milk and bread, the most sought-after items, were positioned at the front of the store. Convenience for the customer was thought to be more important than inducement of sales. A large, pot belly stove sat in the center of the store and it was there that I waited with other kids on cold winter mornings for the bus that took us to school and, when I had the money, purchased a small, paper-wrapped pie to put in my lunch box.

Another business in the town was operated by a man who possessed a number of talents and abilities. He did auto maintenance, pumped gasoline, repaired harness and leather goods, gave haircuts and stocked everything the general store didn’t handle and some it did. He sold guns and ammunition, hunting clothes and supplies, sporting goods, some work clothes, a selection of tools and the ever popular candy and gum.

Unique places still exist but are becoming increasingly hard to find. This trend has been going on for a long time. John Steinbeck wrote a book, Travels with Charley, about his journey across the US in the 1950s with his dog. In it he noted that it was possible to travel across the entire country without having to vary one’s diet even for a day. Even at that time the homogenization of the country had begun. It is more pronounced now, it being possible to travel the country and not only vary your diet but also not vary the look of the place in which the food is served. Chains that blanket the country make this possible. And from their professional bailiwicks they produce their homogenized advertising.

The American ingenuity of which we are so fond has made all this possible. We have succeeded in bringing a uniform sameness to our country and are now in the process of exporting it to the rest of the world. It’s good for the economy, but something of American ingenuity has been lost as well. I would like to think that somewhere in the country there is someone who favors and actually puts into practice something of his own that is unique and singular; that it is still possible and acceptable to post a simple, uncomplicated, honest and yet unique statement of business that satisfies a want and a need and proclaims something such as “Barrel Molasses and Shotgun Shells.”

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To read more writings by Joe Stierheim click on http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbw-joe/ and http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/publications-by-members/

THE MUSIC BOX

 Jan McLaughlin

Step into a page in time of friendliness and grace

Escape the rush of the city, enjoy each friendly face.

The church bells’ hourly chimes, the sound of “Old Rugged Cross,”

Give the peaceful, calming feelings of life in a music box.

Time so long forgotten, of feeling so at ease

The smell of fall leaves in the air, wafting on the breeze.

The old time concerts in the park—listening to the past,

Wishing time would stand still, wishing this could last.

A music box always held small pieces of the past

The tinkling sound of a song, my memory holds fast

Again the church chimes sound, as the sun sets crimson red

Giving peaceful, calming feelings as the music box in my head.

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To read more writings by Jan click on http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbw-jan/

SPARKLE AND SHINE

Kathleen Clark

2012 ©

The galaxy was abuzz! Speculations ran high! All the stars, novae to ancient waited with great anticipation. The question had been tossed about for centuries. Who would the Lord of the Stars choose for this greatest of honors?

Generations of stars had formed, lived and burned out. . . waiting, waiting, till hope almost vanished. The answer hung in space and fell silently to earth like shooting stars.

The singular foreshadowed event was destined to change the course of history.

Light years away

A cosmic dance of dust, gas and debris mixed with a potpourri of interstellar elements, becoming a galaxy.

Spinning, dipping and swaying

the swirling particles formed a new star,

swaddled in an ethereal birth cloud.

As it rotated and wobbled awkwardly in mid space, a strong breeze caused it to pause. . .

Lightning streaked across the sky, and a thunderous sound shook the heavens.

Shine, an ancient, wise and benevolent Supernova, appeared bearing a message for the novae star:

“I’m honored to christen you. . . Sparkle.

“Welcome to our galaxy,

a place of joy and jubilation!

I bring you wonderful news.

Long ago it was foretold that a unique star with super radiant glow, would form and be sent to a faraway universe, to shower it with rays of light.

Yet unknown among her celestial peers, the little star felt humbled;

elated, ecstatic, she leapt, pirouetted. . .

Sparkle shook herself.

“What. . . who do you mean?”

“Sparkle. . . you’ve been chosen

to accompany angels and archangels

on a journey, where the Sun and Moon

light the planet Earth.

There, you will glow in splendor and glory.

“But. . . why me?”

“You’re so much wiser, you’re a Patriarch. . . Shine, you should be the chosen one!”

“Please, don’t fear, Sparkle,” Shine reassured her. My essence will always follow you, guiding, lighting the way.”

“So, what is this heaven shattering event? Where on this planet Earth am I going?”

“You will journey to the Milky Way, Earth’s Galaxy. There on the outskirts of a small mid-eastern town, known as Bethlehem of Judea, you will shine upon the birth of the Lord Jehovah’s son, Jesus. The child is the destined Savior of mankind.”

Sparkle didn’t quite understand what a Savior was or who needed him, but she trusted Shine, even though they had just met. Surrounding clusters of stars cheered and rejoiced, erupting in a thunderous celebration.

This amazing revelation left her speechless. Slowly, Sparkle found her voice.

“Ohhh. . . I’m soooo honored,” she whispered. Tiny silver sparkles shot from her edges.

“Surely you see how wise the Lord of the Stars, for the pattern originates in heaven, then repeats on earth. . .

“and a little child shall lead them. . .”

Isaiah 11:6

Kathleen Clark – 2012 ©

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ADDITIONAL READING:

Noel 2012

Falalala Latkes

The Gift of Christmas

Christmas: A Time for Furnace Fires

O Christmas Tree, so pristine
Berried in English clotted creame
An echo of jingly bells
Yuletide fully swells
Bear hugs all around
Merry carols; ultra sound
Cozy stuffed stockings steep
Warm memories to keep
The assembly too soon gone
Still above and beyond
Mary’s dear newborn Child
Was to the world avowed

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ADDITIONAL READING:

Falalala Latkes
The Gift of Christmas
Christmas: A Time for Furnace Fires
IMAGE SOURCE: http://www.freedigitalphotos.net/images/Christmas_g54-Gold_Christmas_Bells_p66997.html

SANTA LUCIA Part I: Background

Jean Slusser

Read SWEDISH CHRISTMAS TRADITION WITH ITALIAN ROOTS
I am of German, Czecz and Norwegian ancestry, but have always identified more with the Scandinavian part, probably because I spent so much time with my Norwegian Grandmother and Maternal Aunt who lived in a small town in Wisconsin, Mt. Horeb near Madison. It seemed as though everyone in that town was Norwegian, with a few Swedes thrown in for good measure. All the festivals and celebrations were reminiscent of Norway—the food, costumes and customs.

       I was also raised Lutheran. In our church, we celebrated Santa Lucia day.  When I was in 8^th grade, I was chosen to be Santa Lucia. The good news was that it was an honor to be chosen. The bad news was that it was necessary to walk down the very long isle of the sanctuary with a wreath of lit candles on my head without setting myself and the church on fire.  Luckily I made it through. 

     I also attended a very large Santa Lucia festival in Wisconsin which I will always remember because of all the candles, beautiful music and ambiance.

ST LUCY/LUCIA

St. Lucy is believed to have been a Sicilian saint who suffered a sad death in Syracuse, Sicily around 310AD. It is said she was seeking help for her mother’s long-term illness at the Shrine of Saint Agnes in her native Sicily, when an angel appeared to her in a dream beside the shrine. As a result Lucy became a devout Christian, refused to compromise her virginity in marriage and was denounced to the Roman authorities by the man she would have wed.

They threatened to drag her off to a brothel if she did not renounce her Christian beliefs, but were unable to move her even with a thousand men and fifty oxen pulling. So they stacked materials for a fire around her and lit it, but she would not stop speaking, insisting that her death would lessen the fear of it for other Christians and bring grief to non-believers.

One of the soldiers stuck a spear through her throat to stop these denouncements but it had no effect on her. Unable to move her or burn her, a guard took out her eyes. Various paintings of her show her holding a plate with her eyes on them. Soon afterwards, the Roman consulate in charge was hauled off to Rome on charges of theft from the state and beheaded. St Lucy was able to die only when she was given the Christian sacrament. In another story, St. Lucy was working to help Christians hiding in the catacombs during the terror under Rome and in order to bring with her as many supplies as possible, she needed to have both hands free. She solved this problem by attaching candles to a wreath on her head.

ORIGINS

St.Lucia/ Lucy is one of the only saints celebrated by the overwhelmingly Lutheran Nordic peoples. The celebrations retain many indigenous Germanic pagan, pre-Christian midwinter elements. Some of the practices associated with the day predate the adoption of Christianity in Scandinavia and like much of Scandinavian folklore and even religiosity, is centered on the annual struggle between light and darkness. The Nordic observation of St. Lucy is first attested to in the Middle Ages and continued after the Protestant Reformation in the 1520’s and 1530’s, although the modern celebration is only about 200 years old. It is likely that tradition owes its popularity in the Nordic countries to the extreme changes in daylight hours between the seasons in this region. The pre-Christian holiday of Yule was the most important holiday in Scandinavia and Northern Europe.  Originally the observance of the winter solstice and the rebirth of the sun, it brought about many practices that remain the Advent and Christmas celebrations today.  The Yule season was a time for feasting, drinking, gift-giving and gatherings but also the season of awareness and fear of the forces of the dark.

The Lussi Night was December 13. Then Lussi, a female being with evil traits, like a female demon or witch was said to ride through the air with her followers.  This might be an echo of the myth of the Wild Hunt in Scandinavia and Europe.  Between Lussi Night and Yule, trolls and evil spirits, also spirits of the dead, were thought to be active outside. It was particularly dangerous to be out during Lussi Night.  Children who had done mischief had to take special care since Lussi could come down through the chimney and take them away and certain tasks of work in preparation for Yule had to be finished or else Lussi would come to punish the household. It was tradition to stay awake through the Lussinatt to guard oneself and the household against evil and has led to the modern tradition of throwing parties until daybreak.

(SANTA LUCIA Part 2: Modern Celebrations will be posted December 19^th.)

Swedish National Flag Day: June 6, 2012

Joanne McGough

November, 2007

 A piazza in Venice, Italy

      I wait alone. Le Ristorante al Gabbiano opens in thirty minutes. I sit at a wrought iron table and study its mosaic tile top. Some tiles are cracked, some are missing, all are weather worn and faded into a creamy gray mélange. Just a hint of true color remains in crevices where tiles are tightly abutted and the salty air from the canal hasn’t penetrated.

The morning is gray and so heavy with mist that my hair feels damp. Still, I am pleased to be in Venice and content to be alone. I feel meditative, breathing slowly and deeply, my mind as calm as it ever could be. I close my eyes from time to time. Often, I pause to write a note on my tablet.

My reverie is interrupted. A small brown bird lands on my table. His arrival is obscured by the near-opaque fog.

He is a bold little thing. In just two hops he is close enough to watch me writing. One hop closer and he seems to understand my work. He looks from my pen to my tablet, then back again, repeatedly. I sit as still as possible, watching him. He is beautiful, really, not solid brown but blessed with flecks of red and gold. He is obviously interested in what I am doing.

He knows I am watching him. I stop writing but he continues to stare at my tablet. I think he is waiting for something. Perhaps he thinks my tablet is food. That must be it. He’s waiting for me to share something, some food, with him. For a tick of a moment we are in a stand-off, staring at each other. Then, since I have nothing but words to give him, he leaves.

I feel honored by his visit, no matter what his purpose. I know what it feels like to want something that won’t be offered.

To read more of Joanne McGough’s writing click on

http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbw-joanne-mcg/

TRANSFIXED

 Patricia Orendorff Smith

On a glistening day

leaf color became vibrant.

Leaves fell like rain.

Autumn touched ground,

crunched and rustled beneath my sneakers.

A scarlet maple leaf

floated by.

A deer approached from the woods.

I did not tread on his territory,

nor he on mine.

Transfixed,

our eyes locked in a stare

of respect,

reverence.

Ephemerally,

I breathed, breathed in the toasty

brown whiff of autumn.

Too quickly the day faded

into winter white.

The cold sting on my ears

advanced my pace.

I rushed home to a steaming

cup of cocoa,

thinking,

I need no more than this.

To read more of Patricia Orendorff Smith’s work click on http://beanerywriters.wordpress.com/category/wrbw-pat/