Our eldest daughter writes an article periodically for one of our local newspapers. Some time ago I wrote an article in my WordPress blog about making your bed as a first thing to accomplish each day. That Blog included the speech by Navy Seal, Admiral William H. McRaven. His speech was delivered as the commencement address to the graduates of The University of Texas at Austin on May 17, 2014. This article tells you about those sheets you should use to make that bed. I hope you enjoy her article. Thanks Kathryn for making this an easy blog.
Florence Nightingale’s words help the healing environment
By Dr. Kathryn Fiddler
Saturdays at my house meant we had two choices: get up early, find your bike and get out of the house; or stay inside and clean with mom.
As often as we could, my brother, sister and I got up and out early, but a few times we stayed in and helped. We vacuumed, washed the floors, cleaned bathrooms and changed all the sheets. As much as we complained, changing sheets was our favorite part.
As a second-generation nurse, mom was trained to make a clean bed, and she made sure we knew how as well. She always said clean sheets were important to good health.
We would strip the beds and she would wash the sheets, then hang them on the clothesline to dry. Once they were dry, we would carry them to our bedroom.
The memory of carrying crisp fresh sheets to my room still makes me smile and brings me comfort. We pulled the sheets tight, made hospital corners on the ends and smoothed out the blankets.
Today I still relish my fresh sheets. I change them weekly and find great joy in slipping under the sheets in a freshly made bed.
Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing who was born in 1820, also believed in the importance of clean linens. While supporting soldiers in the Crimean War, she taught the nurses the importance of environment to healing.
She educated them on the healing value of fresh air, quiet surroundings, clean food, water and clean sheets. Her work led to reduced illness and death for British soldiers in the
war. Her work also inspired the training, for centuries, of nurses to come.
Today, 200 years later, the World Health Organization and the American Nurses Association has named 2020 the year of the nurse, in honor of the birth of Florence Nightingale, and in recognition of all nurses and midwives throughout the world.
Nurses are the largest group of healthcare professionals in the United States and have been named the most trusted profession for 18 years in a row.
Here on the Delmarva Peninsula, we have nurses in hospitals, in providers’ offices, in health departments, community centers, insurance companies, hospice, skilled nursing and rehabilitation centers, home health, veterans’ agencies and so many other places.
They have roles as mothers, fathers, caregivers, neighbors, spouses, and they support healthcare delivery and community outreach every day.
The skills, knowledge and roles of the 21st century nurse have all evolved since Florence Nightingale, but her philosophy of caring for the whole person and the value of cleanliness and disease prevention continues to be critical to good health today, and among our core values of nursing.
Dr. Kathryn Fiddler, DNP, MS, RN, NE-BC, is Vice President for Population Health Management at Peninsula Regional Medical Center in Salisbury.
Did you know that caterpillars are not “transformed” into butterflies? In metamorphosis (the name of the process), a caterpillar is liquefied. Only after its actual death can entirely new creature, a butterfly, emerge!
But most people’s image of the process is more like Eric Carle’s classic children’s book The Very Hungry Caterpillar, in which the little caterpillar “makes a cocoon around himself and goes to sleep, only to wake up a few weeks later wonderfully transformed into a butterfly!” (amazon.com)
The Very Dead Caterpillar would probably have sold fewer copies. But it would have been more accurate.
When I was a kid, I used to love going to La Mirada Creek and catching those pudgy little pre-frogs we called pollywogs (you may have known them as tadpoles). I would bring them home and dump them into a tub, and then watch with fascination as they shed their tails, sprouted legs, and crawled out like showroom models: “The new Frog!” That’s transformation (“change of form”) and it’s majorly cool. But it’s not what a caterpillar does.
A caterpillar dies.
After building its own coffin (cocoon), the caterpillar seals itself inside—and dissolves. And then, in a process only vaguely understood by scientists, that stew of free-floating genetic material undergoes a total metamorphosis (“change of nature”).
In other words, butterflies are not souped-up caterpillars, they’re entirely new creations made from caterpillar soup!
Not surprisingly, caterpillars and butterflies are used as spiritual symbols in virtually every culture on earth. But because the real process is so radical and so little understood, they’re nearly always represented as symbols of transformation, rather than metamorphosis. To be fair, many religious teachings do help people become better caterpillars.
But that’s not enough.
According to Jesus, God doesn’t want souped-up caterpillars, he wants butterflies. He wants us to die to ourselves (Luke 9:23-24) and become completely “new creations” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Just like caterpillars do.
The Apostle Paul (in the Greek language of Romans 12:1 and 2) describes the process ofmetamorphosislike this:
“Present your bodies as a living sacrifice (build your cocoon and get in!), holy (‘set apart’), acceptable to God (nothing short of metamorphosis can accomplish this)… Don’t be conformed by (don’t take on the ‘shape’ of) this world (or ‘age’ or ‘era’), but (instead) be metamorphosed (changed in your very nature) by the renewing (‘regenerating’ or ‘re-growing”) of your mind (incidentally, the Greek word for mind is psuche—the same as the Greek word for butterfly!) so that you may be discerning (only by being metamorphosed can you know) what is the will of God (as opposed to the will of a dark and broken world), what is good, well-pleasing, and perfect (‘complete’ or ‘whole’—in contrast to the incompleteness and brokenness of this world).”
Caterpillars and butterflies are the world’s most popular symbol of transformation. But they’re also a far more powerful and challenging metaphor than most people realize.
It’s still the beginning of a new year. What better time to start over, not just as “the new You!” but as a completely new creation!
Are you ready to start work on that cocoon? Thanks Mitch, much appreciated, theRooster
A forward From the words of : publised on Medium today.
There are a few “F” words in this article. If that’s offensive to you stop here, or you can make a mental change like: e.g. in case of, “f**k man!” You can say, “dank man!” similarly in case of “f**king stupid” you can vent out like, “frigging stupid” and in the case of “get the f**k out of here” using “get the hell out of here” would be little less impolite.
Columnist at GEN. Previously: Deadspin, GQ
Bernie Sanders is gonna win. The whole thing. He’s gonna win the primaries, and then he’s gonna beat Trump in November. This is not me hedging. This is not me being like, “Well gee, maybe he CAN win.” No. He’s winning. I’m calling it with 0% of precincts reporting.
I realize I am the last blogger alive who has a right to tout unwavering election picks, but I don’t give a shit. I’m ready to try out hope again. Since 2016, I have not worn hope particularly well. I have been led by my own despair, with Trump’s election and its horrible aftermath leaving me hopeless that anything could ever possibly get better. But I think I’m tired of feeling that way, and perhaps you are as well. Laying down fatalist tweet after fatalist tweet is its own form of fiddling while the world burns. It’s self-fulfilling defeatism. And so while I have every reason to feel helpless to beat back the current forces that put Trump in office and have helped enable his grotesque agenda — the electoral college, a revitalized and open white supremacist movement, foreign election interference, voter suppression, Citizens United, a corporatized political media, and the Democratic party establishment — I simply don’t believe that Bernie is as vulnerable to many of those prevailing evils as a lot of other candidates are.
This isn’t just me reading some imaginary tea leaves. All of Bernie’s inherent electoral advantages are already out there in plain sight. The only reason NOT to have confidence in Bernie is because you’ve been instructed not to have any. American voters, particularly on the left flank, have been conditioned to be as meek as the average worker bee daring to ask the boss for a pay raise. Now now don’t go asking for too much, you might scare some folks! The reason Bernie Sanders is both appealing AND formidable is because he has no interest in that meekness. He has no interest in being too careful. That stands in diametric opposition to Hillary Clinton, who remained professionally cautious throughout the entirety of 2016 out of disposition, obliviousness, self-interest, and because she had 538 potential campaign booby traps — laid down by both the opposition and by herself over the course of her career — that she had to dutifully avoid.
Bernie is primed to defuse pretty much any line of attack because he’s been frighteningly consistent in his views since roughly 1806.
Bernie does not have any traps to avoid. What are you gonna do, call him a fucking socialist? Uh, okay. He’ll tell you that he is one, and he won’t be shy about that admission. He’s primed to defuse pretty much any line of attack because he’s been frighteningly consistent in his views since roughly 1806. And he’s already shown he can float above manufactured scandals, the kinds that are the lifeblood of Republican electoral strategy. He even threw a clip of Trump COMPLIMENTING him into one of his campaign ads, and it worked somehow. He also knows that the single most important message to get across to Americans is Donald Trump Is Ripping You Off, an obvious truth that even weirdo Obama-Trump voters can understand.
None of the other candidates in the Democratic field can beat Trump like this, and the bulk of them aren’t really interested in doing so. That’s why they’ll all fall by the wayside. That includes Joe Biden, who should have been able to coast to this nomination but can’t, because, after all these years, he’s still a painfully bad campaigner. Bernie will best them all, and then Democratic party leadership will put more effort into resisting his nomination than they’ve put into resisting anything Republicans have done. This is because they know that Bernie winning would finally bring down the massive, destructive barrier that corporate Democrats constructed to isolate themselves from their own voter base and to keep themselves from addressing the urgent needs of so many people within that base. Bernie will tear down that wall, and those same corporate Democrats will either find themselves out of work or they’ll have to fall in line.
Whatever they choose to do, it won’t matter. Tough shit for you, Concerned Anonymous Party Figure Leaking To Politico. Voters will follow Bernie and, on a macro level, the fate of the Democratic Party will have already been decided. He will rebuild the party in his image, the fruit of decades of political toil finally ready to be harvested. At last, a turtle of a different sort rising to power. From there, Bernie will head to the general election and beat Trump, whom he already trounces in head-to-head polls. After 2016, I want every poll burned, its ashes used to help mix cement. But I don’t need to check Nate Silver’s dipshit Twitter feed to know that the majority of Americans fucking HATE this president and will gladly replace him once the chance arrives.
Here’s a story you may not know. Before he was elected president, Donald Trump wrote a book. This was the kind of ghostwritten, stump-speech-in-print polemic that every candidate dumps into bookstores as an overpriced bit of campaign swag. The working title for Trump’s book was We Will Win. The publisher was all in for it. If you’ve ever published a book, as I have, you know that when a publisher decides on a title, that’s the title. There’s no going back from it.
But Donald Trump was no ordinary author (not even an author at all, technically), and he wanted the name of the book changed to Crippled America. Despite handing Trump a seven-figure advance, the publisher acceded to that demand and went with Trump’s preferred title. The book was a flop, so much so that they had to change the title once more to Great Again for the paperback edition. That book’s failure has been lost to history because Trump ended up winning the election anyway. Detailed inside stories about the 2016 election night noted that Trump’s inner circle didn’t really think he could win, and neither did he. So perhaps he backed away from We Will Win as a title in a rare moment of caution: His constant need to not look like a fool besting his equally constant need to display maximum false bravado at all times.
Bernie Sanders has no such insecurities. He’s already said he’s winning this time around, but not in the cursory way that every two-bit candidate screams it out at rallies. (“We’re going to WASHINGTON, kiddos!”) No, he truly believes that this is his time, not because he’s being a prick (though he has been known to act like one of those on occasion). He simply believes that he has both the temperament and the rebuilt campaign strategy to bulldoze his way to the presidency. And he’s right. He’s the only candidate right now who continually stresses that you deserve your inherent worth, and more and more voters are responding to that. They know he gets it.
I did not vote for Bernie in the 2016 primary. I voted for Hillary because I liked her better (particularly when it came to gun control matters), and because I fell for the now-debunked electability myth. I have, shall we say, evolved in my views since that time. I don’t give a fuck about electability anymore. I don’t give a fuck that the U.K. just voted to become a recurring Benny Hill sketch. I sure as hell don’t give a fuck what cable news pundits think of Bernie, when they deign to mention him at all. I don’t need Joe Scarborough’s advice on this shit. In a Good Witch dimension, Bernie’s campaign parallels Trump’s 2016 campaign in that it can thrive in its own specific media ecosystem (including, so help me God, Twitter and Facebook), and every attempt by the mainstream press to either derail or discredit him only makes voters more interested in what he has to say, and more compelled to seek out opinions about him from less compromised sources.
I’m an American, which means I don’t like being told what to fucking do. And I’m not gonna close my eyes in anxiousness when I pull the lever in the voting booth this winter or next fall. That’s what all the shitty people want from you and me. They want you to be afraid to vote your values. I’m not gonna give them that luxury.
All my life, Democrats have been too shy to lead. They treat confidence like it’s a Pandora’s box they dare not open. Well, fuck all that. Hillary Clinton was confident that a lifetime of political maneuvering had earned her the presidency. Bernie Sanders, in a nuanced but vital contrast, is confident that a lifetime of standing by his principles has earned him sufficient enough admiration from all Americans to help him win that presidency. And he’s right. He will win. He’s not afraid to believe it, and you shouldn’t be either. Get your hopes up.GEN
What matters now. A Medium publication about politics, power, and culture.
Just a little addition.
There is a story of a woman who never used the offensive F-word. In her old age, she began to lose control of her brain, and she claimed that the word was always on the tip of her tongue. It was a continual struggle for her not to say it.
Her counselor said that because she had heard it all her life, her hippocampus (memory indexer for the brain) had filed it away, and made it a part of her long term memory.
“Despite our everyday impressions of forgetting, it seems likely that long-term memory . . . can store a seemingly unlimited amount of information almost indefinitely.”
For many years now the wife and I have been members and supporters of the Mount Washington Observatory. On our first climb to the top, we were driving our 1976 Plymouth. On the way down our Radiator imploded and we sprung a leak. We were fortunate to find a shop on that day that made a temporary repair and we made it home to Connecticut. Quite frequently I pop onto the mountain’s web page and check the weather up on high. The observance @ 11:30 on 11/23/2019 was: Temp – 11.3f Wind Speed – 56.2 mph Windchill – 11.6f
Not long after my retirement from the CT State Police in the late eighties, my wife and I relocated to the Eastern Shore of Maryland and settled in the Village of Allen.
The home we purchased was originally owned Beverly and Laura Hitch, parents of Richard Beverly Hitch. Richard would be one of the missing crew aboard the USS Greyback, lost at sea off Okinawa on February 27th, 1944.
Richards mother, Laura Hitch would at one time turn this home into a Boarding House. It’s been said on Sundays past, you could smell the fried chicken cooking on the stove as you passed by on Allen Rd. Laura Hitch was often seen on the overhanging roof sweeping Sycamore tree bark as it shed each year. I would soon do the same after we moved in. We, like Laura, would entertain the public a year after moving in, turning our home into a Bed & Breakfast.
It is my and other family members belief, along with guests, who have felt the presence of others in the home. We have always thought that presence was Laura Hitch herself. Now that the resting place of Richard has been located, I can only wonder, was he there with us also? Ghosts, Spirits? Stay tuned, sometime soon I’ll expound on these super natural meetings.
Just last week after the Grayback was located, our town Scribe, Melissa Bright sent out the following email to the Village Mailing list. With her permission I attach that email. Melissa, you need to start a Blogging life.
Dear Allen Family – because Allen IS FAMILY –
Today we honor all veterans, but on this day there is news about a specific Allen veteran. Richard Beverly Hitch, son of Beverly and Laura Hitch, and brother to Thornton Hitch, was lost at sea during WWII aboard the submarine U.S.S. Grayback, where he served as an Electrician’s Mate 1st Class. Today there is a report that the Grayback has been located. All these years, it was unknown where it lay. Recently, a Japanese amateur researcher discovered a single-digit error in the latitude and longitude of where it was believed the Grayback went down. Using this information, the Lost 52 Project, which hunts for missing ships, found the Grayback in June off the coast of Okinawa, where it went down on February 27th, 1944. The Grayback was on its 10th mission, and was among the 20 most successful subs in the U.S. Navy in terms of enemy ships destroyed. It is reported that her career was ended that day in February when a 500 pound bomb made a direct hit on her conning tower. When these lost ships are found, they are usually considered hallowed ground, the final resting place of the sailors who went down with them. There has been no mention of any attempt to recover remains. If I can get away from work for a few minutes, the church bell will ring at 11:11 a.m. this morning. There are markers in Richard’s memory, Punchbowl, the National Cemetery for the Pacific in Hawaii, and also here in Allen with his family, under the cedar tree in the Eastern end. At At 5:30 this evening, we will lay flowers at Richard’s marker in the Allen cemetery. Anyone who is interested is invited to come. Richard was 28 years old when the Grayback went down. Here is his photo from Findagrave.com:
During the American Revolution, many important political discussions
took place in the inns and taverns of Philadelphia, including the
founding of the Marine Corps.
A committee of the Continental Congress met at Tun
Tavern to draft a resolution calling for two battalions of Marines able
to fight for independence at sea and on shore.
The resolution was approved on November 10, 1775, officially forming the Continental Marines.
As the first order of business, Samuel Nicholas became
Commandant of the newly formed Marines. Tun Tavern’s owner and popular
patriot, Robert Mullan, became his first captain and recruiter. They
began gathering support and were ready for action by early 1776.
Each year, the Marine Corps marks November 10th, The Marine Corps Birthday, with a celebration of the brave spirit which compelled these men and thousands since to defend our country as United States Marines.
On Monday November 11, 2019 we celebrated Veteran’s Day, honoring all who have served in the Military.
On November 11, 1919, U.S. president Woodrow Wilson issued a message to his countrymen on the first Armistice Day, in which he expressed what he felt the day meant to Americans:
ADDRESS TO FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN
The White House, November 11, 1919.
A year ago today our enemies laid down their arms in accordance with an armistice which rendered them impotent to renew hostilities, and gave to the world an assured opportunity to reconstruct its shattered order and to work out in peace a new and juster set of international relations. The soldiers and people of the European Allies had fought and endured for more than four years to uphold the barrier of civilization against the aggression’s of armed force. We ourselves had been in the conflict something more than a year and a half.
With splendid forgetfulness of mere personal concerns, we remodeled our industries, concentrated our financial resources, increased our agricultural output, and assembled a great army, so that at the last our power was a decisive factor in the victory. We were able to bring the vast resources, material and moral, of a great and free people to the assistance of our associates in Europe who had suffered and sacrificed without limit in the cause for which we fought.
Out of this victory there arose new possibilities of political freedom and economic concert. The war showed us the strength of great nations acting together for high purposes, and the victory of arms foretells the enduring conquests which can be made in peace when nations act justly and in furtherance of the common interests of men.
To us in America the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service, and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of nations.
Growing up in the South of New Jersey, Exit # 3 of the NJ Tpk. was my geographical reference point. I was quite familiar with the Jersey Devil. The below is from https://weirdnj.com/
The Jersey Devil
While this one is not a “ghost” story, the tale of the Jersey Devil has withstood the test of time—and for good reason. Stories of the winged beast are truly terrifying. But who or what is the Jersey Devil? According to Weird NJ, the infamous creature haunting the Pine Barrens is the child of Mother Leeds, a Pines resident who conceived her thirteenth child in 1735. At the time, Leeds had no idea how she could care for (let alone afford) another kid and so, in exasperation, she raised her hands to the heavens and proclaimed “Let this one be a devil!” Leeds got her wish. Moments after birth, her healthy baby boy grew horns and claws and bat-like wings. Legend has it the “devil” then killed his mother before attacking onlookers.
This remembrance should have been posted before or on Halloween, once again, however, Life got in the way.
One thought going back many years ago, in the mid-fifties I’d say, is the following:
There were train tracks going through our town back then. These tracks ran the breadth of South Jersey from Camden to Atlantic City, with many spurs running from them in north and south directions. One such spur even went to the north into the Pine Barrens.
On this day I was walking the tracks with a few friends in early fall. Just days prior, it had been reported that a murder had occurred in the area around Chatsworth, a town that is kind of the Capitol of the Pine Barrens.
One of the three or four of us began talking about the incident as we headed back home from Hadden Heights. The sun was setting to our front, and the early fall darkness was setting in. Someone even mentioned the killer could have hopped a freight out of the Barrens. I remember all of our imaginations running a bit on the wild side.
As you come into Audubon, there is a lean-to built to protect commuter passengers in foul weather. Someone surmised that the killer from Chatsworth could be holed out in there. To this day, I can remember passing that lean-to very quickly. Dinner and the safety of home were calling.
Whenever I return to that town of my youth and pass that intersection, E. Atlantic and Chestnut streets, I can still remember that fall day.
On 24 September an old and dear friend of twenty five plus years left his earthly homeland of Bavaria, Germany. Hubertus, along with his two brothers, owned a centuries old farm on Collins Wharf Rd in Allen, MD. This farm, which lies behind a brick gateway along Wicomico Creek has been a mainstay of the community since 1733.
Hubertus was surrounded by daughters Natalie, Isabel, Carolin and Sophie who held him, and eased his fears to let go, and feel safe in his passing.
Hubertus reminded Mary Agnes and me as being like an overgrown Leprecheaun. Hubertus was always so happy with life, especially his yearly visits to the Eastern Shore and the village of Allen.
There are nothing but wonderful memories of Hubertus and his daughters over the years. Once I picked him and his entourage up at Dulles airport each year, it was a constant how’s this, how’s that and what’s new. This went on non-stop until once on the Eastern Shore and the “Kentucky Fried Chicken” sign was spotted,
( Hubert’s greatest toy was his hydrofoil, brought over from Germany in a shipping crate many years ago. The scene of that boat flying up the Wicomico River at 60 mph with Hubert at the helm, shall be greatly missed.)
My best interpretation of the Death Notice
You are no longer where you were, but you are everywhere we are
DR. Hubertus Rechberg
died peacefully in the circle of his beloved daughter
12 March 1948 in Munich
Died September 24, 2019 in Garmisch-Partenkirchen
In great love and gratitude we bid farewell to our father, father-in-law, grand-father and brother.
Wednesday the 2nd of October
11:00 am funeral service and funeral takes place
in the parish church ST. Clemens in 82438 Eschenlohe place.
12:30 – 17 o’clock approx. Reception in Wengwies
5.30 pm Children’s dinner PANCAKES – at Kiki (Maus’s kitchen is occupied by the caterer!)
Somewhere in the neighborhood of ten days or so ago, my Doctor of Nursing daughter decided to become a member of the Manual Labor force, whose main tool is a shovel. So much for the Florence Nightingale Pledge of the Nursing profession. An Umbrella Close-line base pole, No Problem!
After returning home from a trip to the ER several hours later, Arm in a sling, for at least two months mind you, we learn the cold facts of the incident. Son in-law, Jeffrey did send a text from the ER, ” in ER with Kathy, may have broken her arm”. “How” , was the wife’s response. “She fell off a shovel” “What the”, we say. We would soon learn the facts as mother goes to check on daughter.
I must take full responsibility for my daughter’s debilitating injury. For my daughters first eighteen years never once do I remember teaching and demonstrating “Shoveling 101”.
This woman, who is right hand dominate, fell off her shovel, to the right. In trying to break her fall with her arm under her side, she sustained a fracture of the R/Radius. Due to the human instinct to break a fall by outstretching the arms, the radius is one of the more frequently fractured bones in the body.
My first born will have many challenges over the next few months with her dominant hand in a sling. Writing, How to put her hair in a bun, washing one’s hands, driving. My goodness, can one even pick their nose? De-corking a bottle of wine, now that will be a challenge.
We are here for you Kathryn, just ask and we will be there. Fell off a shovel, really?
Choose a shovel that is ergonomically correct – a shovel with a curved handle. These shovels help you to keep your back straighter reducing spinal stress.
For snow, consider a shovel with a plastic blade instead of metal– plastic is lightweight – isn’t the snow heavy enough?
Sometimes a smaller blade is better. You will not be able to shovel as much per shovel load, but the load will weigh less, which puts less strain on the spine.
Warm muscles work better. Take some time to stretch to prepare your body for activity.
Just like with a golf club, hand placement on the shovel handle is very important!
Don’t put your hands (grip) close to one another. Create some distance
between the hands. This will give you more leverage and make it easier
to lift snow.
Think about good posture and maintaining the natural curve of your spine.
with your feet about shoulder width apart to maintain balance. Try to
keep the shovel close to your body. Bend at the knees, not the waist or
back. Tighten your stomach muscles as you lift the snow. Lift with your
legs, not your back. Do not twist your body, instead, step in the
direction that you are throwing the snow or dirt. This will help prevent
the lower back from twisting and alleviate any back soreness that you
might typically experience.
Don’t throw snow or dirt over your shoulder! Go forward with it.
Fresh snow is lighter in weight
– so clear snow as soon as it has fallen. Snow becomes dense as it
compacts on the ground. Wet snow is very heavy. One shovelful can weigh
20 pounds or more!
Pace yourself. Take frequent breaks to stretch your back and extremities.
Make sure that the shovel head is perpendicular
to the soil’s surface when you push the shovel blade in. And if you
can’t push it in with one foot, if you have to jump with both feet to
drive it in, then you need a backhoe or a pry bar to dig this hole.
you’re going to lift the dirt out of the hole, hold the shovel near the
middle of the handle and use the upward momentum of lifting the soil
out to throw it into the wheelbarrow or onto a tarp. Don’t be at the end
of the shovel and don’t be down close to the head. Both cause strain on
When you encounter roots, remember your shovel is not a pry bar,
but it can be a chopping tool. Turn it around and cut cleanly through
the roots that you encounter, and then lift them out of the hole into
the wheelbarrow. Shoveling is all about keeping your back straight.
Throughout my life, I’ve lived in quite a few places. South Jersey was my home for the first eighteen years. In case you don’t know, everyone in New Jersey lives near an Exit, that Exit is off either the NJ Turnpike or the Garden State Parkway. Some folks way up north will quote an exit off I-80 which runs E to W from the George Washington Bridge to the Delaware Water Gap bridge at the Pennsylvania line.
So, after that bit of geography, the better part of my early years was spent close to exits #3 & #5 just off the NJ Tpk. And Exit # 4A off the Garden State Pkwy. Thanks to the United States Marine Corps, while stationed at the Earle Ammunition Depot in Colts Neck, NJ, I also lived a short distance off Exit #8 of NJ Tpk.
After graduation from high school, the Marine Corps moved me about to assignments in South Carolina, North Carolina, Washington, DC, New Jersey, Japan, and California.
I married my wife of 54 years while in the Marine Corps and upon discharge we resided in northern Maryland for a year before moving to Connecticut and ultimately a career with the Ct State Police, retiring in 1988.
Upon retirement, the little woman wanted to relocate to the northern Maine coast. As for me, I was looking to travel south to the Gulf Coast of Florida. We wound up compromising and found the Delmarva Peninsula and the Eastern Shore of Maryland.
We were Yankees no longer, we now live below the Mason – Dixon line and are Southerners. There is a lot on conjecture as to the exact placement of those markers. Some folks locally say Mardella Springs has an original marker, others will tell you Delmar is the line of demarcation. In either case, we’re about 20 some miles south of that infamous line.
So, for the past 31 years, we’ve lived as Southerners. During that time, we’ve met some characters along the way. For this story, I’m calling the featured character Charlie.
Charlie lived in on a small wooded plot in a small trailer just off the main road that ran from Allen to Trinity, MD. This was not a terribly long stretch of road, only 3 1/2 miles to the old Trinity Church cemetery near our present home. Every Christmas and Easter someone comes by and places plastic flowers on two or three of the grave markers.
It’s been told that Charlie, back in the day, as they say down here, once was a store owner. Some kind of malady occurred in his life that caused him to give up the store and live a life of solitude., thus the trailer in the woods.
Charlie could often be found in the local country store sitting on an old wooden milk carton under a big fan. Charlie would be talking about the past with the store’s proprietor for the better part of a morning or afternoon, especially in the summer. You would always know when Charlie was there, his dog Brownie would be lying outside awaiting his return. Inside the store, lying about somewhere, was the resident Collie, Chief. He was the companion of the store owner and resident historian, who we shall call Butch.
When we first moved to Allen, since named Eden by the Federal Government and Postal people, there was no trash pickup or mail delivery. The post office was part of that general store and the Post Master or Mistress as in this case just happened to be Butch’s mother and he most often referred to as “Mother.” She went by a slew of names depending on who she was referring to her at the time. I always called her “Yes, Ma’am.”
Often while depositing trash at the “Transfer Station” one might run into Charlie. Growing up in New Jersey, we called them “Dumps” and would always make a “Dump Run” when making a deposit. I guess down here I just made a transfer, stuff to be used by someone else, I guess.
At times Charlie could be found conversing with the manager of the Dump, his name was Slim. Slim was there from opening to closing, watching over the three dumpsters, two for household trash, one for metal. There was no recycling back in those days, just household trash and NO construction materials were allowed. You were in big trouble should you transfer building Materials. Those had to go to the big Dump in Salisbury where you were weighed and had to pay a fee.
Often times, Charlie’s dog Brownie could be found in one of the dumpsters, looking for some munchies he was. You always had to examine before making a drop into the bin. There was a rare occasion when Charlie himself could be found in a dumpster. More than once this writer had to hold up the throw of a bag into the bin for fear of injuring a dog, stray cat or Charlie himself.
I would spend a lot of time chatting with Slim and Charlie from time to time. Slim was always up to date on what was biting on the hook in the local waters. With no Barber Shop in town, the Dump would often be a place to keep up with the local goings on, along with the Post Office and General Store of course. That old store made the best sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.
At one point in the past, old Charlie showed up at the Dump with a second dog. This dog was also brown. I asked Charlie what the dog’s name was, Charlie responded, “Brownie II.” How simple and appropriate I thought.
As time passed, Charlie appeared one day at the Dump, and the elder Brownie was not with him. I asked where the old dog was, and Charlie responded, “dead.” I wondered what happened? I asked Charlie and he replied, “Metalosis.” Not familiar with the term I asked, what is Metalosis? Charlie kinda chuckled and said, “The metal in the bumper of the car that struck him, what done it.
Life, South of the Mason Dixon Line, with the Rooster.