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!   

The day Mom, my sister and I flew into the air!

Mill Street, in the l950's, was the place to be! Downtown Danville had a Woolworth, a Rea and Derrick, and a J.J. Newbury store.  Located right next to W.T. Grant (presently Beiter's) was the former police station.  The building has now been razed, but I can tell you that, back in the fifties, being in front of the police station at noon was not the place to be on any day.  It was called "the noon whistle," announcing daily that it was 12 'o clock noon.  Its sound blasted throughout Danville.   My mom, sister and I couldn't have been more squarely positioned in front of the police station that day and when it went off we flew into the air!  Coming to our senses we broke into laughter, then checked to see if anyone had witnessed our perfectly timed scenario. 

That day was not a Wednesday afternoon.  Back in the day, all stores closed on Wednesday's at noon. We had always known the reason for closing was to enable folks to attend church, though I cannot recall ever going to church on a Wednesday afternoon.  

One of my favorite stores, the old five and dime, had unbelievable candy counters!   Purchasing a bag of mixed candy and getting it weighed on the candy scale was always worth the trip down town. I especially loved M and M's.  But the department I most enjoyed was in the back of the store where they sold colored milk filters.  They came in blue, pink, yellow and lavender.  My sister and I loved making milk filter disc dolls and embellishing them with beads, paper flowers and embroidery.  In particular, I loved to fashion my doll with embroidered rambler roses.  We, then, spread our colorful beauties over our bed pillows.

But, more than any other time, I loved going to town at Christmas time.  Garlands were strung from the street's lights, criss-crossing at intervals.  A colorful plastic Santa and sleigh was perched in the snow on the roof at the First National Bank. Especially exciting, was knowing just where the real Santa sat on his throne.  It was the Western Auto store where Mom and Dad had taken us to await our turn in line to sit on his lap.  It seems that when you're a kid things look so much bigger and, to me, that store was huge.  Located at 275 Mill Street, we couldn't wait to give Santa our list. Little did we know that the dolls we had asked for really came from W.T. Grant.  

Every Friday night was big at Christmas time on Mill Street.  It was the night they had the drawing.  Monetary prizes were given to the ticket holders whose numbers were drawn.  Tickets were given according to the dollar amount purchased at each participating store.  Tickets accumulated and then came the really big drawing, that of a brand new Chevrolet!  All the town folk stood, shivering, as close to the Masonic Temple as they could get. That is where the brand new Chevy was parked near the ticket barrel.   I remember we were standing in front of the Smart Shop that cold night.   

That year the car was a l958 model.  The town leader cranked the barrel and pulled out a number. We waited with bated breath.  Then the name was announced:  "Mary Mutzabauch!"  Mary had been sort of a fixture on Mill Street and was well known.  Her blonde hair flew in the air as she ran to claim her prize.  I never forgot that win as I don't believe Mary ever had a driver's license.  But now she was the proud owner of a brand new Chevrolet. It was, indeed, an exciting night on Mill Street.

I loved when we went to town in the summertime and especially enjoyed seeing friends and relatives we knew.  I remember Uncle Art and his wife. Mom's Aunt Bess was always walking way ahead of Uncle Art and I always found that amusing.  Back in the day, as well, it was common to see the local nuns walking in twos on Mill Street.  And there were all the restaurants for which, as a youngster, I had yet to become acquainted.

The years had passed and I think Aunt Bess finally slowed down to Uncle Art's pace, the 1958 Chevy may have been traded for a Camaro, and the old police station became the Dairy Store.

I still laugh whenever I am reminded of that moment in time in downtown Danville when the noon whistle went off and Mom, my sister and I flew into the air!