I am pleased to announce the publication of my book "Behind Shooters Bar." (link below)

Follow me as I take you on a journey through life in the 1950's--a time of ice boxes, early television, the beginning of rock and roll, and outhouses.

Discover how I turned tragedy into triumph that you, too, might be an overcomer.

Here are some Facebook comments:

February 5 at 11:07 AM · 

THIS. BOOK. 📖

If you live in Danville or if you don’t this book is a must-read. I’m not even halfway through and already I have laughed, cried and been transported back to a town 20 years prior to my birth and can see it clearly ... some things changed, antics among kids surely did not ... 😂 tick tacking and soaping of windows .. not knowing how our parents found out such things ... this small town .. the one I couldn’t wait to escape but so glad to be raising my son in ... this small town so rich in history, family roots and culture. ❤️
Kay .... I’m loving this story ... your story so much!

Kay, your book was beautiful that it brought back many memories of the early times of my childhood, teen, and adult years. I'm not usually a reader, but I couldn't put your book down. Read it in one sitting. Loved the beautiful flow of words onto each situation, your descriptions of the times and of your search to find your roots. God definitely walked with you your entire life. I'll definitely read any of your new books. May u always have peace, serenity, and inner calmness in your life. You are a gifted writer.

Spent the afternoon reading Behind Shooters Bar for those of you that have not read it I highly recommend it great job Kay Derr I truly enjoyed it !!


I got the mail around 4 p.m. this afternoon; by 8:00 p.m. I am 118 pages into this great book. I am not much younger than Kay and love remembering so many things she has covered in this book. They are not all great memories, but like Kay writes these are the things that bring us to our Lord and Savior and reminds us of our need for Him and He never fails us. On to finish the book!


 "It was fun reading about some of the things (trailing pine, arbutus) and places (ice plant) I had forgotten." Isn't it interesting how memories flashback, not to haunt us, but to refresh our spirits and somehow sometimes we feel like a kid again?

Please visit Amazon.com and view the first several pages.
https://smile.amazon.com/Behind-Shooters-Bar-Kay-Derr/dp/1986944913/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549578326&sr=8-1&keywords=kay+derrhttps://smile.amazon.com/Behind-Shooters-Bar-Kay-Derr/dp/1986944913/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1549578326&sr=8-1&keywords=kay+derr

The house that Greg built--the house that God built.

In the springtime white wild roses bordered my son's house, perfuming the air with a delightful fragrance. It was his dream home, constructed from magazine-purchased plans.

Nestled in the woods, each summer the family splashed in the sparkling blue waters of the pool in the patio area. I was proud of the home Greg built for his wife and daughters.

One day, following a path from the yard to a mini hillside behind their house, Maddie and Charissa led me to their Narnia. Much like a fantasy setting from my own childhood, Narnia was a plot among the briars, brambles and bushes of their backyard.

We stayed there only briefly before the girls yelled "Here ducky, ducky," calling the fowl in a neighboring pond. To my surprise and delight, the pair of mallards flew directly toward us and landed at the girls' feet. I'd never seen anything like it!

The girls have grown now but sometimes I ponder those days and the house Greg had built with the wrap-around porch, perfectly suited for his family. I envision the gorgeous wooded surroundings and the clear blue sparkling water of the swimming pool. In my dreams I catch a whiff of the sweetly scented wild roses, feel the mist splattering off the ducks' feathers, and the rippling creek bordering the roadside.



In my enchantment, I am reminded of heaven. Jesus told us in Revelation 18: "And the building of the wall of it was of jasper: and the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass. 19 "And the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones.
The first foundation was jasper;
the second, sapphire;
the third, a chalcedony;
the fourth, an emerald;
the fifth, sardonyx;
the sixth, sardius;
the seventh, chrysolite;
the eighth, beryl;
the ninth, a topaz;
the tenth, a chrysoprase;
the eleventh, a jacinth;
the twelfth, an amethyst.

21 And the twelve gates were twelve pearls: every several gate was of one pearl: and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass.

22 And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it."

In life's moments, we bask in the beauty of life as we have known it here on earth. But God has told us that "Man is like a breath, his days are like a passing shadow." We are like a mist that appears for a little time; then vanishes.

I am grateful for the memories of the carefree moments when Maddie and Charissa were little girls and the storybook lives we shared, but nothing on earth can compare with the beauty and joy that awaits us in heaven.

But only if we put our trust in Jesus will we spend eternity in heaven. The Bible tells us that "All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." Only when we are willing to admit that we are sinners, and ask Jesus for forgiveness can we ever hope to see heaven.

Jesus offers us a free gift: "But as many as received him, Christ, to them He gave the right to become children of God." Jesus stands at your heart's door, knocking, waiting for you to invite Him in. When you pray, accepting God's free gift of eternal life, you have the assurance that you will one day see heaven. God's precious gift of salvation is irrevocable and everlasting, a promise of heaven with no end.

What you can expect from researching your family tree.

Last July, curious to know something about my ancestors, I opened an account and began my family tree.  Though I had signed up for a family tree search maybe fifteen years ago, I was not prepared for how much content had already been done on my family tree.  You see, you get to look at and reap information from other family trees, related to yours.  Thus, there is a wealth of family facts for which to discover when you do a family tree.

At the same time, I registered for "world" information and, though I found little in that one month subscription, I did uncover an official wedding document in which the bride (my great-great-grandmother having yet lived in England signed her wedding document with an "X."  Jane and William later came to America to my present home town in which their memorial is located in a local cemetery

Soon I realized that I might be able to piece the family members together were I to subscribe to Newspapers.com.
What a surprise to not only discover facts I never knew, but also the little nasty reports about my grandfather.  I knew Moses was a rebellious sort, but I hadn't known he was a rascal.  In the search, I recalled his anger when I was a pre-schooler and whirled a ball of clay at him, hitting him in the neck.  (I was as much a rascal!)  Nevertheless, I was stunned to discover he met with the local police more than a few times and had spent at least one night in the local downtown lock-up.  It seems my grandfather, after his wife died, had a tryst with a town gal which ended in his having been shot in the shoulder.  No problem.  He survived and lived until I was eleven years old.  

Aside from all this, I uncovered much information from this two month newspaper subscription.  In my grandfather's favor was the loss of his wife at mid-life, the illness and death of a one year old daughter, and the death of my natural mother (his only daughter) at age 21 to the tragic incident for which I have already blogged in an earlier post.  

Other discoveries involved my husband's family tree which uncovered some rather notable people in the Berk's County area of Pennsylvania, at least one town Lobachsville, named for its founder, a Lobach relative of my husband.  

My paternal family tree took me to Berks County as well, the Beyer family having arrived in Pennsylvania in 1731 on the ship, Philadelphia Merchant.  Ironically, the passenger list revealed that the Lobach's were on this same voyage!  

The Lobach family, as well as the Beyer family was traced all the way to the 1500's, or 1400's.  This spring I plan a trip to Berks County to visit gravesites for which family members are buried, some memorials engraved in German.

It is honorable, above all other information I uncovered, that many male ancestors fought in four wars, including the Revolutionary War and the Civil War.  My great-grandfather Earp, in fact, was wounded in the Battle of Antietam.  Sadly our American heritage has been degraded to a level that most Americans no longer place their hands over their hearts during the National Anthem (a flag rule by the way).  My grandfather Earp came to America shortly before the Civil War.  He came here from England to pledge his allegiance to America and soon offered up his very life for his newly adopted country.  

If you haven't done your own family tree, you might be in for some real surprises!   I'll never regret having spent the time and small investment in doing my family tree.  Evidence of some family members have indicated they knew Jesus as their personal Lord and Savior.  I rejoice in that one day I will meet some of my ancestors in heaven.  One thing for sure, I will already know a few facts about their earthly life in the United States.

Why I sacrificed a promising, even glamourous, career.

In 1943 I was adopted at the age of 22 months. The events leading to my adoption were tragic. However, my adoptive parents remained faithful to my birth father's mother in taking me to see her.

Forever etched in my memory is my Grandmother's lush back yard. Elegant trees dwarfed her tiny rustic cottage. Red, pink, and yellow hollyhocks danced along a rustic fence that bordered the quaint landscape. Amid a gay variety of greenery, bleeding hearts graced the gray-slated sidewalk. Their lovely lockets of lavender pink dazzled me, however, I was yet to discover that each blossom held a sense of magic!

One day, while I was playing in her flower garden, my Grandmother plucked a tiny heart from the vine. Dividing it into three parts, she explained, “Here's a pair of earrings, these two are sandals, and look, we have a pair of bunnies!”

It was a beautiful summer day the last time we went to visit my Grandmother. As we pulled into the alley and neared her house, my excitement grew. But my eagerness was short lived when we realized the grass had grown tall and the window blinds were pulled. My Grandmother no longer lived there.

Twenty-five years would pass before I'd discovered that my Grandmother had abruptly moved to Illinois to live with her son, my natural Uncle. Though I was adopted out of my Grandmother's family, I never forgot her. Her sudden disappearance left a great big hole in my heart.

In 1990 I relocated to Kalamazoo, Michigan to partner in a traveling and speaking ministry with Nancy Dorner. While there I trained and received my license in the listing and sales of real estate. Though it was a real challenge in a new city where I knew next to no one, I was headed for success in a high profile office. I had excellent training and soon had a nice portfolio of listings. I was living in the best of both worlds traveling the Christian Women's Clubs circuits with Nancy on off times and scouting for listings on my job. At the same time, I had joined the Toastmasters club where I made a number of new friends while honing my own leadership and speaking skills. I was also receiving small writing contracts for Christian publications, thus spent time at my kitchen table typing. By then, I had purchased a little English style cottage on Parker Avenue and was, thus, becoming rooted in my new location. I had found many single friends in various church groups, including my Sunday school class at Calvary Bible Church on Drake Road. This was my life for three years in Michigan and I loved it!

Whenever I had an “open house” at one of my listings or another office listing, I'd go over to Meijers 57 superstore, not far from my house, to purchase a bouquet of beautiful gladiolus---they were only a dollar! While there I also looked for a new story book for my three year old Grandson back home. I'd record the story on cassette, ringing a bell (or blowing a whistle) with each turn of the page. Then I'd mail him the book and the cassette. Soon I had a new Granddaughter, and later another Grandson.

Then one day I was at my typewriter writing about the vignette in my Grandmother's lush back yard where the bleeding hearts grew. Then all at once it hit me!! I had left Danville abruptly leaving my Grandson just as my own Grandmother had left those many years ago. I stood to my feet feeling anew the sting of that day when I realized she was gone. In the days that followed my heart continued to call me back home. It was more than emotions, it was real, and I knew there would be still more grandchildren. If I remained in Kalamazoo my Grandchildren would never know me and I would never really know them. Furthermore, it was a priority that my Grandchildren heard from me about Jesus. I was filled with a deep desire to be a godly role model to them. After filling my duties at my real estate office, I packed boxes to return most of my stuff by UPS. Then the day came, car packed, I began my drive home.

While there are still many times I feel the tugging at my heart for the good days at Kalamazoo, I have never regretted bonding with my Grandchildren. Another Grandson came along, as well as another Granddaughter, after I moved back home. Have I ever regretted making that decision? If I had remained in Michigan I would have missed taking Veggie Tale videos from the church library every Sunday to my Grandsons. I would have missed singing “Jesus Loves Me” to Charissa when she was a few months old. I would have missed hearing about the girls playland they referred to as “Narnia” and playing baseball with the boys. I would have missed all the school events and going to the Grandsons' roller skating parties, Charissa taking a bow at the end of the Bloomsburg Theater Ensemble's “East of the Sun and West of the Moon” and Maddie catching me on an April Fool's trick.

My Grandchildren are all grown now, but I look back with no regrets. I may not have the potentially lucrative career I might have had in Kalamazoo, but I have something far more valuable: decades of memories that are priceless. And that is why I sacrificed a promising, even glamorous, career.

How I overcome depression.

Since the untimely death of America's beloved Robin Williams there has been much advice going around the Internet on the subject of suicide.

I do not write as a professional and, thus do not claim to have all the answers. It is said that life's most valuable lessons are learned from experience. I write as one with a background of experience.

First all because I lived with an ill-crazed dad over a six month period of deep darkness.  Second, because my natural father lived with depression.  His depression led him to unthinkable destructive acts, having taken the lives of my mother and four year old brother.  Third, I write because I believe every person who has lived alone has felt the sting of loneliness and depression simply because they are often isolated. As a thirty year widow, I am no stranger to living life alone.

Having provided information about my background, I want to share with you how I overcame, and still overcome, depression.

There are several things I find helpful:

First, I find it lifts my spirit if I sing or play worshipful music. This helps, in particular, if I have no real opportunity to get out of the house.

Second, though it may seem extraordinary, when I have faced deep disappointment, I seek a new challenge. I find it therapeutic to take on some new project.

Third, I find satisfaction delving into something for which I have procrastinated such as washing my windows. (while playing music)

Years ago I experienced a deep disappointment which totally wracked me. Without even thinking, I went home and cleaned my Velcro hair rollers. Never in my wildest thoughts, had that been a part of my plan for that day. I talked out my frustration while I whisked the hair out of my rollers.

Forth, though I do this far less as I age, I get out of the house and go shopping. I may not have any plans to make any purchases, but getting out of the house can be a key to overcoming depression.

Fifth, and most healing, I seek God's wisdom. I find comfort and peace in the midst of life's storms as I meditate over appropriate Scripture verses.  

A twin to depression, in my opinion, is sudden panic attacks. I had gotten panic attacks for years before I realized that I was not the only one who experienced this, to me, a phenomenon. Later I discovered there was a name for this malady. I have believed that my panic attacks were the result of fear. Financial fear is, perhaps, at the highest level of a single person's concerns. Thus I am going to share with you how I overcame panic attacks.

In l993 I was working for Christian Publications in Camp Hill, Pa as a telemarketer to their clientele. My boss had recommended a “mom and pop” home where I stayed through the week and drove home Fridays after work. One Friday, my “mom” called to advise me not to go home. Due to a storm that March day, there were trees across some roads, etc. But to stay there over the weekend meant that I would relinquish my refreshed spirit over the weekend, both at home and at church.

So I gassed up my car and hit route 11 to Danville. When I reached home there was several inches of slush on the grass. As I sprinted across the yard, my foot landed in a former post hole. Mid-air, I heard the crack. I was down. A jogging neighbor heard my cries for help.

It was stunning to hear the Doctor pronounce “eight weeks in a cast.” That meant that I had no income whatsoever for eight weeks. I was in a tailspin.

During those first weeks living in a recliner chair, I had more panic attacks than ever. Finally, one day when I felt an attack about to strike I pondered Romans 8:15: “For ye have not received the spirit of bondage again to fear; but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.” I meditated on that verse several times that week with each new threatening attack. I can honestly say that, from that time forward I have never again had a panic attack. On rare occasions, I feel the early pangs of an attack, but remembering that Scripture sends the enemy sailing.

Fifth, and foremost, the healing I experience over depression and anxiety came in l972. That is when I gave my life to Jesus Christ. A sinner, such is each of us, I repented of my sins and invited Jesus into my heart. He has promised, “I will never leave you, nor forsake you. Though I may never be free of anxiety, near-panic attacks, nor depression I have that promise that Jesus never fails and He will see me through. Jesus offers victory over mental illness. He may not always heal, but He has already defeated the enemy of our minds when He rose from the grave victorious over death.

Someone has said that “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Whether we accept that as truth or not, hell is permanent. If we die today by our own hand, or by God's, and we have not accepted His free offer of salvation, we face an eternal darkness far worse than any depression. After death, according to God's Word, it is too late.

Read how God used a rat to return my family back home after my depressed (adoptive) Dad hung himself in our basement: http://www.manteldust.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2013-01-01T00:00:00-05:00&updated-max=2014-01-01T00:00:00-05:00&max-results=9

Read how I was orphaned as a toddler, a result of my natural father's depression: “It happened behind Shooter's Bar”

http://manteldust.blogspot.com/2014_01_01_archive.html

But it's just the way we were back then.

They were twins. While I hadn't known them well, they were neighbor boys from my teen years, now home on leave from the military.

It was Christmas, l959 and I had been graduated from high school the previous June. I was at the skating rink when, from the rink floor, I saw them come through the door.

By then I was no longer called “Olive Oyl” and had, for the first time enough speck on my bones for which to experience some sense of attraction to a guy. I noticed I had caught their eye from the sidelines and hoped I might get a phone call from one of them that week.

Sure enough. The phone rang and it was Wesley (not his real name). Of course, I said “yes” when he asked to take me out. The plans were for Saturday night.

I could hardly wait for the week to fly by, but at the same time, I worried about all those things for which most girls back then feared. “Would I make an etiquette mistake?” “How would I introduce him to my mom?,” etc. For days I practiced: “Mom I'd like you to meet Wesley.” “Wesley, this is my Mom.”

Saturday night came and I got through that part. Then I waited while he opened the car door. It all felt very strange to me because I grew up skinny and dates were not a part of my life. Oh yes, I had a boyfriend a short time while in high school, but he thumbed rides to Riverside to see me and our relationship wasn't much different than that of the kids with whom I went roller skating. Plus, I was never serious about him

Wesley took me to see Peyton Place!” We arrived at the theater in Berwick and, as we crossed the main street to the theater, I felt ten feet tall next to this man in Air Force uniform. I hoped I wouldn't blow it by saying something stupid.

Then, somewhere in the middle of the movie one of the actors asked, “Did you ever go swimming in the raw?” Everyone laughed. Except me. I turned to ask Wesley what swimming in the raw meant. Awkwardly, he waved his hand and said, “it means swimming without any clothes on.” I thought I'd die! My adoptive dad was a worry wort and didn't allow me to go swimming. I not only didn't know how to swim, but I certainly wouldn't have thought of swimming in my birthday suit. I knew that was my first blow at a chance for anything to blossom.

It was customary, in our day, to stop at a roadside restaurant after a date. I knew it was coming and I was filled with dread. I had never eaten much EVER. But to eat in front of a guy was totally nothing I ever wrote about in my diary!

The waitress brought us a menu. As I recall we were the only ones in the restaurant that night which added to the coldness in the air. Finally she came to take our order. Rather sheepishly I said, “I just want a coke.” Thus he, too, ordered a coke.

As we drove home I knew my worse fears had overtaken me and I had blown my chances. Hope escaped me. Halfheartedly, in the days that followed, I waited for the phone to ring. But our little pink Princess sat silent.

Later, I drove past Wesley's house. I had to pass it since it was up the street from my place. I saw his twin brother close to the road and stopped to talk to him. Immediately I was totally comfortable with him.

A few days later he picked me up in his mom's '57 Chevy. Conversation came easy and I was elated walking to the theater with this young man in full Navy uniform.

Our friendship grew as we continued to date.  He was stationed at Newport, RI and thumbed a ride home every weekend. For Valentine's Day he gave me a black onyx bracelet (which I still have today).

That same February, amid tears, we parted for his return to the naval base. His ship was leaving for an eight month Mediterranean cruise. The following October I had a shoebox full of letters, each embossed with the print of his ship. I waited, longing for his return.

He did return, but not to me.

It was Ralph Lloyd Tennyson who wrote:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

I know today's teenagers are far less naive than those from my era. But it's just the way we were back then.

That whole nest might have done me in!

In l997 I worked for a memorial park. I loved the park, therefore, I loved working even on Saturdays. I, too, believed in pre-planning one's certain final plans for which I have my own filed for my sons.

The park had gardens which identified each burial section by name: Memory Garden, Resurrection Garden, Garden of Prayer, Sunset Memory, and my favorite, Garden of Honor where the veterans are buried. It was a serene spot on the edge of the park where all that could be heard in the still of a day was the clanging of the flag against the staff.

I also loved “The Rose Garden.” A cement bench and trellis sat amid the roses for which set it apart from all other gardens on the grounds. However, that year the weeds had grown tall around the roses and I had been determined to weed them as soon as a Saturday came for which it had not rained.

Finally, after three Saturdays of rain, the sun showed. I finished the work in my office and headed for the Rose Garden. As I walked across the newly showered grass I noticed the bees bumbling around in the clover. Since I was wearing sandals, I offered up a quick prayer: “Lord, please don't let me get stung by a bee, I really want to weed this garden.” Because it was a Saturday I was alone in the park.

I began on one side, working my way around the cement bench. At times it was easier to sit on the bench, the trellis just above my head, and do the weeding. From time to time, I gazed around the park but kept weeding. Finally, I had reached the last of the weeds behind the bench and under the garden trellis.

As I stood back to enjoy the fruits of my labor, I saw it! Just above my head was a huge live hornet's nest and the hornets were circling. Then I remembered my prayer. I can't tell you how relieved I was that those hornets had not attacked me.

The following Monday I related my story to the other park personnel as we stood around the office. I had marveled at how God answered my prayer and had not let me get stung. Then the park caretaker said, “That's why I didn't weed the garden.” I was awe-stricken!

Later when I told my son about how I had been there alone and....

He said, “Mom you can be glad that whole nest hadn't done you in!”

That night, staring at the fish tank....

Far too long was my leave of absence from posting something I've written here on my blog.  Actually, I had somehow lost a good write and, not able to find it in outer space, I became discouraged in my writing.  At the same time I had been bitten by writer's block.

Today I recalled a time in my life that I feel is worth sharing.  Perhaps it will be an inspiration for you.  

March 30th, l984 was a Friday.  My husband had just completed a final month of chemotherapy for leukemia.  Chronic Granulocytic Leukemia.  That round of treatment followed 20 long months of leukemia and the ups and downs with that dreadful disease. Several times he had been hospitalized, the cancer cells having entered his brain had at one point rendered him unsteady on his feet, among other various effects such as infection.

At the end of that long day, his Doctor informed us that he had done all he could do for him.  He was to go home for the weekend and return Monday, April 2nd.  

I remember that weekend he had not gone to bed when our sons and I had, preferring to sleep on the couch in the living room with only the light from the fish aquarium (which also provided a calming effect).  That last night at home, Sunday night, I sat with him for a long time.  I want to tell you that if there is ever a time when a person recalls the past it is when he or she is dying.

As we sat there looking at the fish tank and talking about our lives those 21 years of our marriage (and two sons) he wept.  He wept because he felt he hadn't spent enough time with his kids.  Not only did my husband spend enough time with the boys, but he was a farmer.  Farmers always spend time with their kids!  Our sons, having grown up on the farm spent many hours helping make hay, harrowing the fields, helping with the harvest season and everything else farmers do:  building sheds, fixing machinery, paint jobs, 4 PM coffee breaks in Gram's kitchen,  and much more.

Then I reminded him of cute things the kids did asking "Don't you remember when Gary got his horse (on wheels) for Christmas...how he ran it up and down the hall without sitting down...he walked it?"  And the time "Greg got his first bike at the S & H green stamp store.  It was red with handle bar streamers and he rode it on the patio...."   Remember the trip we took to Bar Harbor, Me, Whiteface Mountain, N.Y., our trip west in l979 when he'd finally had a full two weeks off work.  The time we spent at Atlantic City in the good days when it was a family city and beach.  And, "Don't you remember Gram and Pap, on those summer evening drives, teaching the boys how to eat an ice cream cone?"  

We talked about other memories, but I want to tell you, it was painful!!  We had known that the next day he would be admitted to the hospital to begin the only treatments remaining...those that would keep him comfortable as he faced the final stages of leukemia.  It was a long and painful month.  On April 29th, ten minutes before daylight saving time that year, he passed away and his spirit went to be with our Savior, Jesus Christ.  

I share this with you because I want you to know that in the finality of life, only two things matter:  what you have done with Jesus and what you have done with your wife and kids.  Though my husband had to be reminded of the many times he spent time with our boys, nothing could change the fact that he'd done so.

Do not live your life facing regret.  Spend time with the wife of your youth and with your children for whom God has entrusted into your care.

"Only one life, 'twill soon be past, only what's done for Christ will last."

The Stained Glass Window

In a million years I could not have known that the beautiful stained glass church window had been given by my own great-grandparents!

Construction of Interstate 80 in Valley Township, not far from the Derr family farm, began around 1963. Until then, the road traveled from the farm on Cameltown Hill Road, passed by the Hagenbugh farm, (which is the present Cloverleaf complex) then led directly to Route 54.  That old dirt road also passed by a lovely Victorian home. My husband and I traveled that road daily. Many times I admired this beautiful house with the wraparound porch and remarked to my husband, "I love that house."

Little could I have dreamed then, that the home and barn were part of the farm originally belonging to my great-grandparents, Levi and Melissa (Flick) Beyer.  (if you look closely you can see Levi standing in front of the house, while Melissa sits on the porch behind him) Aside from farming, Levi was a businessman having sold meat from his own horse drawn truck. Melissa was a rug weaver.

The church I had attended in those days, St. John's United Church of Christ not far from the home, featured a stained glass window next to the seat where I sat, just a few rows behind the organist, each Sunday. The inscription read: "Levi and Melissa Beyer."  In a million years I could not have known that the beautiful window had been given by my own great-grandparents.  I hadn't even known I was a Beyer back then!

Years ago the house and barn were razed making room for the Day's Inn. All that remains are the stumps of the pine trees that dotted the farm house frontage.

The stained glass window still remains in the church at Mausdale, Pa.

Life is but a Weaving.

During a routine check up in 1970 at our local hospital my doctor discovered a tumor on my thyroid.  I opted to have the recommended surgery right away.  When I returned to the hospital for follow-up, my doctor gave me the report: the tumor was malignant.  Driving home that day was a blur, but I decided that I wanted to "get myself ready for heaven."   I had no idea how I was going to do that, but I continued to attend the Methodist church adjoining the family farm.  My sons were two and five years old and it was important to me that they might also seek to know God.

In the 1970's my husband worked three Sundays a month hauling bulk milk for the family business.  I had taken our boys to Sunday school and church. At the time Greg, our older son, was three years old. I taught a class of kindergartners and read them a Bible story with visuals of Bible characters on flannelgraph every Sunday.   Yet I had not discovered the Jesus for which a spark had been lit in my spirit early in my life.   

Later we began to attend a different church, the United Church of Christ in Mausdale.  I had attended the adult Sunday school class.  Our sons attended each his own Sunday school class.  My teacher was Hilda Kashner.  One day during the lesson Hilda said, gesturing with her hand, that Jesus could live in one's heart.  It clicked! I knew in that moment that this was the key for which I had searched all my growing up years and to that time in my life.  

When I was about eight years old I asked, "Mom, how do you get to heaven?"   Mom said, "Well if you're good you will go to heaven." However, I was not satisfied with that instruction.  While I wasn't really bad, I knew that I wasn't always good. 

The Bible tells us:  "For all have sinned and fall short of God's expectations."  Romans 3:23

Until that day in Hilda's Sunday school class I had never heard that Jesus could live in my heart.  The Bible says that "To all who receive Him (Christ)...He gave the right to become children of God."  John 3:23.

My sons also invited Jesus into their hearts as I led them in prayer at the "tuckin' in time."  Now their bedtime prayers changed from "Now I lay me down to sleep..."  to more personal prayers. 

At last I had found the way and made a decision for which every human being ever born must face.  Jesus said, "I am the way, the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me."

Follow up after the surgery proved that the tumor was encapsulated and had not spread.  Thus, the removal ended the malignancy.  

I believe that God had allowed this traumatic time in my life, and even those past, to bring me to a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.  

It is said that our lives are like a tapestry.  If you look at the embroidered piece from the back side you will find nothing but tangles and knots.  But when you turn it over you find a beautiful tapestry.

The Tapestry

My life is but a weaving,
 between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors,
He worketh steadily.

Oft times he weaveth sorrow,
 and I, in foolish pride,
Forget he sees the upper
and I the underside.

Not ‘til the loom is silent
 and the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
 and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
in the Weaver's skillful hands,
as the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

Jesus wants to take the tangles and knots of your life, too, and turn them into a beautiful tapestry.

The Bible says that the wages of sin is death, eternal separation from God.  But God has a gift for us.  He tells us:  "The wages of sin is death, but the GIFT of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 6:23

My prayer that day in Hilda's Sunday school class went something like this:  "Thank you, Jesus, for letting me see the key that unlocked the door to my heart.  I know I've made many mistakes.  I know my sin stands between you and me.  But I ask you now to forgive my sins and I invite you to come into my heart.  Thank you for dying on the cross for me. Help me to live for you."

He is waiting at your heart's door, knocking and waiting for you to let Him in.  May today's date be the day of your salvation.    

It happened behind Shooter's Bar.

It happened behind Shooter's Bar. I was 22 months old at the time.  My sister, a newborn.  

Writing about this particular event in my life stirs memories of an event deeply rooted in darkness.  However remember, as you read, that there is a light hidden in that darkness, a light for which the darkness could not put out.  

My dad, for whom whose suicide I wrote in my previous post, had been my natural uncle.   I was not to have known of my adoption.  In those days, such things were kept secret, and I suppose intended as a shielding of events for which I was too young to handle. 

In the town where I grew up, however, a neighborhood lady was aware of those events that were well publicized (even in a Philadelphia newspaper) in 1943.   She told my friends and they could not keep that secret from me. I remember well that we were standing in a neighboring fruit orchard the day they told me that I'd been adopted.  I kept that information, like a sealed envelope, in my heart until I was in high school. Many years later I would read of the events leading to my adoption in The Morning News on microfilm at the local library.

There was an old family heirloom in the bedroom of our home on Snyder Lane, second ward, Danville, Pa.  It was 1943.  My parents lived with my paternal grandparents behind what is now Shooters Bar.   My natural father had tuberculosis and, as a result, was unemployed.  I have been told that he was deeply effected by his inability to enter the military, find employment, and having lost his childhood friend in the war.   Tuberculosis was incurable in those days.

My father with his dog about 1927



My older sister, Caroline, was born in 1940 and died of pneumonia that same year. 

I have no memories of living in that house but I was to learn my father was a talented artist, woodworker and violinist. One of his artistic abilities was cartooning.  I am told that, at some point, he had corresponded with Walt Disney.
  
     Below is a photo of a framed pen and ink 
     I received from relatives in 1970.  




Despite his potential as a gifted artist, my natural father was limited in achieving any possible financial success.  On January 7, 1943, my brother Kenny was about to turn four years old.  I was 22 months old, my sister had been ten days old. 

I had been out of the house on this particular night as my mother's brother and his wife, Grace, were keeping me during the birth.  Around midnight my father retrieved the family heirloom, a .32 caliber revolver, from a dresser drawer. He shot my mother as she sat tending the newborn in the upstairs bedroom of the quaint home.  He shot her a second time, then turned the gun on sleeping Kenny.   When the shots rang out, my grandparents ran from downstairs.  As they entered the room my father fired at his dad, but missed him.  He then turned the gun on himself, having received a gunshot wound to the shoulder. He was taken to Geisinger Hospital by ambulance, as was my mother and newborn sister.   My brother, Kenny, had been shot through the chest. Dr. Schneider was called to the scene where Kenny died in his arms.  My sister had been spared.  My mother died two weeks later.   However, before she passed, she had asked my (yet-future) adoptive mom:  "Grace, will you take the girls?"

              A photo of the house which has long been razed.

                                            My brother Kenny.

                                   Local newspaper clippings on microfilm.

                               

My sister and I were adopted by my mother's brother, thus my last name became my mother's maiden name.  I was now a Stetler.

            Mom and Dad with my sister and me about 1945.
                                     
                   

My father did not die, but was taken by ambulance to the Institution for the Criminally Insane in Waymart, Pa.  He lived out the remainder of his life there, having died in 1964. My sister and I knew nothing of his whereabouts, nor did we even know our last (birth) name.  

One summer day in 1970 my sister and I, for the first time, began to talk about our natural father.  It was then we decided to try to locate his side of the family.

We started at the court house.  The clerk had shown us all the papers and we learned of his whereabouts.   Then my sister remembered that our neighbor, Mrs. Stahl, knew our cousins' last name:  Yocum.  Thus we looked them up in the phone book and soon were on our way to Northumberland.  We first met Malcolm as he returned from an evening of fishing.   We did not know what to say to him when, finally, my sister blurted "We're Lee's girls."  His first words:  "Ohhhh...I always knew you would come back."   He led us into his house and introduced us to his wife, Lehna.  After much exchange of information Malcolm and Lehna went into the attic.  They came down with numbers of memorabilia that had belonged to my natural parents.   Even as I write, I'm amazed at just how deeply they had felt for us, having saved all those things.

When my sister and I were growing up along the D&H Avenue and railroad in Riverside, many times we waved to the "man in the caboose" and he waved back.  Malcolm said, "Do you remember waving to the man on the train when you were small?  I was that man."  We were flabbergasted.   Malcolm said that one time we were playing outside.  His train had stopped in front of our house.  He said, "I wanted, in the worse way, to come and talk to you girls, but I knew I could not."

            (it had been obvious that the family kept track of us)

Among the treasures we went home with one proved to be life-changing:  my father's Old Scofield Bible.  Anxiously,  I leafed through the pages and discovered many verses he'd underlined for which I believe provided some clues as to his mental thoughts.  But most revealing was, in his own handwriting, the words:  "I have accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior.  Have you?"  He had signed and dated, even with the hour, his declaration.  I had yet to discover this same Jesus for which a spark had been lit in my spirit early in my life and I had longed to know how to connect with God.   

I cannot explain the why's and wherefore's as to my father's act that dreadful night in January.  All I know is that his mind had obviously snapped.  What I do know, however, is that God has promised eternal life to those who receive Him as Savior.  Therefore, when we become his children, He never un-adopts us despite the sin nature with which all mankind is born.   He tells us in John 1:12:  "But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God...."

After high school I met and married my husband, Lawrence, when Otis Redding was "Sittin' at the dock of the Bay" wastin' time.

Two years later on February 6, 1963,  our first baby was born. We named her Valerie Susan.  She weighed 2 pounds, 1 ounce.  In those days the doctors could not do much for a seven month baby and our Valerie lived less than an hour.  I went home empty-handed and with a broken heart when the song, "Shake Me I Rattle, Squeeze me I Cry" was popular.  I was overwhelmed with grief.  Spring had not arrived yet, thus I was pretty much home bound.  But my mother-in-law did something that I'd never forgotten and for which was the perfect therapy for me at the time.  She brought me a big box of old Aurand family photos and I spent hours looking at my husband's maternal family members at all stages of their lives. 

Another spring had passed and the following December our first son was born.  It was 1964.  Motherly instincts apparently stirred a void in my heart and for the first time I felt a need to find my "real" father. My husband agreed. After we learned of his whereabouts we made the drive to Waymart.  By then we had two sons.  

It was a hot summer day when we pulled up in front of the institution.  The place was more like a prison or fortress sitting on a hill. While our sons and I had waited in the car, my husband went inside.  When he came out he told me that my father had died in 1964.  I was stunned. The clerk had even recalled the day he had arrived at the prison by ambulance. Lawrence then handed me a piece of yellow-lined paper. Scribbled on it was simply:  "Harvey L. Beyer."  That's all. The clerk said it was Harvey who claimed my father's body. I said to my husband, "For all we know this man might live in California." It had seemed to me that we could never find him and I wondered if the pieces of the puzzle of my life would ever come together.  I was yet to discover that he was my father's uncle, then living in Bryn Mawr, Pa.  We had learned that  Harvey L. Beyer was retired as President of Edgcomb Steel in Philadelphia, later succeeded by his son.   

Later we drove to Bryn Mawr and, after being greeted by a maid, we met Harvey and Nanette, his wife.  I am told Nan was a relative of the Hershey chocolate family, however, I cannot verify that information.   Whatever be the case, we learned that day that Harvey, not wanting my father to be buried in "pauper's field," claimed his body and provided for his burial at Oddfellows Cemetery in Danville.  

Over the years we received further information on my natural family.  I have in my possession a letter that had been sent to Harvey L Beyer in 1964.   It is a very sad tale of Jay Adam's visit, after having  just returned from the war, to see his cousin, Lee, in Waymart.  One part of the account deeply stabs my heart:  "When it came time to leave, we walked together with the orderly into the corridor leading to the elevators--I turned to walk with the guard--after shaking Lee's hand--as I was waiting for the guard to unlock the gate--I turned and looked back and Lee was standing watching me and the tears were streaming down his face--I will never forget it...."    Jay had already determined that he would never go back.  He had written that he felt he had opened wounds from an outside world that my father was trying desperately to forget.

Though we didn't know she was our grandmother, I still remember Mom and Dad taking my sister and me, as pre-schoolers, to visit "the old lady in the alley" who lived in the little house dwarfed by the big maple tree and her lush flower garden where hollyhocks danced along the rustic fence.  I remember Grandmother plucking a lovely pink bleeding heart and instructing:  "Here's a pair of earrings, here's a pair of sandals, and, look we have a pair of bunnies."

My sister and I could not have known, as we skipped along her slate sidewalk, those terrible events that had taken place in 1943 behind Shooter's Bar.

                    
Visit my website to view more photos and a bit more about how my life turned out:  http://bleedingheart.homestead.com

Note:   If you are reading this and you have information about The Institution for the Criminally Insane in Waymart around this time period or any information about my father, please contact me.  Any information helps resolve the many questions of those left behind in such circumstances.

God had sent us a rat!

Years ago I had a speaking engagement at a restaurant near Albany, NY.  I had noticed the young waiter had been listening as I spoke.  Later, he approached me and asked,  "How is it you can stand here and tell your story?"  He was very gracious and genuinely sincere.

How could I tell my story?  Recently I had read the prologue of Marie Monville's book One Light Still Shines. Mrs. Monville is the former wife of the gentleman who carried out the Nickel Mines Amish school shootings in Pennsylvania in 2006.  In her book she writes. "...for the first time I understood that the hunger of those interested in hearing my story was not really about me...it was the experience of loss or pain or mystery in the lives of my listeners. Their lives were also filled with sudden storms and dark places.  What they were searching for within my story was the secret to navigating through their own darkness."  

I cannot put into words as well as Mrs. Monville for the reason I share my story, and those future, of how I navigated through the darkness in my own life.  

One such darkness was Christmas in 1958 - one I shall never forget.

It was around December 12th when my adoptive dad began to act strange. How do I remember the date?  It was his birthday.  Dad's personality was much like mine (or the other way around).  He had a sense of humor and loved to have fun.  Dad had been employed at the Art and Bronze in Danville in the early years of my life. He'd bring home those little heavy metal pigs from which he had formed of molten lead, whatever the element.  You've seen the kind:  piggy banks assembled from two matching sides.

When Dad wasn't working he loved to hunt and fish.  He also enjoyed the art of wrapping fishing rods with various brightly colored thread.  He had some sort of gadget for which he turned the rod as he held the thread.  I remember watching him do this in the living room of our home on Avenue E.  Later, with the advent of black and white television, Dad loved to watch what I called "the Friday night fights."  From the edge of his chair, I can still hear him shouting at Jersey Joe Walcott or Rocky Marciano: "Give 'em an uppercut!"  

At Christmas time, he loved to gather princess and trailing pine on Bald Top Mountain.  The farm up there had been our first home and later belonged to my uncle Raym and his family.  Dad assembled Christmas wreaths with the greenery and sold them to friends and family. (here I am with Dad on Bald Top, 1943)

Christmas, when I was a pre-schooler, meant that Santa would arrive by airplane at the Riverside Airport.  My sister, as I recall, had gotten over the whooping cough in time for Dad and Mom to take us to the airport to see Santa.  We came home with a big orange and an oversized coloring book, Twas The Night Before Christmas by Clement Moore, and a box of crayons.

I have many happy memories of those Christmas's when I was small.  However, this particular Christmas in 1958 was not so fun. I could not understand my dad's peculiar behavior.                

It all began when, for weeks following that early December in 1958, Dad and Mom would be in the cellar of our home talking for long periods of time.  I never knew what the discussion was about, but I knew it had some driving force that caused my dad's irrational behavior.

After some weeks, Dad no longer spent those hours in the cellar, but his mental state worsened.  Red-faced, he would rant in nonsensical outbursts then,  just as quickly, return to some state of normalcy.  Sometimes he verbalized extreme foul language for which, aside from cursing, I'd never heard come from his lips.

As a 17 year old I didn't understand his craziness but I can tell you that our place was a hell-hole.  Weeks stretched into months.  One day Dad brought a bottle of acid home from work.  He threatened to throw it in my mom's face.  This went on for a time and we didn't sleep at night.  People who lose their minds do not sleep and night times become nightmares. Dad would walk around the house in the dark.  Fear was a constant companion and Mom began to sleep with my sister.  Needless-to-say, my grades failed my senior year of high school.

For weeks Dad threatened to hang himself and, after a time, he had ropes in the cellar for which he threatened to hang all of us.  Those scenes run very vividly in my mind to this day.

One day when I walked into the house after school Mom met me at the door.  She yelled, "Your Daddy almost strangled me today.  He had me down on the couch.  I was able to break free and ran to Mrs. Stahl's."  (our neighbor).   Most striking as I listened to Mom was the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, she was never in Mrs. Stahl's upstairs.  Dad had the cunning ability to turn off his red-faced ill-crazed behavior whenever someone outside of our family entered the picture.  Thus, the episode ended at that point.  I was devastated as Mom told me what had happened.

Family members were aware of our situation, but they had no idea how insane things really were at our house. They just said, "Call if you need us."  Thus, one time during a rampage I ran to Mrs. Stahl's to call an aunt and uncle. They came to the house, but Dad had turned things off and, thus, they left without incident.  

In those days, these were "things people didn't talk about" so my friends knew little of our situation.  One of them questioned why my dad couldn't pick us up after work and I said simply, "He's sick."  

Somehow I had sensed that the answer to Dad's problem had something to do with God.  But I didn't know much about Jesus, nor how to give Him to my family.

One day I picked up our mail.  It was customary for us kids to read the mail as there was never anything personal about any of it.  As I walked home from the post office, I read a letter that was addressed to Dad.  I didn't know the writer, but he was talking about Jesus and I concluded that this might help my dad.  When I got home I was eager to give it to him and said something like "Here Dad, you should read this."   But Dad scoffed and turned it away.   I was deeply disappointed.

We tried to think of various things that might get help for our family, but none of them were feasible.  I said to Mom, "Why don't we call our local policeman?"  But Mom said, "No, he'd kill him."  And I knew she was right.  

One day, while working at my part time job at our local hospital, I saw the brain surgeon in line to get his lunch.  I had been in the dining room and saw him.  I wanted, in the worse way, to speak with Dr. Hood but at age 17 speaking with a Doctor about one's personal life wasn't something you did.  I let the chance go by.

My aunt Mary and uncle David were very close to our home and our lives.  One day Aunt Mary visited as she had nearly daily.  It always seemed that Dad could hold out only a short time before the pressure burst.  My Aunt left, but watched through a window.  She witnessed, from our porch, my Dad's dam of emotions erupt. Though she never doubted our claims about Dad's behavior, she now saw it for real.  Uncle David succeeded in getting Dad to Doctor Curry's office, but as soon as the Doctor began to examine him, Dad jumped from the table and ran outside. 

There were no answers.

Sunday night, April 5th, 1959 I returned from the roller skating rink.  As soon as I got in the door, I knew things were bad.  In fear, I remember standing on the heat register.  I was seeking warmth and security when I suddenly remembered "It's April.  The heat isn't on."

The following morning was a bright and beautiful sunny day.  My sister and I were in bed and it wasn't yet time for us to get ready for school.  But I shall never forget my mom's squalls as she climbed the steps from the cellar.  "He hung himself in the cellar, he hung himself in the cellar."  I was on my feet before I was awake.  I will never forget that moment.  

We all screamed as we phoned Aunt Mary and Uncle Dave.  I can tell you that amid the screaming a relief swept over me that felt like the most gigantic black cloud one could ever know.   The first thing my aunt asked, "Was it just him?"   I said, "Yes," and sensed her enormous relief.  They were at our door in what seemed like a mere five minutes.

That day I opened The Morning News to read the obituaries.  Dad's read:  "Joseph F. Stetler, 41, Riverside, Pa."  

We were late getting to the funeral home that night of the viewing.  I remember Mom let us wear our short furry white coats she had gotten us for Easter.  She worried that they were white and, in those days, it was common to wear black.  But I loved my white coat so no matter.  

As we pulled into a parking space I saw a group of my high school classmates just leaving the funeral home.  I was relieved that I didn't have to face them under the circumstances.  They couldn't know what our lives had been like those final days of my high school years. Suicide brings such shame.  Since no one knows the circumstances, too often, they come up with their own conclusions.  It happened in our lives, but we never let it get to us because we knew the story from the beginning to the end and there was never anything for which it was necessary to feel any guilt.  

We left home for six months and lived with my uncle David and aunt Mary for a time.  It was very hard to know that Mom would eventually have to face the cellar again, and so would my sister and I.  In the fall of that year we were living in an apartment adjacent to a bar which had an unkempt garbage area.  The rooms on the second floor above my aunt and uncle became available and we rented that part of the upstairs.  It seems that a rat had found its way through a hole underneath a kitchen curtain.  We had discovered that it was eating potato chips left in a bowl on the kitchen table.  In the night we could hear it thudding around and, even though it was only a rodent, we didn't need a rat at that time in our lives. We had left the bedroom to sleep in the living room which had a door.   

Then Mom said, "Should we go back home?"  We said, "Yes!"   Mrs. Stahl was there to greet us with "Oh Grace, I'm so glad you've come back home."  It was one of the happiest days of my life.

And I know now that God had sent us a rat!