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Occasionally a story will surface that I
consider extremely note worthy. For those special situations I will provide
an area on this page to pay special tribute.
A History Project (Done by Mr. Richard Crabtree,
the son of our good neighbors in Tyrone, PA)
You Could Hear a Pin Drop (Sent to me by a
good friend. If this offends any of my international readers, tough)
Why I Carry a Gun (Sent to me by a good friend that is paid to carry a
gun)
Peggy's Letter
How Sauerkraut is Made (A Picture Story)
Varsity letter finally finds way to Albright
Stan's Last Night Out
A History Project
Richard was given a history project which required him to
interview someone about a historical event and write a paper about it.
This paper is the result of his interview with my father.
You Could Hear a
Pin Drop
You could have heard a pin drop When in
England, at a fairly large
conference, Condi Rice was asked by
the Archbishop of Canterbury if our plans
for Iraq were just an example
of empire building' by George Bush.
She answered by saying, 'Over the years, the
United States has sent many
of its fine young men and women into great
peril to fight for freedom beyond
our borders. The only amount of land we
have ever asked for in return
is enough to bury those that did not
return.'
You could have heard a pin drop.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was a conference in France where a
number of international engineers
were taking part, including French and
American. During a break, one of the
French engineers came back into the room
saying 'Have you heard the latest
dumb stunt Bush has done? He has sent an
aircraft carrier to Indonesia to help
the tsunami victims. What does he intended
to do, bomb them?'
A Boeing engineer stood up and replied
quietly: 'Our carriers have three hospitals
on board that can treat several hundred
people; they are nuclear powered and
can supply emergency electrical power to
shore facilities; they have three cafeterias
with the capacity to feed 3,000 people
three meals a day, they can produce several
thousand gallons of fresh water from sea
water each day, and they carry half a
dozen helicopters for use in transporting
victims and injured to and from their flight
deck We have eleven such ships; how many
does France have?'
You could have heard a pin drop.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A U.S. Navy Admiral was attending a naval
conference that included Admirals
from the U.S., English, Canadian,
Australian and French Navies. At a cocktail
reception, he found himself standing with
a large group of Officers that included
personnel from most of those countries.
Everyone was chatting away in English
as they sipped their drinks but a French
admiral suddenly complained that,
whereas Europeans learn many languages,
Americans learn only English.' He then
asked, 'Why is it that we always have to
speak English in these conferences rather
than speaking French?' Without
hesitating, the American Admiral replied 'Maybe
it's because the Brits, Canadians, Aussies
and Americans arranged it so you
wouldn't have to speak German.'
You could have heard a pin drop.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AND THIS STORY FITS RIGHT IN WITH THE
ABOVE...
Robert Whiting, an elderly gentleman of 83,
arrived in Paris by plane. At French
Customs, he took a few minutes to locate
his passport in his carry on. 'You have
been to France before, monsieur?' the
customs officer asked sarcastically.
Mr. Whiting admitted that he had been to
France previously. Then you should
know enough to have your passport ready.'
The American said, ''The last time I was
here, I didn't have to show it. 'Impossible.
Americans always have to show your
passports on arrival in France!' The American
senior gave the Frenchman a long hard
look Then he quietly explained, ''Well,
when I came ashore at Omaha Beach on D-Day
in 1944 to help liberate this country,
I couldn't find a single Frenchmen to show
a passport to.'
You could have heard a pin drop.
Why I carry a gun
Does this tell it like it is? Taken from the CALIF CCW site!
My old grandpa said to me, "Son, there comes a time in every man's life when
he stops bustin' knuckles and starts bustin' caps and usually it's when he
becomes too old to take an ass whoopin'."
I don't carry a gun to kill people. I carry a gun to keep from being killed.
I don't carry a gun to scare people. I carry a gun because sometimes this
world can be a scary place.
I don't carry a gun because I'm paranoid. I carry a gun because there are
real threats in the world.
I don't carry a gun because I'm evil. I carry a gun because I have lived
long enough to see the evil in the world.
I don't carry a gun because I hate the government. I carry a gun because I
understand the limitations of government.
I don't carry a gun because I'm angry. I carry a gun so that I don't have to
spend the rest of my life hating myself for failing to be prepared.
I don't carry a gun because I want to shoot someone. I carry a gun because I
want to die at a ripe old age in my bed, and not on a sidewalk somewhere
tomorrow afternoon.
I don't carry a gun because I'm a cowboy. I carry a gun
because, when I die and go to Heaven, I want to be a cowboy.
I don't carry a gun to make me feel like a man. I carry a gun because men
know how to take care of themselves and the ones they love.
I don't carry a gun because I feel inadequate. I carry a gun because unarmed
and facing three armed thugs, I am inadequate.
I don't carry a gun because I love it. I carry a gun because I love life and
the people who make it meaningful to me.
"Police Protection" is an oxymoron. Free citizens must protect themselves.
Police do not protect you from crime; they usually just investigate the
crime
after it happens and then call someone in to clean up the mess.
Personally, I carry a gun because I'm too young to die and too old to take
an ass whoopin'..
...author unknown (but obviously brilliant)
Remember the average response time to a 911 call is over 4 minutes.
The average response time of a 357 magnum is 1400 F.P.S. (feet per second)
Peggy's Letter
I have a lovely sister-in-law named Peggy. Peggy is
retired from a university in South Carolina and we play games harassing each
other. She takes great pleasure in calling me in the middle of the day and
asking me what I'm doing when she knows I'm working. Then she keeps me on
the phone talking about things I have absolutely no interest in. Well, one
of her latest schemes was to call me and announce how her dentist had just told
her how small her mouth was. Well, needless to say, I was rolling on the
floor laughing my self silly. I told her I would have to see that in
writing to believe it. Well, here it
is............................................
How Sauerkraut is
Made
Here is a picture story about how sauerkraut is made.
This occurred in the fall of 2007. My cousin/brother-in-law was looking
for help to make the sauerkraut so Kathy and I volunteered to help. He had
lots of cabbage so he needed lots of help. The following is a chronological
pictorial of how it's made.
Click on any of the pictures to see a larger picture.
Then use the back arrow on your browser to get back here.
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It all starts here. In the cabbage patch. That's the cabbage in the area closest to us. |
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Then you send two people to get the cabbage. Hopefully they know what they are doing. |
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OK, here's the cabbage. That's a lot of cabbage. |
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Next we clean and quarter the heads of cabbage. |
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This is what the process looks like. Glad it's nice weather. |
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Then put into a crock. This one happens to be a 5 gallon crook. |
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Add a little mixture of salt and sugar. |
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Then you stomp the heck out of it with this wooden stomping tool. This mixes the stuff together and draws the water out of the cabbage. |
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You add cabbage and the salt and sugar mixture and stomp it till almost full. Then cover with a cabbage leaf. |
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A plate is place on top and weighted down with a gallon jug of water to keep everthing submerged and covered with cloth. |
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30 days later the crooks are uncovered and this is what you get. |
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The scum is cleaned off the top and the sauerkraut is put in an aluminum cooking pot on a field stove. |
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The sauerkraut is then cooked for 30 minutes. |
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The extremely hot sauerkraut is then put in canning jars and covered with a lid. |
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The jars are then set aside to cool and the lids to seal. |
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We had three crooks of sauerkraut this time. Two where 5 gallon crooks and
one was a 7 gallon crook. We made enough sauerkraut to fill 76 quart jars,
11 pint jars and 10 two quart jars. That is a heck of a lot of sauerkraut.
But it tastes much better then the stuff you get in the store. My deepest
thanks to Lee and Judy for letting us help. Sorry we missed it this year
but let us know when it's time next year. We'll be there to help.
Varsity letter finally finds way to Albright
Randall Albright couldn't take his eyes off of it, couldn't wipe the smile from
his face. And really, could you blame him? Staring back at him on his lap was
the near-perfect replica of the red and black block letter chenille "P" that was
awarded to athletes at Port Matilda High School in the first half of the 1900s
-- you know the kind kids proudly stitch to those wool, leather-sleeved varsity
jackets. The reason the letter meant so much to Albright is simple: He never
received it when he should have, back when he was a kid, some 68 years ago. But
on Monday night, those in attendance at the Bald Eagle Area boys' basketball
game against Bishop McCort were treated to as warm of a gesture as you're going
to find as Albright, now 84, was finally presented with the letter he earned as
a senior for playing baseball, the only varsity sport offered at Port Matilda.
According to Albright, a supply shortage of varsity letters his senior year
meant those among the graduating class of 16 -- yes, 16 -- who played baseball
weren't given a letter but were instead promised one once the shipment arrived
at the school. Well, that never happened and before you knew it 30, 40, 50, 68
years elapsed and still no letter. "As far as I know, nobody got one," said
Albright. And while Albright had long ago surrendered hope that the letter would
arrive, it was the diligence of two brothers, whose father had known Albright in
high school that set in motion the events leading up to Monday. Brothers Joe and
Brian Walk, both BEA grads, happened upon Albright at a church service a while
back and through the course of their conversation, it was discovered that
Albright had played baseball alongside and was part of the 1939 graduating class
with the Walks' father, Cecil, at Port Matilda. "Then he told us this story,"
Joe Walk said, "that he graduated and they didn't have enough letters, that the
supply chain broke down and he never got it. He had sort of forgotten about it.
"He wasn't bitter about it but he said, 'You know, I earned that letter.' I told
him, 'Well, we'll fix that.' It was a complete surprise. He didn't know anything
about it." The Walks wrote a letter to BEA Superintendent Dan Fisher, alerting
him to the "injustice" that Albright and others had endured and suggested that
Albright be presented with the interlocking "B" and "E" block letters that
current BEA varsity athletes receive. Because Joe Walk still had one of his
father's earlier varsity letters, they took it a step further. The school had
the replica made based on the original "P," complete with interlocking baseball
bats at the bottom. Albright, who played right field, had received letters from
his sophomore and junior years -- "I had a pretty good batting average,"
Albright recalls. "That's the reason I played right field. I didn't have too
good of an arm but I did have a high batting average," -- but has since lost
track of one, which was stitched to a sweater. The new one, which he received to
a rousing ovation during halftime of Monday's game, won't be far from his sight.
He plans to display it on a stand next to the "B" and "E" he also received. "It
means a whole lot for me," said Albright. After halftime, people, mostly total
strangers, approached Albright, shook his hand and offered congratulations as he
sat courtside with wife Charlotte near the BEA bench. We can learn a lot from
what the Walk brothers did. It brings to mind the notion of paying it forward,
the concept that presumes a good deed will prompt others to follow suit. But the
Walks aren't looking for the good will to be reciprocated. "Just his smile made
my day. He's a good guy," Joe Walk said. "It's just the right thing to do." Sure
was. And because they did it, a sweet old man is probably still smiling today.
Todd Ceisner is a sports writer for the Centre Daily Times. He can be reached at
231-4629 or at
tceisner@centredaily.com.
This article was originally published in the Center Daily
Times.
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Beauty From Stan's Eyes
THERE ON THE LAKE A SHEET OF
GLASS THAT SHOWS MOTHER
NATURE AT HER BEST.
REFLECTING THE BEAUTY OF HER
AUTUMN SEASON . . .
THANKSGIVING IS AROUND
THE CORNER.
WHERE WILL I BE ?
ONLY IF YOU COULD SEE WHAT
MY EYES HAVE SEEN. A SWAN
WASTING A DAY ON THE
SMOOTH GLASS TOP OF THE
LAKE THAT HIDES THE WONDERS
OF SOME MINDS. SO DARK
BUT SO ALIVE . . .
SO CONFINED BUT SO FREE . . .
YET, THE WATER FLOWS,
BUT STAYS THE SAME - SO MUCH
BEAUTY IN A PLACE AT WHICH
NO ONE LOOKS.
Poem Written By:Stanley Rice
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Stan's Last Night Out
By Donna McCauley
I would like to share my story with you. I have three
children; they all graduated from high school. My son Ralph, 21, was a
Corrections Officer in Valhalla; Stan, 20, was a carpenter; and Diane,
age 18, was attending college and was in Florida for Spring break. They
lived at home with me and my husband Bill.
My son Stan was not killed by a drunk driver. He was
the drunk driver. He died March 31, 1988.
On Saturday evening, March 12th, after dinner Stan
said he was going out. I told him to be careful and his last works to me
were "Don't worry." At 3:15 a.m., Sunday morning, I got that dreaded
phone call that no one wants to get. It was Putnam Hospital telling me
Stan was in an accident, was in critical condition, and should they call
a priest. I went into shock at that time. I ran screaming to my husband
"Wake up, wake up, Stan's in the hospital and they told me he was bad."
I yelled to Ralph to get dressed. We have to go to the hospital. We went
to the emergency room and the nurse gave me Stan's keys and took us to
where Stanley was. He was unconscious and I kissed him and told him I
loved him. They asked us to go to the waiting room because they were
still evaluating him.
One of Stan's friends was at the hospital and he told
us he passed the crash scene and recognized Stan's Blazer. He identified
Stan and called his mother for our telephone number.
The doctor came and told us that Stan's brain was
swollen and they were taking him to surgery. At 8:45 the doctor told us
Stan had a 17 percent chance of living which wasn't very much, and I
started praying. During surgery they had to remove part of his skull and
would put a steel plate in at a later date. We went to Intensive Care
and it was heartbreaking seeing Stan lying there, his head all bandaged
with tubes inserted all over his body. After we left the hospital we
stopped by to see Stan's Blazer which was demolished. The tow truck
operator gave me Stan's wallet which was on the flatbed. We went home
and called relatives. We had to pick up Diane from the airport that
night at 11:30 p.m. How was I going to tell her about her brother? When
she got into the car she was so excited about her first trip away from
home that I waited until we got home to tell her. We got in the door and
she told me she had to get to bed because she had school the next
morning. That's when I told her. She started crying and told us she had
to see her brother now. For 18 days we went to the hospital and prayed
that Stan would get better. On the 18th day, March 31st, they told us
Stan was brain dead. At 5:30 p.m. I signed the papers to disconnect him
from life support. We went in to see Stan one last time. It was so hard
to say good bye. He was pronounced dead at 6:17 p.m. We gathered his get
well cards, balloons, his radio and tapes and went home. We called the
funeral home and went there at 9:30 p.m. I was devastated. Bill wouldn't
let me in the room where the caskets were. He picked out Stan's casket.
Stan died on Holy Thursday. Good Friday he was in the
hospital morgue. We were at the funeral home Holy Saturday and Easter
Sunday. We had a closed casket because of his injuries and his
graduation picture was on top of the casket. There were a lot of people
who cared and tried to console me. I was dazed. Stan was buried in
Yonkers where we used to live.
I was working at the time and I was only allowed five
days off for funeral leave, which is definitely not long enough. During
that time my husband and I cleaned Stanley's room out. It was very
painful. I lay on his bed and cried for a long time. I packed away his
things in boxes. When Stan's friends came to visit, I gave them some of
his possessions. I still wear his shirts. I came upon two notebooks.
They contained poems that he wrote, which I treasure today and forever.
Stan was a very loving and caring person. He would
take the shirt off his back if you needed it. If anyone had a flat tire
he would stop and fix it.
I went back to work the following week. I was like a
zombie. My coworkers were wonderful people and they accepted me the way
I was. There, in body only, my mind someplace else.
For two years, every Saturday I drove 80 miles round
trip to place flowers on Stan's grave. I looked at his grave reading his
name, the day he was born and the day he died. I kept saying Stanley is
really dead, he's really dead. I don't think I'll ever accept Stan's
death but I am learning to live with it.
I went to Bereavement meetings for many years and that
helped a lot because we shared the same loss - the death of a child. At
one time I didn't think I would ever smile or laugh again but everyone
there helped me and told me I would survive - and somehow I did.
Stan and his friends thought they were cool. They knew
a bar they could go to that didn't check for proof. Three were underage,
and one was 21 (the legal age to drink in a bar).
They went to the bar at 9:00, paid their admission and
were stamped saying they could buy alcohol. They had met other friends
there. Stan went to the bathroom around 2 a.m. and on the way back he
stepped on a guy's foot. Stan apologized but the guy wouldn't accept his
apology and started a fight with Stan. The bouncers broke the fight up
and because the other guy was a regular at the bar they literally picked
my son up and placed him outside the door. Stan drove two miles. He then
lost control of his vehicle on a curve, crossed the other lane, hit an
abutment, went airborne and struck a tree. I thank God he hit a tree and
not some innocent people driving past and I thank God he didn't have any
passengers because they would have been killed instantly. I have a hard
time living with Stan's death, never mind other people. It took about 40
minutes to get him out of the vehicle. He had a .23 blood alcohol level.
Double the amount for getting arrested for DWI.
I brought charges against the bar for serving underage
and intoxicated persons.
The State Liquor Authority found the bar guilty of
serving minors (namely my son). STAN LOST HIS LIFE and the bar got a two
week suspension of their license and a $ 1,000 fine.
Stan had at least $ 60.00 when he left the house that
night. The nurse gave me the money he had in his pocket. Three singles
and some change. He spent a lot of money that night. I'm sure the
bartenders were tipped well. It is against the law to serve liquor to an
intoxicated person. Stan was intoxicated that night and the only way to
get to and from the bar was to drive.
STAN IS DEAD, HE FEELS NO PAIN, but all the people
that loved Stan will hurt for the rest of their lives.
My life is changed forever because Stanley Rice chose
to drink and drive that night. At times I get so mad at him I could
scream.
Stan never got a second chance. Please don't put your
loved ones through the Hell I have been through.
Don't Drink and Drive - It's not worth it.
The above article was published in the "Spring/Summer 1997" issue of
the New York State MADDers News paper and used with the permission of
it's author, Donna McCauley
Dandy Dan's Comments -
I happened to respond with the fire department to Stan's
incident. Because of his injuries I was requested to provide medical
assistance rather than function as part of the fire department. We
stabilized Stan while he was trapped and for the duration of the
extrication process. I only knew Donna as another face at work. After
this incident, we became good friends. Donna was instrumental in
establishing a MADD organization in Putnam County. She coerced me into
assisting and ultimately I became the vice president. We made many
presentations at High Schools in Putnam and Westchester Counties. Her
presence brought a hush from the students. I guess if our efforts
prevented one mother's grief, it was worthwhile. Every now and then I
wonder why I do this stuff. I think of Stan and hopefully providing his
family the opportunity to say good bye. I guess if I'm going to be
involved in public service, this is one of the most rewarding, even if
the result is not perfect, at least I made a difference. |
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