Beverly, the "Boss" of us "Little Kids"

   Well, the first time I met Beverly Kay Ludwig, she pulled my hair! So, then I pulled hers right back! As her Mom (my Grandma) would say "Well, the VERY
idea!" Now, since Beverly nor I was willing to let go, we both started yelling and hollering so badly that we had to be separated and picked up out of the crib. 

She was named after  George Beverly Shea, 

the prestigious singer for the Billy Graham crusades. I was named after one of my mom's favorite childhood dolls, Peggy. 

   My Mom was Beverly's big sister, and even tho' I was born a full 20 days before Beverly, she, being "the aunt," ranked higher in authority, so she acted like she was the boss of me and my little brother, Danny, who came along a year later. But, actually, Danny and I didn't mind, cuz she was actually our ring-leader and came up with some pretty fun  mischief to get into while Grandma was busy cleaning and taking care of a house full of five boys and us, the "little kids." 

   One morning when we were about four years old, Beverly taught us how to jump on the beds upstairs and shout, "We used to do the Huckle-Buckle! We used to do the Huckle-Buckle! We used to do the Huckle-Buckle!" Danny fell off the bed we were all jumping on, so got up on the bed next to it and continued jumping, laughing and shouting, "We used to do the Huckle-Buckle..."   Grandma hollered up the stair well, "Beverlay, stop jumping on those freshly made beds!!" (When Grandma got upset, her words kinda sounded different sometimes, like "Beverlay" instead of Beverly...and if she really, REALLY got upset, we might hear her accidentally let a cuss fly out, "shat!" (Oops, maybe I shouldn't have gone that far with it...sorry.) So, anyway, she'd yell, "Beverlay, stop jumping on those freshly made beds!"

   Beverly was also smart and brave! One day she talked her mom,,,my Grandma (who was busy doing the usual ton of laundry) into making us little kids each a half a peanut butter sandwich. So, choffing our sandwiches, Beverly marched Danny and me across the narrow, no-traffic-country-red-dirt road there on the hill, to show us one of her brothers' secret hide-outs. Uncle Spike, and his older brothers, Uncle Duane, and Uncle Francis had pointed their finger at us and told us to NEVER-EVER go over there by those tall poplar trees, or else we might DIE! But Beverly bravely paraded us through a path in the tall grass that towered over our heads 'til ahead lay a small stand of trees. She abruptly stopped and whispered for Danny to run on ahead of us to make sure everything was safe, him being the little 3 year old 'man'. He disappeared into the thicket for one brief minute, then we heard screaming, as he came running back THROUGH us, his hair standing on end, bulging eyes, mouth agape, shrieking at the top of his lungs, headed back to Grandma. I turned to follow him, but Beverly, laughing, grabbed my arm, and said, "No, it's okay, I'll show you." I was scared, but I let her drag me along until we got to a clearing under the trees. I didn't see anything until I spotted a terrifyingly HUGE bleached out cow's head skeleton hanging over the "doorway" staring right down at us! I screamed and took off after Danny, but  I could hear Beverly back there laughing her head off.

  Danny and I loved staying at Grandma and Grandpa Ludwig's house, on a farm there in Open Brook in Port Allegany, Pennsylvania.  

   We little kids were warned over and over again to NEVER go into the big deserted cow barn, as we could get hurt. But, Beverly showed us where we could peek through slats in the old weathered boards, "We're just gonna look," she assured us. While Danny and I were "just looking," she went around and slid open a door just a crack, big enough for all of us to sneak in through. The place was cool and eerily dark and cavernous with small beams of sunlight filtering though the shafts of the old wooden walls. Old maroon-colored velvet furniture sat welcomingly scattered around the room on the straw-littered floor.           Danny climbed up onto some sort of wooden apparatus that had block pedals which operated like those on a bicycle, except his legs were too short, him being only three years old and all. 

  Beverly was having fun leaping from couch to chair, chair to couch, back and forth. I investigated the "bicycle" while Danny climbed up into a big cushy, over-stuffed chair and began wildly jumping up and down squealing, "We used to do the Huckle-Buckle, we used to do the Huckle-Buckle!" Then Beverly started shouting, "Bees! BEES! RUN!!" (What?) She was out the door and GONE before we were AND down the path to the house she ran with Danny, now on her heels, both wailing the whole way! I don't remember running or getting stung, but I remember seeing the cloud of bees following them down the hill. (Apparently, Danny's chair had a bees nest in it.)   

   One evening, as Grandpa sat at his desk, trying to read the newspaper after a hard day's work. Beverly got the idea to sneak down the stair well, poke her head out and say, "BOO!" at him. He feigned horror, which made us little kids, laugh, so, of course we all had to do the same thing...his "horror" waning with each "BOO!". Then Beverly found upstairs an old rubber Halloween mask of  devil's hideous face, horns and all, so away down the stairs we all thundered to watch while she "Boo'd" him with that! He did have a more startled reaction, so that fired us up to find more and more things to put on our heads as some kind of mask, then down the stairs, we'd go. Grandpa got less and less entertained by the whole show now, and then, finally, it all came to a screeching halt when Danny came down the stairs with a pair of girl's pink silky underpants on his head. Grandpa just muttered, getting up and heading to the kitchen, "Well, that must smell pretty."

   And so, we grew up more like siblings, she being more like a sister than an aunt. I found myself staying at Grandma's house in Colemans Mills, Port Allegany, where she had recently moved, during the school summer vacations, while Danny stayed with our Dad.

     Beverly shocked me when we about 8 years old, while Grandma was at work at a local factory, by frying us eggs for breakfast. I didn't know kids could cook! To this day, I never make a really good fried egg without thinking of her and how surprised I was that she knew how to cook. I was really impressed! (I did manage to make the toast.)

   I remember long summer walks with "Bev" then, along the sunny/shady old railroad tracks, that no longer had any rails, up to the gas station restaurant for a bag of Wise potato chips and a bottle of coke. On the way, we'd be keeping an eye out in the bushes for a scary guy named Mike Goochy, who might jump out and get us...I guess he lived around there somewhere, but I never did see him. Heard about him on every walk we took, tho'. The name still scares me, kinda. "Mike Goooochy." 

  Then, there was one of Uncle Spike's best pals, Buddy Doan, (or was that Jimmy Doan?) who was a dreamboat. Oh, didn't Beverly have a crush on that guy when we about 12 years old. He and Uncle Spike must have been about 17 or 18.) She would say, "Ooh, I would hug him and kiss him...I would Marry him! Oh yes I would!" Walking along the rail path, she'd tell me the latest gossip about what he and Uncle Spike had been up to. We decided to walk to the river (a shallow stream) and play in the water, skipping rocks and finding small clams and, YIKES crawfish with real pinchers. And we'd squeal and shriek and fall down in the cool water, cuz the stones were mossy and slippery. "I wish Buddy Doan was here! I would really hug him and kiss him and have him help me walk on these stones...Oops!" Splash! followed by another shriek!  

    A loud annoyed male voice boomed! "What are you girls doing?! Are you okay??" (Buddy Doan!) 

   I was saying nothing...I was letting Beverly boldly say everything that was  in her heart. 

   She said",..Uhm...Uhhh...Uhhh...mumble,mumble,mumble." 

     Buddy growled, "Okay, then shuddup and stop that screaming...I came all the way over here thinking something bad was going on." and he stomped off.

    "...Shuddup...?"  Oh well, she didn't need him, anyways. Plenty more "dream boats" out there, like the one walking along the street in Buffalo, NY. Grandma and my Mom had taken us on a road trip and we were all having fun and acting silly; windows open, fresh air blowing in. Beverly hollered out the back window at this handsome young fellow, "I LOVE you!" We all giggled. A block later, Grandma had to stop at a redlight. Suddenly the guy's head came into the window about 2 inches from Beverly's face and he sweetly asked, "Did you say something to me?" Beverly's face got beet red.

   She said, "Uhm...Uhh...Uhhh mumble, mumble, mumble" She slunk down off the back seat onto the floor and tried to hide. Grandma floored the engine and we left the guy standing there in the street scratching his head. We all laughed about that for years...Beverly, the loudest. 

   Around that time, Uncle Spike (his real name was Gary Clare Ludwig) had joined the Navy, so we, instead of crowding into Grandma's bed with her as we had when we were littler kids, Beverly and I slept in Uncle Spike's bed. (And...being 12 year olds, YES...we still jumped on his bed, "We used to do the Huckle-Buckle, We used to do the Huckle-Buckle!". Grandma was at work, so she couldn't tell us to stop, but a really bad lightening storm blew in and terrified us, so we stopped! Beverly remembered that electricity was repelled by rubber...told ya she was smart. So, she made us each put on one of Uncle Spike's pea green rubber hunting boots, jump in the bed and hide under the quilts, til the storm passed. So, there we were hunkered down, each with one bare foot, and each with the other foot stuck down into one big old floppy sickly green, hot and sticky, kinda stinky rubber boot while lightening flashed all around trying to get us! It worked tho'! She was right! We didn't get electrocuted.

  Another day we were in his room playing records or something when we heard Grandma's car pull into the driveway as, she had just come home from work. Then we could hear her yelling from the back steps, "Beverlay!! BEVERLAY!!

    Beverly said nonchalantly, "Oh, she probably fell down and broke her leg." But, that was exactly what happened! She had fallen on the step and broken her leg so badly,that she couldn't ever go back to work. Grandpa had died, so she only had his pension to live on. It was agreed upon by all, that the best course of action was for her and Beverly to move to Olean, live with us and pool their resources, as my dad was having a rough time trying to keep Danny and me out of trouble, as my Mom, trying to work and raise Lori, our "half sister" and Dad working, we essentially had no parental control, so were pretty much running wild. Well, Grandma, having successfully raised seven kids, set Danny and me...and Beverly to rights, right away. She taught us manners and many other things. She inspected our clothing before we left the house and always gave us a kiss and hug before we left to go anywhere and expected a kiss and hug when we got home.      Beverly still managed for us to have fun, no matter what.  Any time there was a family party with music and dancing, Beverly grabbed my arm and we were off! ...Especially if they played a polka. OH BOY!! We knew how it was supposed to go...two rushed steps forward and two rushed steps back! We'd start those two steps forward, but every time, somebody'd get in our way,  so we'd rush the two steps back, stepping on somebody's shoe, or scraping our shoe down their ankle. We'd turn left and rush forward again...right into somebody, followed again, by nearly crippling whoever was behind us. But we loved it! Then, too, pretty soon, we had the whole half of the dancefloor to ourselves, while the crowd of other dancers stayed across the room on their side of the dance floor, kinda dancing and kinda looking over at us.

   Ahh, yes, the good old high school days. Even though we had to walk to high school every day in skirts...girls were not allowed to wear pants, EVER, going to school or walking home. Winter days the bank thermometer/clock would read 10 degrees below zero. Our legs were so cold and red that Beverly called them "Lobster Legs" and they looked like it, too. 

   Then, in study hall, when we were supposed to be studying, she'd be sitting there drawing pictures of me with people skiing down my "ski-jump nose". She got us in trouble one time giggling and making us both laugh, so we had to stay after school for detention. Know what she did? Drew more pictures of animals, or cars or trucks careening down my ski-jump nose. She was a hoot! But the hoot didn't fall far from the tree. Smiling here. 

   So, now, my Dear, sweet, smart, funny "sister/aunt", I miss you terribly. You went sailing off into God's Heaven with no plans for coming back cuz you see how much Fun it is there.

   Dear Family, Friends and Loved Ones, she'll be waiting for you There, and until she can hug you again, she'll be cheering you on from Afar. She's a new KID There in Heaven with Family, like little Danny, who left two years ago already. 

     I can almost hear Grandma, "Beverlay! Stop jumping on those freshly made clouds!

Well, You're Not Gonna Believe This. (But You Can)

   Well, all of my life I've been accused of being "so nicey-nice"...and it was said in a not-so-nicey-nice way, either.

    I guess that title went out the window one day when my Mom and I were rushing around the kitchen like mad women, trying to get a special dinner ready for company that was expected momentarily (from church, no less). As usual, my five kids, two of them mouthy teenagers, ("NOOOObody tells ME what to do; I'm an individual!!! If I don't want to help set the table, I'm not going to...so THERE!") were making things even more crazy, like shoving the squalling dog down the laundry shoot,  not ducking when their brother threw a boot at them and it went through the kitchen window, having to comfort little Joe, who came screaming into the kitchen, "Thom stepped on my ear!!! BAW!!!"

   The next thing I knew, Mom, standing beside me said, "Peggy Ellen Ganoung! I never thought I'd hear you say that word, even if you had a mouth full of it!" 

   She wasn't more shocked than I was. 

   I think as I get older my patience has worn thin and seems to have gotten thinner with age, but I'm not praying for more! I have learned that one. The Bible says, "Tribulation worketh patience", meaning a ton of trouble can so overwhelm you, I guess, that after a while,  you just don't have the wherewithal to fight anymore, so I guess all's you are left with is 'patience'. So, if you ask for patience, you will get what causes patience...tribulation aka TROUBLE. We already all have enough of that.

   All that being said, lately, I find myself being impatient over the least little thing, not so 'nicey-nice'. Cappy, poor guy, has borne the brunt of it...despite being the cause of it (in some cases). In our tiny house it's hard to move around without bumping into the other person. Racing up the hallway with a tall load of laundry and turn the corner, I'll run smack into him, while he's standing there quietly praying. He's done nothing wrong, but I get all irritated. Then, being a burn survivor, I want no-one in the kitchen while I'm cooking, but all of a sudden a hand will reach around in front of me to get a glass of water and I involuntarily "spazz out" flinching and shrieking. I'm not proud of this at all. I don't like being jumpy and/or then taking it out on Cappy. No wonder he's been praying for me so much lately. 

   Last week, I was busily rushing around with Christmas. Cappy had been ill the week before, so going to the doctor, he learned that he had a slight case of pneumonia (again). Even when he's not ill, I dote on him hand and foot, because it's what I like and need to do. 

   He insisted that I go to church the next day, while he stayed home, trying to get better. That was the plan, but this particular night, the night before church, I wanted no interruptions to hinder the huge list of holiday things that I wanted to somehow joyfully accomplish. I didn't even want to stop for one of the many hugs that Cappy insists on during the day right in the middle of everything. (He is so sweet, tho'!)       While I was hurrying, I found a pair of sandals on top of the dryer that I needed to take to the bedroom and put away, before I scrambled onto my next needed task. I grabbed them and was on my way when I spotted Cappy patiently standing there in the kitchen smiling at me and wanting another hug..."Noooo!" I hollered and angrily stomped into the bedroom and plastered my bare foot onto the big thick, solid wooden foot of the bed leg.

   I heard the bone break, I felt the bone break and seperate, the sandals went flying. I fell onto the bed. This was not like the other times I had bashed my foot into this bed leg. This was sickening. This was bad. My howling brought Cappy right in, of course. He had to help me get anywhere that night. Saturday night...Christmas Eve, Eve. I did not want to go to the ER that night..."the road is already dangerous and tonight there are probably a lot of drunk drivers out celebrating, I'll wait until morning (Christmas Eve morning) and go then."

  I had a terrible time sleeping with my foot hurting so badly. Morning was worse with my foot swollen and black and blue. Cappy helped me into my chair in the den while we figured out our next course of action to get me to the ER, with him sick with pneumonia. We knew that our neighbors were mostly all out of town. Hmm. What to do. We called our pastor to ask for prayer and to explain that we wouldn't be there that morning and that we were on our way to the Emergency Room. 

   I had to ask Cappy to bring me this, bring me that, do this and do that. I hated asking him to do all that and him not well. I'd hate asking him to do all that even if he were well. How were we going to manage all this for the next who knows when? I have never done well with crutches, either. Lord please Help us!

   Cappy brought me a walking stick so that with it, he could help me get to the bathroom to clean up, etc. before we left. The pain was so bad that it made me sick to my stomach. He left me sitting on the potty and brought some clothes, then went out into the den to wait for me.

     While I was sitting there I dreaded the thought of the doctors manipulating my foot and the excruciating pain that would probably cause. I wished that I could just sit there on the toilet and go to sleep and wake up and everything would be fine again.

   "Lord," I prayed, "I know that you are not a liar; what You say is True. Your WORD says that 'signs and wonders follow those who believe', well, we are Your kids and we believe!" I told my foot, "Be healed in the Name of Jesus, by The Power of the Holy Spirit!"

  I could hear Cappy out in the den, "Google, muh sugar..."

    I wondered what in the heck was he googling sugar for? 

   Alright now, how was I ever going to get into the bathtub with my foot in such pain? Sighhh...was I going to have to ask Cappy to help me in there? Then I was sure he'd look at me. (Women of a 'certain age' do not want anyone looking at their unclothed body; not even their husbands.) 

   "Google...what is 'muh sugar...' something or other," I kept hearing from out in the other room.

  It was going to be bad enough to have to get up and stand there by the sink to brush my teeth.

   "Google, muh-sugarrrr..." 

    What in the world was he doing out there when I needed him in here to help me?

    I felt it was time. I 'felt' "it'll get easier with each step". 

    Really...?

   I struggled to get up with the stick and made it to the sink.

   Huh? What? No pain? None? Nothing!?? I stood there and felt like 'somebody' said, "Go ahead and stomp with it."  

    Seriously? I lifted my foot and (still no pain at ALL) lightly "stomped" it...shocked...it felt normal. Wait...how was that possible?

    Welllll....I marched right out into the den like a majorette, sans a baton, and paraded back and forth from the den to the kitchen several times while Cappy sat there speechless staring. 

   He said, "I need to tell you something...I was in here intensely praying so hard for you, then I knew you were in such pain that I asked, 'Lord, is it that you don't want to heal Peg's foot? And right away I heard the word, 'muh-shoo-gah-lah'. Plainly...very plainly. I never heard that word before, so I googled it several times and it means, 'ridiculous, foolishness'...the answer to my question. Like The Lord was saying 'That's ridiculous that I wouldn't want to heal her foot.'"

   I looked it up, but spelled it wrong. Mahshuga is Hebrew/Yiddish for things like, "Are you crazy?" That's a good one, Father!! 

  So, that's the truth. He still does perform miracles. He is our Loving Father. 

   As far as me, his daughter, and His teaching me (we are never too old to learn) that night, there was a slight twinge in the area of my foot (that I know was broken, but was now completely healed) as a "reminder to hold your temper". 

   With Your Help Holy Spirit, I will try to stay your "nicey-nice" daughter.  Amen  

MERRY CHRISTMAS 2023 AND A BLEST AND HAPPIER NEW YEAR. OUR CARD FOR YOU!

 

Getting Claw'd

     Cappy's cat, Claw'd escaped and found himself on an adventure. Usually when he gets out, he meanders back into the house within a few minutes. He'd been gone about four hours and we had begun to worry. Our neighbor let us know that a black cat was treed in his fenced-in yard with his two excited German shepherds who were running back and forth, urging him to come on back down. Was it our cat? 

   The lady who lives next door owns two house cats who never get loose said that there was another black cat identical to Claw'd who she'd been feeding, thinking that it was Claw'd having gotten out, because it let her pet him. But wasn't Claw'd. We had to check the times he'd gotten out to make sure it wasn't our boy. Plus, a few weeks before this the neighbor with the dogs had come to see if Claw'd had been out the night a pure black cat had been taunting his dogs. Nope, Claw'd had been inside for days and not that particular night, so we know there is a duplicate of Claw'd prowling around the neighborhood.

   When our neighbor with the dogs said there was a black cat trapped in the tree in his yard, Cappy and I followed him back over to his house, where we heard the most pitiful, terrified mewing going on way up in the branches of one tall tree. 

  The man brought out two different types of ladders in an effort for Cappy to climb and try to coax the cat down.

   Claw'd always wears a reflective breakaway color with a bell on it.

    I called up to Cappy, "Is that cat wearing a collar?" Cappy couldn't tell because of all the branches. "Do you think he recognizes you? ...think that's him?" He couldn't tell that either. So, for now it was "Schrodinger's cat"...we just didn't know.

   When finally, after almost an hour, the cat gingerly lowered itself for Cappy to get within reach of the poor thing...whether it was our cat or not, it wanted down! Would Cappy be able to hold onto it, or would it frantically struggle to get free and fall into the waiting jaws of the two happily anticipating German shepherds?

    Scary moments!

    I hollared up, "Is it Claw'd?" 

     The dogs' owner yelled, "Yeah, don't let it claw you! Don't let it claw you!"

    I yelled up again, "You think it's Claw'd?"

    "Yeah, don't let it claw you, don't let it claw you," loudly warned the guy again. "You don't wanna get clawed!"

     "Oh, yes I do wanna get Claw'd" Cappy squawked, standing on his toes on one of the upper steps of the ladder, the feet of which were not firmly planted. 

     Profusely sweating and holding onto the ladder with one hand and finally able to grab the snarling yowling cat with the other, he rasped, "I still don't know if it's Claw'd or not, but it's not wearing a collar." 

    The cat wrapped his back legs and his front legs tightly around Cappy's forearm, while the neighbor and I kept yelling about not getting Claw'd or clawed. The cat had no collar and until Cappy put him into my arms, we still weren't sure, but it was obviously relieved to be there. As frantic as the cat had been, wrapped around Cappy's arm, Cappy did not get even one scratch. So, he did get Claw'd, but he didn't get clawed.  (sorry, I hadda do it)

   Well, we got him home, where BeauxBear confirmed, yep, that was his cat, whom he dearly loves and had missed him.

   Now we need to be extra diligent on door patrol. None of us enjoyed that adventure!

  Driving home from Baton Rouge yesterday, I spied a few horses grazing in a field and mentioned to Cappy that poor Claw'd will be hard pressed for any kind of excitement from now on, cloistered in the house. I remembered our other Bichon Frises, SparkyBear and MarkyBear used to love seeing cows and horses because we'd slow down, or park next to the fences and let them all peacefully and quietly, nose-to-nose get acquainted, which both the dogs and the horses seemed to enjoy. I said off-handed to Cappy, "I wish Claw'd could see a horse, too; I think he'd enjoy that."

   A half an hour later, after getting home to our quiet little neighborhood, with the paved lanes, Claw'd sat in his hammock in the window wistfully gazing out onto his lost kingdom, when Cappy suddenly said, "There's a horse and buggy slowly going down our street! Claw'd sure seems all interested and is enjoying it!"

   "What? A horse? What's a horse doing on our street??"

     Well, to me, it seemed like the Lord was saying, "And, you're welcome!"