We Had a SMOKING Thanksgiving

Funny - Funny

We had a SMOKING Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Day, Carol’s family was to arrive around 5:30 for turkey, ham, and all the trimmings.

A bit after lunch that day I decided to lay a fire in the fireplace. I started out by wadding up several sheets of our Local Astonisher, went outside and collected a bag full of dried pinecones and dumped them on the crumpled newspaper. On top of that, I placed a few sticks of dried pine, followed by three split logs of dead dry pine. 

Hot dog - Good job I thought - Ready to go for when the time came to start the warmth and add to a pleasant atmosphere.

I left the damper closed so the heat would not go up the chimney until the time to strike the match.

I was in town to pick up a few items, about a half hour before the expected crowd was to arrive.

Still 20 minutes away, Carol called. “Help!!!   The fire is shooting out of the fireplace!!!   It is hot!!!   Smoke is thick!!!  The alarm is going off!!!”  

“Open the damper!” I suggested hoping to calm her a bit.

“Too hot! - I thought you had it open - Too much smoke!”

“Dump some water on it,” I advised as I stepped on the gas breaking the 55 mile an hour law.

About that time Carol’s brother and his wife arrived. She heard the car come and rushed to meet them.

“HELP,” she yelled out the door. Please hurry! Help!” The smoke billowed out the open door to greet them.

Carol ran to the kitchen and got a bucket of water. Bent down, her brother tried to fight the heat and smoke in front of the belching inferno. He frantically reached for the damper. No luck.

Whoosh - was the answer to the slosh of water as everyone hacked, coughed, and gagged. The steam of the sizzling water, added to the smoke, turning all into a large smoke pit. The three persons in the room found out quickly that perfume and shaving lotion are no match for some good-old-fashioned smelling country smoke.

Now Carol’s sister arrived. Before she walked into the house, her brother said to his wife and Carol,  “Lets just act like nothing is wrong.” They cackled and agreed.

“Hi Donna! Good to see you!” She coughed, rubbed her nose, her hair blowing from the ceiling fan at high speed.

“You all alright?” she asked with head cocked to one side.

“Sure. Dinner is about ready.” 

Her son arrived. The front door wide open. He walked up and thought we added a new screen door. The smoke was so thick he could not see into the room.

When I got there all the windows and doors were open. The ceiling fans roared, the smoke detector dangled from the ceiling and also gasped for a reprieve.

Dinner was great. Even the turkey tasted smoked. We all laughed, chucked and giggled over the frantic actions of a bunch of grown-ups.

Two days later, the curtains and cushions of the entire house still smell like smoke.

It too shall pass. Thank you Lord for all the blessings.

The Blood Turns To Gravy

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".

The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

After we celebrated the coming of the Christ Child we tackled the Christmas goose the next day. The meat, gravy, stuffing, and dumplings easily lasted the week and until midday of New Year’s Eve.
The special evening meal for New Year’s Eve was the Gansjung that had been marinating for a week.

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Now, that pot of blood, mentioned in my earlier post, with its delectable additions, was destined to become the New Year’s Eve meal. Before the lid went on the pot a week ago, Mom added a good cup of vinegar, salt, bay leaves, a couple of sliced onions, celery leaves, fresh carrots, parsley, and plenty of peppercorns. This special concoction had marinated in our cold bedroom until the appointed day when all was brought to a boil and left to simmer till done. 

Mom put aside the morsels (the neck, kidneys, gizzard, the goose feet) that had marinated for a week, then strained the blood. In so doing, she separated the spices from the sauce. To achieve the desired thickness of the blood based sauce, Mother added flour, brought it and its morsels to a boil until ready.

On New Year’s Eve the feast was complemented with Semmelknödel (bread dumplings), cabbage, and boiled sugar beets. This Bavarian delicacy was called Gansjung (young goose), a perfect extension and finale of the holiday season.––

Good luck and Happy New Year!

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The Old Magic of Christmas

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

The day of December 24 started and continued like any other day. However, my sister and I knew this was the big day. Our home showed no signs of Christmas, no tree, no decorations, only the baking smells of the special season. We helped Mom bake a variety of cookies. We cracked nuts and greased pans. Dagmar and I knew that sometime before midnight, that day, December 24, the Christ Child would come.

Around 4 in the afternoon, Mom put us to bed with a promise to wake us before the evening was over. She told us if the Kristkindle is going to come, it would not want to be seen. It is a Heavenly Being and it only takes a moment to come and be gone again. The timing had to be perfect.

So we went to bed, full of excitement and expectations. We lay perfectly still––imagining, expecting, quiet as a mouse. Whether sister went to sleep, I do not know. As for me, I was too excited to do any sleeping. I listened. I dreamed and envisioned and tried to put the magic in order. I was a thinking little fellow, always wondering why things worked in certain, and often unexpected ways.

Around 8 o’clock in the evening Mom came into the bedroom to wake us up. We bounded out of bed, full of excitement, and entered the kitchen. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling was turned off. However, the whole world glowed in splendor. In the corner stood a tall Christmas tree. It shimmered and glistened with its many ornaments and tinsel. All the tinsel was lovingly placed, one strand at a time, by Mom while we slept. The ornaments were handblown glass, and family heirlooms.

White wax candles flickered on the tree, each with its little drip bowl to catch any melting wax. The candles were clipped to the branches of the fir tree. Glass ornaments, very fragile and sprinkled with many sparkling tiny crystals, shimmered as they reflected the magic. The tinsel hung like angelic hair. It quivered and slightly swayed from the candles’ warmth and responded to our every breath. We stood close to this wonder, enthralled by its magic.

For many long moments our little family stood quietly in front of the tree––mesmerized. We held to each other. After the magic had burned into our hearts we sang Silent Night, Holy Night. We, the three of us.––Father had gone to war . . . .

We sang that song every year on Christmas night.

After singing, Mom lifted us up, one at a time, so we could blow out the candles. Slowly the room turned dark, but the magic did not vanish. The Holy Night continued and was filled with its own special smell––the smoke of snuffed wax. To this day, I love to smell a snuffed, plain candle’s smoke.

Mom pulled the string to the light. Our joy continued. With the Christmas magic still in our hearts, we searched under the tree for presents. The presents were baked treats, rock candy, and woolen clothes knitted by Mom. One Christmas, I also received a 10 cm long drafting ruler. One time, I received a set of coloring pencils and paper to draw on; another year a stamp collecting album, and once a compass set with a fountain pen.

After we unwrapped the presents, we sat around our kitchen table and enjoyed the evening eating cookies and drinking hot Glühwein. This hot mix was made with cheap red wine and equal amounts of hot tea. It had simmered on the stove with orange peels, cloves, cinnamon sticks, and sugar, since Mom sent us to bed. Any alcohol the wine might have had had long evaporated. To this day, the taste and smell of this hot punch means Christmas.

Just before midnight, if we didn’t go to midnight mass, we heated Weisswurst, a mild, white sausage, in a pan of water––a Christmas Eve tradition. We dipped the sausage in sweet mustard and ate it with our fingers. Together with warm potato salad and buttered hard rolls it completed the special evening.. . . Heaven came down––peace––and gladness of heart.

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We Did Not Write To St Nick

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".

The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

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Here in America, the Post Office receives thousands of letters each year addressed to Santa. In the mid forties, I also dreamed and wrote to the Christ Child. We expected the coming of the Christ Child on Christmas Eve.

A week or so before Christmas, my sister and I would write an invitation to the Christ Child to come and visit our home on Christmas Eve. The little letter also included a short wish list. We kept the wish list really short, for it was just not right to be selfish and ask for much. Other than cookies, fruit, and some of Mother’s knitted wears, we seldom got more than one extra present on Christmas Eve; the day of gift giving.

We stuck the little written note between the window and the sash so the Christ's angel could pick it up as he flew by. The longer the letter stayed stuck in the window, the better behaved and more polite we became. There was always that chance the angel  remembered some bad behavior or deed and as a result would pass us by.

In my child’s imagination and anxiousness I often looked out through the window into the dark night. I hoped to see Christ’s angel as it flew by. I actually saw him once, very briefly, like a bright blip. He did not come close and take the letter, but I prayed for the angel to come back; and he did––on his time. The little letters always vanished.

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Sack Time

In Germany we eagerly awaited the Christ Child on the eve of the 24th of December. Not only did the Christ Child come on the 24th, but that was also the night we first got to see the decorated Christmas tree.

Sack time at our house has become a standard Christmas Eve tradition. Ever since the grandkids were small they had their own Christmas Sack. The sack, a simple pillowcase, acts as a small replica of Santa's sack.
Carol and I printed the grandkid's name, and year issued, on the sack with a big permanent marker.

As Christmas approaches we start to gather small items and begin to fill each sack. Dark chocolate for the girls, beef jerky for the boys, are just a few things to start with.
For that special kid it might be sweet and sour pickles, or Maraschino Cherries for another.

When the children were really little, cloth pins, rubber bands, or a ball of yarn were great gifts for them. As the kids got older, we, the grandparents, could no longer anticipate their wishes. So we started the Elf Letters.

The Elves, better known as Sugarplum and Cringle (Carol and Franz), send out a letter to request the child's wish for his or her sack. The letter contains a form to fill out for the child's request. They then place the request in the self-addressed stamped envelope, to return to the Elves.

Sugarplum (Carol) has as much fun as the children when she receives the returned letters. With joy Sugarplum uses all her internet wizardry and shopping prowess to fill the requests. The sacks continue to get plumper. We do have a spending limit.

Sack time finally comes.

America Is Good

When I think back to when I came here in 1955 my heart glows within me. Everything was so new, so different, so challenging. America lay before me like a picnic blanket full of good. 

When Jafar Musa came from Nigeria to stay with my son and his family to receive his schooling from Liberty Christian Academy, he also was overwhelmed by America.

He calls my daughter-in-law and my son "Mom and Dad." And their two daughters and son are his sisters and brother.

Jafar is 6'4" tall and is a super-quick forward on his school's basketball team. At only 17 years old, he is, you may say, still growing.

He felt like a king getting to play basketball on a hardwood floor. The best he ever played on was a concrete slab.

He has never had a white egg before. All he ever saw were brown ones. 

He never had peanut butter before in his life. (I can relate to that. I never had peanut butter either before I came here.)

He never had real coffee or tasted ketchup before.

The first words he uttered when he rode in a car in this country were, "smooth roads."

After he witnessed the fancy washing machine and dishwasher at my son's house he was amazed. So, when his new Mom asked him to wash the car, he sheepishly looked for a car-washing machine in the garage.

Can you imagine, Jafar had never tasted french fries before he came here!

Jafar's goal is to get a good education and hopefully receive a scholarship to play college basketball. That is the way he is able to stay in this country. He often quietly slips from family gatherings to study. He is on a mission to do well and not disappoint his new family and his own back in Nigeria. He is a gentle giant, and we all have grown to love him.

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After Thirty-two Years

After Thirty-two Years

It has been a long time since I picked up an artist’s brush and painted just for the fun of it. 

Thirty-two years ago, I felt I had to establish myself as an accomplished artist. I do not know if I ever made that rank, but my name went out, won several first place awards at art shows, and received the recognition I sought. When my name got into the local paper the name of my new business, B&B Printing and Advertising, also made it. 

My pen and ink drawings became the sought-after draw for advertising in real estate brochures, and line drawings found there place on countless church bulletin covers. All were printed by the new printer in Bedford.

This, my first try at painting for years shows, if nothing else, that I’m stale at it. I set out to achieve a more impressionistic look. I found myself falling into a traditional style.

The wall above the fireplace, at the cabin, needed something big and dramatic.

During the day, the lighting from the sun, or cloudiness, makes the painting evolve and bursts into colors.

Some of the detail reveals my attempt at impressionism. The opposites are there, golds vs deep blues, pinks vs bright greens, but not loose enough.

I made the frame and plan to change scenes. I plan to paint a winter scene, and one of spring. Maybe even some of our favorite places Carol and I have visited. 

Retirement is good. Now that I have fewer building projects planned, I can now get back to painting.

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An Ode To The King

An Ode To The King

by

Franz X Beisser

Ah, Christmas, the season of sharing––what annual fun,

If we’re not careful, it can get quite overdone.

Giving shirts, more shirts with sales tag wagging.

Fancy ties and dapper hats, all not worth the bragging.

Long-johns, how many does a fellow need?

One in the drawer, and one doing its deed.

Does a guy need a present from the digital world?

For fifty years he was without it––why now be spoiled?

Does a guy need a book on gardening means,

When still in the freezer are last century’s beans?

So what are the best gifts the old guy should get?

Treats––like the pooch for good behavior,––you bet!

A sack full of goodies such the wife cannot stand.

Goodies all aged and packaged in a mystery land.

With labels printed in silver and gold Chinese,

Ingredients and spices added by pious Mongolese.

The goodies must explode with sharpness and flavor,

Only a man with exquisite palate and grit would savor.

Pickled eggs, hot cherry peppers to make the mouth pucker.

Black olives, purple and green, for which I am a sucker.

Herrings, kippered and smoked, in wine sauce sour.

Sardines, spiced and skinned, in bites ready to devour.

I love smoked fishes in olive oil layered two deep,

Or singed in hot sauce, a true memory to keep!

Smoked oysters from the Mekong’s clean waters, the ultimate treat!

Stuffed with pride into shiny new cans, sealed and packaged all neat.

Why not soft and hard cheeses, some born years ago,

Still improving with age as surely you do know!

Brie, how delicate its flavor, on a cracker sprinkled with pepper,

Or layered inside a hot baked potato, oh my, what could be better!

Camembert, its fast growing mold so pungent and white––

Paired with onions on seeded rye, a man’s true delight.

Smoked Edam and Gouda makes great little cubes,

Much superior to anything squeezed from a plastic tube.

Cheeses, bring them on!––Havarti, Fontina and Asiago too.

And don’t forget, the Kaiser of cheeses must make his debut.

The aroma arrives first with it an instant cheer.

I offered to share it, but none dared to come near.

All the other cheeses stood respectful in the wing,

Smiling, bowing to their ruler––Limburger the King!

I have gained eight pounds since last Christmas so fine,

Eating cheeses for breakfast, supper and at snacking time.

For weeks my wife noticed a gathering fragrance in the fridge.

I did not tell her, but knew the King waxed picante and rich.

It was well into January when the King took the stand.

An anointing with pomp was his rightful demand!

My wife, all giddy with joy, went quilting from morning till four.

From the fridge stepped my King, as she closed the front door.

Basking on fine china he blended to room temperature,

Giving a boost to its excellent flavor and aroma for sure.

The knife, the onion, and rye bread were ready for duty.

All waiting to give honor and elevate that aging beauty.

A little Mozart added to lift my heart’s dancing,

The dog aroused from deep sleep came prancing.

It wasn’t the music, the smell the onion was making.

It was the scent of something dead that caused his awaking.

Poo-bear, I said, this heavenly treat is for Papa alone.

I promise you will lick the plate––better than an old bone.

His tail wagged with anticipation as my nostrils flared,

To take a good bite now, was all that I cared.

Discarding the crust, so pungent and ripe, would be a sin.

A nibble of it made my palate explode. Wow––truly a win!

The crunch of the onion supported the creamy inside,

Delivered by the rye bread––with chest-pounding pride.

Each bite built more flavor on top of the last,

I enjoyed every morsel till noon day long passed.

My wife will be home shortly, the aroma still in my nose,

And wafting happily through the house I suppose.

I opened the deck door and a window or two,

Praying for the breeze to freshen the air all new.

The wrapper I buried deep in three zip-tight bags,

Then I noticed the pooch’s boisterous wags.

Come here my little brother in crime,

Lick this plate clean, we don’t have much time.

I scrubbed my hands and finger nails too,

Bent in the sink to rinse my mustache with bubbly shampoo.

The scented candle gently crackled and hissed,

While I sat in the chair waiting by my love to be kissed.

Its been a long day and I did miss my wife,

But the King of all cheeses had added to life.

She bounded through the door all jolly and filled,

Then drew a deep breath for a greeting so fine––WHAT STINKS?

Grace, Joy, and Family

Christmas Eve 2013. A time when the Beissers came together to give thanks. 

Grace, the gift of God, is what we did not deserve. Jesus, God with us, is what gives us the Joy. The Joy of knowing where our Hope lies, and the joy of giving thanks for our family.

The tree reminds me of my childhood; the tinsels, the the shimmer, the glow of rejoicing.

Dozens of goodies graced our table. This one especially cute. Little Santa hats made with a slice of banana, a strawberry, and topped with a small march mellow, held together with a toothpick.

The highlight for the men is our traditional Weisswurst. It is eaten with a special German potato salad and dipped into course-ground horseradish mustard, toned down with brown sugar and mayonnaise. The pot, especially designed for this sausage, came from Germany.

The grandchildren present that evening:

Chloe, Rachel, Megan, Sarah, Laura, Heidi, Julia.

The grandsons Josiah, and Jacob. The youngest and the oldest of all the grandchildren.

Never loosing an opportunity to show off, Luke and Eli.

And our newest member of the family: Jafar from Nigeria, 6 feet 6 inches tall, and basket ball star for LCA in Lynchburg.

Decked out with Lakers cap and Kobe Bryant shirt. What a blessed day we had.

TIME MOVES ON . . .

TIME MOVES ON . . .

Do you ponder? Do you marvel? Do you ever realize no matter how much education and experiences you’re absorbing in life, it does not make an iota of a difference on you destiny. 

From dust you came, and to dust you will return. That is a fact. If you think that fact is the end of life’s struggle, you are most pitied. So, I challenge you to ponder . . . marvel.

In my previous blog post I shared with you a small wonder of nature, titled: IT NEVER CEASES . . .. I’d like to continue with that thought.

The starlings did partake of the trees. One group at a time. They also, in their frenzy, dropped seeds to the ground. Does our Creator think this was wasteful? Consider this question: Did you ever bent down, after the ice and snows are gone, after the leaves have succumbed and had been blown into corners to make mulch, and you picked up and looked at one of those tiny dogwood seeds?

You will find that its shell had been chewed to expose the kernel on the inside of the seed. These kernels contributed to sustain the mice that do not sleep away the cold, but depend on the Lord to feed them. Even every dogwood seed that was not found, and had fallen into cracks in the soil, is in position to become a new seedling trees.

Over the years I have planted maples, redbuds, hollies, dogwoods, and poplars. All had volunteered in our flower beds just begging to be transplanted and given a chance to start a new cycle of life.

Have you ever considered the picture our Creator is giving us when the leaves turn colors, the fierce winds blow, dead branches fall to the ground and are covered by leaves? . . . The Spirit of God is the wind. It removed the dead branches from the living tree, us; our sins removed, covered by the sacrifice of Christ, the leaves.

Although the leaves are dead, the branches are dead, life continues. Termites, grubs, and other bugs feast on the fallen matter. The result is new soil to sustain the undergrowth, new vines, new trees; to feed turkeys and deer.

Nature . . . Time moves on. There is no end. Neither is there an end to your soul. Consider, ponder, marvel, . . . Give thanks.

“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” Matthew 6:26, KJV

IT NEVER CEASES

It never ceases to amaze me when I see the workings and discipline of nature. I believe our Creator shows us, in many ways, how we should depend on Him rather than on ourselves. I know He gave us the ability to reason, react, and perform to help to sustain, and to make a living for ourselves. However, mankind, with its selfish nature, cannot rival the harmony and balance among earth’s living creatures.

What I’m about to show is what simple nature has so powerfully revealed to me.

To line our driveway to our house, we have growing six dogwood trees, each more than twenty years old. Two weeks ago they were loaded with seeds, covered with a bright red fleshy hull, very beautiful to look at, especially when surrounded with still green leaves. 

One morning, after the sun had risen to above the tree line, I slowly walked to get the paper from the box. A cheerful clamor of high-pitched chirps fill the air. In the tops of trees, fifty yards away, an enormous assembly of starlings had gathered, readying themselves to fly south. With the brilliant pink and pale blue morning sky behind them, they flitted, hopped, and jumped trying to occupy every available inch of exposed twigs.

I’m sure they passed along a warning to keep an eye on the dude walking in the driveway.

On my way back from the paper box, having passed the first dogwood tree, I heard a sharp increase of fluttering behind me. I turned, and  began to witness one of the marvels of nature. I continued to slowly walk backward not making any sudden moves.

A small swarm, maybe three-hundred starlings, had engulfed the first dogwood and was frantically devouring the red dogwood seeds. As if by command, no more than thirty-seconds later, they all left the tree and reunited with their bothers and sisters in the trees fifty yards away. The birds had stripped all the seeds from the dogwood to within four feet of the ground. . . . I wondered why? For safety sake I suppose; predators could be lurking!

As I slowly continued walking backward, a new swarm of starlings engulfed the second tree eagerly consuming the tree’s seeds in the same manner and timeframe as the first group. The second swarm returned to the  black mass in the fencerow trees, leaving the dogwood stripped of its red berries.

I continued to inch away, giving the birds their space.

This went on, tree after tree, until all the berries of the six trees were devoured. The massive squall of birds had perfectly divided itself into smaller groups so all could partake of the feast in a mannerly way. 

Who directed these birds? Who gave these birds the compassion and willingness to share? Would humans have behaved in like manner?
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ALL IS NEW

ALL IS NEW

Just imagine, you are 16 years old, you’ve just left your country of your birth, and your destination is halfway around the world. You have never been in an airport, much less on a plane. 

My son and his family have agreed to share their home with Jafar, who is from Nigeria, for  the next nine month. He will attend LCA (Liberty Christian Academy).

The young man is all smiles; a true pleasure to have around. At sixteen he is a mere 6 feet and six inches tall. He partakes in all family activities, and is all eyes and ears as this, his new experience, exposes the life in the USA.

At his first stopover in Paris, he had to change concourses at the airport. As he came off the plane he asked the first attendant how to find the predetermined gate. He was sent underground to a shuttle train. Not trusting, he asked another attendant to verify his direction. And then he asked a third. All this within a 20 minutes layover. He told my son he was frightened when the train whizzed underground to a strange new destination. He prayed he was not going downtown Paris.

After fumbling in Atlanta, then finally landing in Raleigh NC, he had spent 27 hours lost in airports and in the air. The only thing the boy ate was what was offered on the plane.

When he eventually met his new folks in America, they not knowing he hadn’t eaten a full meal, they offered him a full tube of Pringles and a Sprite, which he promptly devoured. Neither treat he had ever had before. Yum--yum!

On the way to Bedford, his new home for nine month, he was amazed by the condition of our roads. “So quiet,” he quipped, “And no one is blowing their car horns.”

The first day was all new. He, was introduced to french fries, ketchup, peanut butter, coffee, and a multitude of other American standards.

In a few more days, I will report to you of the many other new things this young man has experienced in just the first week here. My friends, we are blessed. 

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