Soon after Dad moved to Michigan, I made him an appointment for a routine physical with our primary care doctor. We’d been with Dr. Anderson for years, liked and respected her, and she had agreed to accept Dad as a patient. She wasn’t one to dink around for months trying to figure something out. If you had a foot problem and she was stumped, she’d recommend a podiatrist. She examined Dad and talked to him a little while, then ordered some blood work. After we left her office we drove to the hospital to have the lab work done.

Dad pictured in an interview, 2005…

I had just dropped him off and was almost home, which is only a couple blocks away when I get a call from Mercy Hospital. There’s something wrong with Dad’s blood and he needs to come back to the hospital ASAP. What? He just got here. We didn’t even have everything put away in his spiffy new apartment yet. Dear God, please don’t let anything be wrong with Dad. Went back to his apartment, explained that he needed to be examined a little more thoroughly and we drove back to the hospital. Doctor at the hospital said that Dad’s white count was quite high. Normally should be between 8,000 and 12,000 and his was hovering around 96,000. Holy smokes, that didn’t sound good.

Mercy Hospital made an appointment for Dad with Dr. Hikmet Sipahi, a blood oncologist. Dr. Sipahi explained to us that he had Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, or CLL. This is the most common type of leukemia for folks over 70. He’d probably had this condition for several years, but went undetected without a specific blood test. Until symptoms presented themselves, usually anemia or a hemoglobin drop, Dad would have blood work done every 4 months, and a check up with Sipahi. Ok then.

About a year later during one of these check-ups, his hemoglobin had dropped and he was anemic. Dr. Sipahi explained to Dad that he should start a month long series of mild chemotherapy. “Why?” Asked Dad. “Well,” Dr. Sipahi continued, ” it will most likely lengthen your life considerably. It may however, make you nauseous for few days.” “But I’m 89 years old and can’t live forever!” Snipped Dad. “Why not?” Asked the good-looking doctor, still smiling. Dad never missed one solitary beat and quipped, “Cause Jesus is calling me home, and I’m ready to go!” DOCTOR’S JAW DROPPED TO THE FLOOR. (Not surprising, he was not nearly as good-looking without his lower jaw). His whole career, and Hippocratic Oath is based on treating, always ready with a treatment plan. He really didn’t know how to react when asked the question, “what if I choose not to treat this?” Dad said he’d think about it.

When we were done, and waiting in the reception area for the gal to make our next appointment, Dad looked at me and asked, “Denise are you going to make me take chemotherapy?” “No Dad, that’s not my decision to make.” He thought for a moment and continued, “then let’s go, I don’t want to come back here again.” As we were waiting for the elevator, he turned and said, ” he really is good-looking though isn’t he?” “Yup Dad, he’s a hottie!”

Still good looking, but this is more recent of Dr. Sipahi…

Turns out CLL would not have a great impact on Dad’s life. We’d soon learn that he also had blocked carotid arteries. One side blocked 95%, the other 99%, yikes. Met with a cardiologist who strongly encouraged Dad to consider very complicated, serious, sometimes major stroke inducing surgery for that too. Dad had just celebrated his 90th birthday, so the recovery time could take up to a year, or he might never recover. Dad just shook his head, said he needed time to talk it over with me.

My last Christmas with Dad, 2007…

Somehow, chemotherapy and major surgery were no longer very high on his “to do list.” Goodness, he was barely scraping by at 6 foot, 140 pounds fully clothed, (including his year-round, ever present, constantly worn set of long-john’s). Oh Dad. The thought of lying in bed sick, even for few days, or grueling surgery with a very slow recovery time wasn’t part of his plan anymore. He was thinking more of the quality of life that he had left. Why, that would mean missing his bible study class or preaching once a month in his prison ministry. He’d just mentioned the last 3 times he had preached, always near the end of each service, he offered an altar call. Dad had not been able to get back up from the kneeling position. A couple of the inmates had to help him stand back up each time. He thought it was kind of funny, wasn’t embarrassed at all. This is where he needed to be and what he wanted to be doing. At least until Jesus was ready to call him home…

On July 24, 1946, Larry Wayne was born at home, on the west side of Rock Valley. I wouldn’t show up until December of 1950. I also made my debut in our kitchen, on the table. No trips to a modern hospital for us. I don’t remember how close Larry was to our older sister Mona, who was born in ’43. But once I was potty trained and could keep up with him, Larry and I were good buddies. There were a few kids in our sparse neighborhood, but we played together a lot.

Larry 2. Mona 5, sitting on car, 1948…

That would really change when we moved to 15th street. Larry, then 9 had much more freedom, going places to play with his friends, shooting marbles, fishing, the dump, riding bike. Me, not quite 5, stayed closer to home, raising my family of dolls in my fabulous play house. Played an awful lot of “drive-in.” Eating rhubarb with salt with the new neighborhood kids, the Schmidt’s, Van Oort’s and Beumer’s. Still Larry and I were close.

 

Strange, I never laid eyes on this picture until 10 years ago. This is about a year before Larry was killed, so the summer of 1957. In the upper right hand corner it reads, Lake Okoboji, Iowa. Must be our family version of day-cation.

 

Neese newborn, Larry, 4-1/2, 1951…

There was a kind of freedom in our small town that none of my kids have ever experienced. Really bad things just didn’t happen in Rock Valley. Oh there were accidents, marriages that failed, and a few folks with a questionable moral compass, but as a whole I felt safe, utterly safe in my home town. That didn’t change much for me when Larry died, but many things in my world did after October 11,1958. I was hopelessly lost without him, but to my parents, the world seemed to have ended. The tenuous thread that kept them (and us) together for more than 15 years was irrevocably severed. There were no affairs, no divorce, money problems, drinking, drugs, or gambling. Just two very unhappy people stuck in a loveless marriage, living in the same house with their 2 remaining daughters. We were almost 8 years apart, and had nothing in common.

Larry’s school project in kindergarten…

Dad would find comfort and purpose in doing for others. For Mom there was no comfort or purpose for a long time, then I became almost her obsession. I think she would have benefitted greatly with therapy and counseling to help deal with her grief. But once Dad had been saved, he could not equate her depression with any physical medical problem. For example, high blood pressure. He truly felt if she were a better Christian and prayed more she wouldn’t be depressed. When he suffered a herniated disk, of course he sought medical treatment. Then had subsequent surgery. But medical help or talking through her grief was not his answer for Mom’s problems. To Dad, she just flat out wasn’t the strong Christian he was. He would not allow her to seek treatment for her chronic depression. I’m pretty sure she was bipolar. At times pretty high on life, then sinking to some very scary depths.

Dad, 43, Neese 7 mo. Larry 5, 1951…

Mona got married quite soon after Larry died. To the world outside of our house, the word of the next decade would be “perception.” It was much more important how we appeared to others than how we were actually doing. Mom started becoming uncomfortably attached to me, period. Dad slipped further away, fulfilling his needs by helping others in need. Just never Mom or me. It’s said when tragedy hits head-on, you either get bitter or better. After Dad saw the “light,” he went so far over the top, we just no longer appeared on his radar screen. But to the outside world, we needed to be seen as a well-adjusted, happy Christian family. In the 10 years after we lost Larry, to when I moved out, we never celebrated Christmas. Not one Christmas tree in over a decade. So it was no surprise that I preferred to be almost anywhere else, usually at one of my friend’s homes. We had a quiet, somber house, not much laughter, rarely had the TV on.

Could I have helped them? Probably. But in this unhealthy environment, it would seem this young girl preferred to play one parent off the other. Usually got what I wanted, though sometimes it took a lot of effort, and caused fights between them (really, the only thing they fought about anymore). Makes me sad now, but at the time I felt they were both hurting me terribly. Either Mom was smothering and manipulating me, or Dad’s indifference. Dad’s indifference probably hurt more, because he always seemed to go out of his way helping others, but would not or could not help me with Mom.

Larry, 1st grade…

Well this has been a downer, sorry. Really just wanted to give Larry a shout-out in heaven on his 68th birthday. Hard to believe the last 55 birthdays celebrated without his little sister, Neese. Feel kind of bad that I keep blowing off his party invitations. Sorry, I’m a no-show again. I’d like to say “I’ll see you soon Bro, but not too soon.” I enjoy watching my 3 adult kids happy, healthy, and successful. But even better, the immense joy and pleasure I get watching and participating in the lives of my 4 incredible grandkid’s lives. One of my many and best blessings. By the way, if you had any say or influence with God when He chose the kids and grands to be part of my life then many, many thanks Larry. You’re still the best brother ever…

I was about 40, probably noticing how difficult my teenagers could be when I started reflecting back on my terrible-teens. Terrible two’s, what a joke, get real. Little kids, little problems, big kids, well you know the rest. Holy cow, I was an awful teenager. Don’t know why. Was I trying to get attention? Gee that’s very hard to believe now. The last thing I ever want to be is the center of attention, really. Maybe it was my way of dealing with my loss of Larry. Or how strict and mostly absent Dad was. Add that to how smothering Mom could be. I realized that we shared a very different home life. Just being in my friend’s homes told me we weren’t like them. At least the part I saw.

Neese, 1965 at John’s, Rock Valley, Ia.

Well, don’t want to dwell on the why too long, suffice it to say I was a pain in the butt. Drank a few times, but never really liked the feeling of not being in control. Then there’s the taste, well that just sucks. Never took drugs, never smoked pot. But if there were pranks of varying degrees of legality or a mildly destructive nature, I was one of the go-to-girls. I was afraid of heights, wild carnival rides and fast cars, this was my way of being a daredevil. With a couple of these pranks, I’m fortunate to be able to state “never arrested” on my very mundane life.

First prank started innocently enough. I had been invited to a slumber party at Mary Klein’s house. She lived several miles out in the country, closer to Doon than Rock Valley. We were having a good time. I was the youngest one there. Not a lot to do on the farm during the middle of the night though, ho-hum. Someone, don’t remember who, wish I could take the credit, suggested we drive to Sioux Falls about 45 miles away. There was this truck stop that was open all night. Did that sound like fun? Most certainly did. We had to wait until the rest of the house fell asleep, then sneak away for our adventure in the Klein family car, yikes. Guess who got behind the wheel when we were ready to go? Me, the youngest and probably the most inexperienced driver of the group. I wasn’t even in driver’s training yet. Not to worry, I had driven a car several times before. Pretty sure I was about 14.

Looked innocent, but really, not so much. 1965…

The Klein car (Dodge or Plymouth) was gigantic, salmon colored. It boasted huge fins, and the dashboard was different and truly fascinating. On the dash was a bunch of buttons indicating Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drives 1-through-8–at least. I got it figured out. We slunk out of the drive-way, no headlights, and scooted to Sioux Falls. Got to the truck stop, ordered burgers, fries, shakes. We giggled, joked, flirted, and acted like it was an ordinary occurrence for a carload of young Iowa girls to be in there at 1 am. We had the best time! No drinking, no State Troopers, no accidents. We made it back to the farm without incident. A night this young girl would remember with a lot of fondness a half century later. Good times indeed, no guilt, well maybe just a little for stealing the car.

My second “prank” was with most of the same girls. Hmm, when I did stuff with my classmates I was usually fine. Any activities with older kids and trouble seemed to stick to me like a magnet. I’m noticing a pattern here that would have been helpful to recognize 50 years ago. Duh. We decided it would be so cool to put our “year” stamp on something permanent. The problem that night, we were dealing with 2 years. I wanted mine, 1969, the older girls of course wanted 1968. I was outnumbered and out voted. We decided on the round Quonset building near the Green Acres Drive Inn. Wasn’t too late but very dark when we snuck up, painted a big white “RV 68” on the side of the building. Now this had a different outcome than you might think. I don’t remember ever being questioned, looked at sideways, brought into any office, school or police. My name simply never came up. Who in their right mind would try and pull something like that and not even use their own stinking year? Though I didn’t get caught it was kind of a wake-up call that I was being really dumb. Unfortunately, that hardly ever stopped me.

Not another prank, just a hard life lesson. When I was very young, maybe 2nd or 3rd grade, I spent a couple days on a farm north of Rock Valley. Don’t remember the girls name or the parents. They were church friends, but I do remember this incident vividly. Two men (the farmer and a friend, it wasn’t my Dad) were talking while we were playing in the front yard. Both the men were smoking cigars. They were teasing us and jokingly offered us a puff from their cigar. I said sure, took a puff–and liked it. Oh boy. I think my friend got sick after she took a puff, but even at that early age I knew I was destined to smoke. If there is a gene that makes you prone to become an alcoholic, I got the gene that made me want to smoke. I started when I was about 13 and would take me almost 3 decades to quit. I didn’t seem to learn my lesson of being dumb any quicker as an adult, than when I was a dippy teen. Huh. I was the only high school cheerleader (not smoking-hot, just smoking) that went out during half time for a cigarette.

 

Finally came to my senses and John and I quit on the same day, May 5, 1990. After that momentous and very smart decision though, we would not utter a civil word to each other for about 3 months. Some wicked side-effects. I was fine, he was a total tool…

I’m all Dutch. My maternal great-grandparents immigrated from Holland in the late 1800’s. With them they brought their deep belief in God, a hard work ethic, wooden shoes, and their language. Some which still lingers nearly 150 years later. That’s pretty amazing. While I wholeheartedly embrace “if you are going to live and work here, please learn our language. Then become citizens, abide by our Constitution, accept and love this country as your own.” Part of me loves the fact that in 2014, at least a few words of how they described stuff still lives in me. Not many, and how I wish I had learned more of the Dutch language. I’m really quite surprised by this. Not the part about me not paying closer attention. I was a self-centered spoiled brat. But the part about not learning more just because I heard it so much. I didn’t and that’s what surprises me. My maternal grandpa Gerrit Wanningen in the middle with his parents (my great-grandparents) and sister Jenny.

My great grandparents, grandpa Lakey, and sis, Jenny…

Mom was raised basically by 2 sets of Dutch grandparents. Her mom died before she and Floyd were 2 weeks old. She learned to speak Dutch before English. My Dad was Dutch too, but I don’t know how many generations back his family immigrated to the U.S. Yet Dutch was not spoken very much at our house. When Mom and Dad were talking about something or someone that they didn’t want my “nosey ears to memorize verbatim,” then use at a later date when totally inappropriate. Or keep until I needed good blackmail material, they would have a running Dutch conversation, but not very often. My paternal grandparents, Arie and Bessie Gerritson.

My paternal grands, Arie and Bessie Gerritson…

I did learn a lot of what was going on once in a while by sneaking down to the second or third step of our enclosed staircase after I’d gone to bed. I could hear them talk in the kitchen. They didn’t talk, really talk very often, and if they were in the den or living room, forget about it. It was too far away, but the words came through very clear between the kitchen and the staircase. Had to pay attention though. If I heard the chair legs scrape the linoleum, I had to hustle up those old steep steps. So very careful not to hit any of the creaks. Yup, I knew where all the creaks and squeaks were located on every step. Yet just a few years later when I consistently tried to sneak in after curfew, Mom had secretly installed her mysterious-bat-radar-stair-creaking-hearing-device and I got caught every stinking time.

I digress, back to Neese-speaks-Dutch. While whole conversations were not an everyday occurrence, certain words or phrases were. Thinking about the most popular ones, I have to say many of them tended to have a negative vibe. One though was a term of endearment Mom often used for me. KLANE-A-MAASHIE, means little girl. I have absolutely no idea how to spell any of them, so we’re going with phonics. Loosely spelled according to the way they were pronounced and definitions used in the Gerritson house. Going a step further, most would probably be lost in translation if I were to use them now in the Netherlands. Rock Valley Dutch folks seemed to have their own take on pronunciation. Plus over the years, mixing in a marriage to another Dutch person. Therefore we continued to mix and mash up these words. But my words nonetheless. Back by popular demand it’s my top 10 Dutch words, totally-Gerritson-fractured, but you get my drift. Drum roll please.

1. PLU-SHE: a piece of lint or fuzzy on clothing or carpet. My Mom could spot one from 30 feet, handing out detailed directions for retrieval to the nearest person.

2. AGG-A-WASE: being stubborn or pig-headed, bordering on a melt-down.

3. ZHAN-ICK: my favorite, means whining or begging until you got your way for candy, toy, movie, or shopping trip. I ruled with this word as a kid. Not proud, just the way it was.

4. SPUUT: making fun or mocking religion or God, never funny or acceptable.

5. FEECE: not very clean, you wouldn’t want to eat supper at their house.

6. HAU-KEE : an add-on room or shack.

7. BEN-OUT: stuffy, hot, tired or frazzled.

8. OOF-DA: heavy or too much of something.

9. SOT: really sick and tired of this.

10. MIS-LICK: not feeling well.

There were literally hundreds of Dutch words and phrases families used in my tiny corner of northwest Iowa daily. Even writing them with their odd Gerritson definitions gives me comfort. Takes me back to my childhood, the good and the not-so-good, but a big part of what makes me–me. About the title of this itty-bitty-Dutch-blog, hut-fa-duttie means “oh shit.” Heh-tah, too yet….

Mom always excelled at whatever hobby caught her fancy. For a time she was into walking, later bike riding, then for awhile she had beautiful flower gardens. She bought several odd shaped, flat vases, stuck in this green putty stuff with a porcupine like disk stuck on the putty to hold the flower stems in place and arranged flowers.

She entered some flower shows, even got some awards, but just as suddenly, was done with the flower growing and arranging hobby.

Knitting and crocheting proved to be more than a passing fancy. She would do this for many years, constantly improving. Mom knit me sweaters of every color (all 100% wool, each with a sewn in tag stating “Handknit by Florence”) but it was her pattern choices that were truly amazing. Complicated cables, popcorns, each one seemed more intricate than the last.

 

Plus she was sneaky about this. Mom would have one of her (mine really) sweater projects next to her chair in her knitting basket, (a cloth patterned bag that stood on 4 wooden-dowel legs, Shannon has it now) and work on it after supper. Little did I know at the time, she would also have a second, sometimes even a third sweater project going at the same time, but hidden somewhere in the house. When I wasn’t home, she’d be busy working on them. A new hand-knit sweater was never enough. Mom would have a coordinated wool pleated skirt to match or for awhile, I wore a lot of lined-wool Bermuda shorts, even during Iowa winters with knee socks. What a hoot! Distinctly remember a pair of black & white hounds-tooth wool shorts with a truly amazing winter white sweater.

 

Had a matching one for a kid I dated at the time, 1965…

 

She would buy me neat, simple pins to adorn the new sweaters, a rooster, mouse, paper boy. I wasn’t the only lucky recipient of these highly sought after prized sweaters. My bestie, Char Schelhaas received several, so did whatever guy I was dating at the time when the knitting needles were in her hands.

She had a couple seamstresses “on retainer.” The spinster Dearborn sisters. They could sew about anything, pretty sure they made my dress for Mona’s wedding when I was 10 (candle lighter duty with Ed’s little sister)

Me, Mona, Ed’s sister Linda, Sept. 1960…

Mom enjoyed knitting and crocheting afghans, baby blankets, booties, often gifts for co-workers or friends. For my 24th birthday she crocheted an afghan of 24 different colors plus white.

 

Kind of reminds me of Joseph and the technicolor dream coat-afghan. When Shannon entered her world and the poncho craze hit in the early ’70’s, I can’t tell you how many different ones she made, knit or crocheted. Vividly remember Shannon, her doll and me all in matching red, white and blue ponchos. I think the doll might still fit into hers… Shannon and one of the famous poncho’s, 1972.

 

Shannon w/ crocheted poncho by Mom, 1973…

Dad was a determined man when it was time to get the “word” out. Once he became a born again Christian, it was his mission in life to do “whatever it takes” so others would be saved too. He set up “tract racks” everywhere. Rock Valley, Sioux City, Sioux Falls, anywhere owners, friends, acquaintances would let him. These were palm-sized Mini-books with a message. How to be a better Christian, How to pray, Uplifting words when you’re down and out. Fire and brimstone ones to get you “scared straight,” though most tended to be on the positive side. He bought skids of bibles, Good news for Modern Man, The New Testament, The Psalms, study bibles, special bibles designed just for inmates. He had hundreds of his “testimony” printed up.

Favorite picture of my Dad. Probably late 1970’s…

The story on how he was a sinner, enjoying worldly things. His love of money until he lost his son Larry at age 12, and became a Christian. At times it was almost like he was possessed. Tough to live with and even be around. Sometimes his methods leaned towards “shove it down your throat until you realize this is for your own good. There’s only once chance to get into heaven.”

Dad’s Testimony. Larry’s school pic from 1958…

What else could he do to get God’s message out there? He spoke frequently in prisons, and nursing homes. Using the New Testament, especially the gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. These books tell different versions of the birth, life, ministry, death and resurrection of Jesus. Often he used The Sermon on the Mount with the encouraging beatitudes. Other times Corinthians, Love is patient, love is kind. Lucky for me he didn’t care or study the Old Testament very much. He could have gone the prophet Ezekiel’s route and laid on his left side for 432 days or something. This might be categorized as “spuuting.” A Dutch word meaning making fun of God or religion. Sorry God, and you too Dad.

Pretty sure I saw this saying, and suggested Dad use it…

So Dad was not a prophet. But somewhere along the line experienced an epiphany, or perhaps we’ll just call it a “sign!” I don’t know where or how this idea popped in his head, but I think it started in the early ’70’s. He would get permission from a farmer to use a tiny spot of their land to erect a good-sized sign. These were fellow Christians and supporters of his “mission in life” agenda to save sinners. This pretty much included all drivers zipping through northwest Iowa.

Dad really appreciated the local farmers letting him use a spot for his signs…

The signs were hand painted on plywood. Constructed, then erected by Dad, touched up or repainted constantly. Most were positive messages. Once in a while there would be a “scared straight” one, sometimes offending someone who would ask the farmer for Dad’s name and come over and state his objections. Dad took this well, he was not thin-skinned. God had made him “prophet tough” in that respect. Dad would re-paint the sign in a more positive light.

Making sure anyone driving past-GOT the message…

I can remember seeing catchy phrases on billboards or advertising near a church when driving. I’d stop, jot it down on something, (no never wrote it on any of the kids) then call Dad with a new idea for a sign. Once in a while it was such a clever play on words that further explanation was needed. (ok Dad, let’s go through it again) Plus always giving him the correct spelling and punctuation. Don’t know if you can really see it on any of these pictures but Dad’s commas on most of the signs are hysterical.

One of Dad’s favorite signs…

Never close to bottom of the line, they always look more like apostrophe’s to me. Sorry Dad, couldn’t help myself.

This was a ministry that was very important to Dad. One he really enjoyed and always prayed would touch someone he might not ever meet. It was one of the hardest things for him to give up when he left Rock Valley. He had a couple guys lined up who would keep them in good repair, or erect new ones. Deep down though I know he worried that his “sign ministry” would not be the same without his constant care and attention.

Trying to catch your attention and make you think…

After Dad passed away, while we were cleaning out his apartment, John came across the 4 x 8 sheet of styrofoam board. It was covered in pictures, newspaper articles, and awards Dad had received over the years for many of his various “good works.” (No one would ever accuse him of being too humble). John suggested that we take it along to Rock Valley and set it up at his funeral. Maybe someone there might want it. Good idea, but there was one particular picture that had to be mine. Just the most appealing, captivating, smiling shot of him. A newspaper photographer got while Dad was being interviewed for something. He had just gotten off work and was still in his striped bib overalls. Must have been summer as his “constant long sleeves” were rolled up almost to his elbows. Found the picture. See above. I know he would have rather been photographed in a suit, clutching his bible, or behind a pulpit. But my all time favorite shot of my Dad. Awesome.

Grandpa Rich teaching Shannon, 2 how to pray…

Dad’s body was flown to Iowa. We drove and hauled the “Rich wall” along. It was the talk of the luncheon after his service. John carefully cut off the picture I wanted. Lo and behold people were standing in line to take a small piece of Dad’s legacy. I’ll take that as a “good sign” Dad…

Dad dressed up, ready to save your soul…

My Mom and Dad, like many long-married couples, had a code. Unspoken and unwritten about routine tasks assigned to each of them. Mom paid the bills, kept track of what was in checking and savings accounts, bought groceries, cleaned relentlessly, decided what they were having for supper or if they were going out to eat.

Dad had many chores, the yard, constantly fixing stuff in the house (almost a full-time job), but he was also very busy with several outside activities. He was involved in a program with inmates in the South Dakota prison system called the M-2 program. It designated a mentor with an inmate for weekly one-on-one sessions. Over the years Dad had mentored many inmates. Several stayed in touch with him long after they were released from prison. He taught several bible studies in Hull, Hudson, Canton, and Rock Valley. Mostly in local nursing homes. He was active in teaching Sunday school and was an elder in the Consistory of First Reformed church in Rock Valley for several terms. He would preach at a service in different prisons in South Dakota every few months. Including Yankton and Pierre, both quite far away. He usually went with a group of church folks, all riding together in a van.

 

Dad at his favorite spot. Behind the pulpit. Mid-1980’s…

 

Dad wrote his own sermons, but Mom, with a great gift for punctuation, sentence structure, spelling, and paragraphs, was his number one proofreader. He ran everything he wrote by her first.

 

One of Dad’s handwritten sermons. Probably 1990’s….

 

One of many sermons I still can’t bear to part with. See how Dad marked the page numbers with masking tape, then used different colored ink pens for paragraphs, helping him to easily keep track of where he was on the page.

When Mom was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, Dad’s extra-curricular activities just stopped. It would be several years before he would be able to get back to his calling. After Mom passed away in 2004, one of the first things Dad told me, “I don’t want to deal with the house, yard, shoveling, or mowing. I’m moving to an apartment somewhere.” I convinced him that at age 88, the right choice was to come to Michigan where I lived. Almost 800 miles away from the only town he had ever known or lived in. What was I thinking? We had never been close. This had all the makings for a major disaster. Five months later, our old family home was sold. Dad wasn’t sentimental about the house, but I had a terrible time giving up the “Gerritson” phone number. I remember when our number was 691, then 5691. Years later they added the prefix 476-5691. Still get lumpy about the number they had for so many years. Silly stuff, but hard to let go of the silly stuff sometimes. Soon it was moving day.

 

Adam and John at Western Michigan’s college graduation, 2004…

 

I had already been back and forth to Rock Valley several times. This time well over a week packing, giving away, and disposing of stuff. Dad and I would stay behind for the house closing and drive to Michigan together. But I’d been busy already, getting ready for his arrival and life-style in Michigan too. Found him a great apartment about 2 blocks from me. His apartment building included an underground heated enclosed garage. His living room window even had a tiny, corner view of Muskegon Lake. Well, during the seasons when the trees were totally bare. Then Dad could see the lake and part of our house from his apartment window when he looked down the hill.

 

Dad’s apartment. His was in back, facing the lake…

 

I had already spoken several times with the head Chaplain, Rev. Burrel from West Shoreline Correctional facility in Muskegon. Given him all Dad’s references of chaplains he’d ever worked with and had Dad set up to teach a weekly bible study, plus preach one Sunday afternoon a month. He would also have a weekly bible study in an assisted living facility, plus speak one night a month at the Muskegon Rescue Mission. By the time Dad arrived in Michigan, according to his calculations, he was called here by God. I just happened to live in the same town!!

 

Dad in upper right, holding Bible Study at assisted living, 2006…

 

But without Mom paying the bills, and making money decisions, Dad was lost in those areas. Plus proofreading new sermons. Guess who would be expected to step up to the plate and do these tasks? Yup me, the bill paying proofreader. Rarely a day passed that I didn’t see him or talk to him on the phone. His first month here was truly miserable. At least for me. I was as busy as a one-armed paper hanger. Getting him new car plates, registration, and a Michigan’s driver’s license. All without the benefit of the car title. Which we couldn’t find. Ended up sending for a duplicate from Orange City. Prescriptions transferred to a new pharmacy, new bank, new doctor. My great primary care doctor agreed to take Dad as a patient. Heck, we even had to find a new barber. Plus driving him all over because he didn’t know his way around yet. We finally found a kind of rhythm. I bought his groceries, cleaned his apartment, did his laundry, paid the bills, brought him meals, or had him over for supper.

A word about the bills. Dad found it disturbing when I wrote out his church “collection check.” Didn’t have a problem with all of the other bills I had to write checks for each month. He felt since I was signing for it, it appeared as though I was giving the money to the Lord, not him. Hence, he signed just that one check each week. I could never convince him to write one check for the whole month either. Then it would look like he wasn’t giving collection (tithing) the other weeks. Oh Dad.

Many mornings Dad and I met for breakfast. His favorite meal to eat out. Almost every time I went to his apartment, there on his loveseat would be some reading material. Just for me. New sermons he had written. I learned quickly we needed to set up a code system for the sermons. I started making different check marks on top. Thus Dad knew if a particular one was “old news” for the inmates, but hadn’t been used at the rescue mission yet.

One day it wasn’t a sermon I found to proofread. But a complete draft of his funeral service. Scared the heck out of me. Biting my lip, I looked up from the page. “Umm Dad, are you feeling ok?” “Sure” he said, “but I didn’t think you would know all the bible verses I want used at my funeral.” Since he had listed about 25 verses, guess I did not. I emailed a copy to Rev. Mike Van Hamersveld in Rock Valley. Eventually Dad’s funeral service would be held there, since Mom and Dad had been members over 50 years. But I pointed out to Mike he need not practice it just yet. Dad was still doing fine.

Another time my proofreading skills were required, Dad mentioned having a dream about John Wesley. Being a part time staffer and member of the United Methodist Church, I quipped, “Dad did you know John Wesley was the founder of the Methodist Church?” “Sure did,” he replied, “I met him once at a Billy Graham Crusade years ago. In Sioux Falls, South Dakota!” Really?

Might point out here, I had just heard a sermon about John Wesley and his brother Charles. John, the preacher, brother Charles had written hundreds of hymns. I knew for a fact both were born in the early 1700’s. Awkward. Dad by then had just celebrated his 90th birthday. Well, what’s a couple hundred years here and there?

 

Umm Dad, John Wesley was born in 1703…

 

But at a Billy Graham Crusade? Dad hadn’t been a counselor at a Crusade for probably 25 years or more. “Are you sure Dad? I’m pretty sure John Wesley lived and died a long time ago.” Yes, he was certain he had been introduced to him at a Crusade. He and Rev. Wesley had a very lively discussion (argument) on predestination. I knew which way Dad would have sided on that subject. Dad, with a lot of Calvinism still running through his veins believed in predestination. John Wesley did not. Hmmm, who was I to argue? With God and Billy Graham, indeed all things are possible…

 

Yes Dad knew Billy Graham quite well in the 60’s and 70’s…

My maternal grandparents married in 1924. My grandma, Jacoba Berghuis graduated from high school in Sioux Center Iowa, May 1924. She immediately went to Des Moines for her teaching certificate which she obtained in October the same year, with spectacular grades. That’s about 4 months to get her teaching degree! I have her diploma (it’s beautiful). She started teaching, married my grandpa, Gerrit, nicknamed (Lakey) Wanningen in December. In those days, married women were not allowed to teach, so they kept their marriage a secret. I’m sure they continued to “date,” but you know back in 1924 there was no way were they living together. Lakey was very tall, somewhat awkward, and a few years older than Coba. He felt that he was the luckiest guy in the world.

My grandma, Jacoba Berghuis HS graduation, 1924…

At the end of the school year in 1926, Coba and Gerrit would come clean on their marriage as they were expecting a child. Wonder if they had to show their marriage license as proof? My mom Florence Elaine, and her twin brother Floyd Duane were born on December 13, 1926. Twins were a big deal in the small town of Sioux Center.

 

Floyd and Florence Wanningen, 1927…

 

Write ups in the paper, things were great, but Coba at just 20, was not bouncing back from this difficult childbirth. Kidney complications set in and the newborns lost their beautiful mom when they were 10 days old. My mom always felt that her dad blamed her and Floyd for taking away his beautiful young wife. Certainly Gerrit could not raise the babies. Both sets of grandparents however were vying for the chance to raise the twins. Coba’s parents were younger, even had a grown daughter, Lena still living at home.

 

Mom’s aunt Lena Berghuis, about 1920 graduation pic…

 

Lakey’s parents though older, oddly enough, had built a huge 2 story home a few years before. They were actually teased about the house. Folks thought it was strange that they were in their 50’s, building such a big house for 2 people. God must have known it would soon be filled with an extra 2 little mouths to feed. There was no big fight between the grands, paternal’s won out, house and money wise. The Berghuis’s insisted that the Wanningen’s hire a nanny for the first 2 years. Grandma Wanningen was now 60 with 2 newborns, yikes. She spoke almost no English, still wore wooden shoes, and my mom grew up loving her with all her heart.

Jenny, grandpa, Lakey and Grandma Wanningen, early 1900’s…

I never got to meet my great-grandma Wanningen, she passed away in the summer of 1950 when Mom was pregnant with me. I do remember going to Sioux Center with mom to visit Grandma Berghuis when I was young. Mom was really raised by both sets of grandparents. Grandpa Lakey would re-marry when Mom and Floyd were in grade school and decided he and new wifey would raise the twins. That didn’t last very long. According to mom she and Floyd cried constantly, didn’t get along with their new step mom or her children and soon were back in the loving care of their grandparents.

Mom, grandpa and grandma Wanningen and Floyd, mid-1930’s…

As the twins were growing, many weekends were spent with the Berghuis clan too. Sioux Center was a small town, and the grandparents lived only a few blocks from each other. There were 3 Berghuis uncles and 3 aunts with whom they were very close. Mom and Floyd were actually named after their uncle Floyd and aunt Florence Berghuis, also twins. One aunt was married and had kids about the same age as the twins. They spent a lot of time on the farm with their aunt Alida DeZeeuw and her family.

 

Mom’s aunt Alida Berghuis DeZeeuw, 1920’s…

 

It was Grandma Berghuis who would often “do stuff” with the twins. If they were staying there for the weekend, after church and a big Sunday dinner (noon meal), almost everyone took a nap in the afternoon. Not much fun when you’re a little kid, but by this time both sets of grandparents were nearing 70. All four grandparents were deeply religious, even to the point that Grandma Berghuis would peel her potatoes on Saturday for Sunday dinner, thus eliminating some of the work from a Sunday. “Remember the sabbath day to keep it holy. Six days thou shalt thou labor and do all thy work, but the 7th day is holy and thou shalt not do any work.” (close enough) I guess though this did not mean a little fun stuff now and then. Grandma Berghuis did not nap on Sunday afternoon when the twins were there.

 

Mom’s grandma Berghuis, early 1920’s…

 

They often would make a batch of fudge or penuche (Dutch brown sugar fudge). These candies, having only about 5 ingredients each were boiled, then had to cool before beating it until it was thick enough to pour on a buttered plate and set up solid.

 

 

Penuche. Dutch brown sugar fudge. Super sweet…

 

 

A favorite story that my mom frequently told was the time they had a batch of fudge cooling in the back haukee (Dutch for small enclosed porch). Someone knocked on the door for a visit, and rather admit to their indiscretion (minor sin) and bring the fudge out, opted to “let the cooling fudge set,” never mentioned it, and by the company finally left, the fudge was solid. No big deal, they had a good laugh and ate it out of the pan. (sorry God)…

 

I still use great grandma’s Berghuis simple recipe…