When we moved to Jackson, Michigan in 1987, we bought a ranch on the outskirts of town. A nice neighborhood which was a big loose oblong circle consisting of about 50 homes. Most of the homes were built in the 50’s for mid-level executives working for Consumer’s Power Company. The landscaping was overgrown and hiding the house. This could hardly be called the green, green grass of home. And it was summertime. Something John was compelled to repair. Right away. He was mortified how bad the yard looked. Not an easy fix. But fix it he did.

Mag VB admiring lousy grass, over grown shrubs

This was a neighborhood in transition. Many of the homeowners were retired, but were about to downsize, or move closer to their families. The homes being sold were too big for retirees, so most were snatched up by younger families like us. Our house was owned by the little old lady next door named Stella. She was a widow, in her upper ’80’s and the original owner of her own house. She bought our house for her step-daughter who was fighting serious cancer, and had just lost her long battle. Stella was a charming retired school teacher. She and her husband had owned and operated a motel/resort for decades in upper Michigan. At the end of the school year when Stella was done shaping young minds for the summer, she and Lester would open up the motel. It was mostly Stella’s responsibility though, since Lester worked all week in Jackson, then would drive up on weekends to help.

These homes all had spacious lots. Each one was about an acre. And since we were now in forest covered Michigan, most of the yards were filled with trees. We had 9 majestic oaks that stood on the lot line in our front yard. Gorgeous. Then add at least 30 more trees. We were lucky to see 2 feet out of any window, or catch a fleeting ray of sunshine now and then. Right in front of the oaks was a ditch along McCain Road. In late fall you could no longer see the ditch for the leaves. It was level with the road, sometimes higher. We raked them up the first year or 2. Took us about a month. Then John bought a Cub Cadet and sucked them up. Took him about a month (but at least it wasn’t me raking anymore). One of our neighbors had a friend who had a multiple acre garden just down the road. John brought them 100 trash bags of leaves each fall that they used for garden mulch.

3 oaks and a ditch full of leaves

Early that first spring, Stella waltzed over to John. He was working feverishly in the yard. Stella asked John to please start treating the weeds. She didn’t want the dandelion seeds flying on her yard. What a hoot! She had owned the property for a decade, but was now concerned that our yard work be done in a timely manner. As in the first 2 months of moving in. John is a lawn nut. He’s always wanted and needed to have the nicest, greenest, weed-free lawn within blocks. Make that miles. And with no help. He was insulted when companies like True Green would stop and offer services. When we bought the house in February, it was covered with a couple feet of snow. After it melted, John was devastated by the condition of the yard. Not a lot of healthy grass. But this could not be fixed in a quick spray of weed killer. It took him 3 years to whip that baby into shape. Weeds weren’t the only problem either. Tough to grow grass in constant shade. Ain’t no sunshine where there’s trees. And our yard was like an umbrella. Hiding the sun with the trees. Hard for this Iowa sun worshipper. Yup, it’s usually all about me.

The house and yard needed updating. You could see this was the original landscaping. If the house was built in ’53, the bushes were now 35 years old. It showed. The shrubs were overgrown, and there were way too many trees. Diane, one of our neighbors said her hubby Fred would be happy to come over and help trim our stuff. He drove over with a BACKHOE. Two hours later, every shrub and bush around the house had been ripped out. In their place were huge holes with rusty colored clay-chunks of soil. That too was different than the rich, black dirt from Iowa we were used to seeing and working with. Our yard looked as though a tornado had hit. Loud gasps could be heard as folks drove by. But to me it looked better already. Fred and John loaded up 2 flatbeds with the yanked out shrubs, then started on the trees. Ended up cutting down about a dozen of our 40 plus trees. We had 2 fireplaces, so we kept and burned the wood. With sunshine, water and fertilizer, the grass flourished. We had so much fun picking out new landscaping. We chose what appealed to us. A weeping larch, Japanese maple, grafted bonsai, weeping cherry. Seems like everything we bought had to have an unhappy sobbing, or crying word ahead of it’s name. I think I really just liked stuff that hung over or down. Then we spent hours deciding where everything should go. You could see the beautiful brick on the front of the house again.

 

New landscaping. Josh & Jody going to prom

Everything looked awesome. We poured a new patio in the backyard, put in a privacy fence and added a hot tub. This was our reward because we stopped smoking in May of 1990. Yay. Figured the cost of the hot tub was about a year’s worth of smokes.

 

Stella meanwhile had decided that being a homeowner was no longer in her best interest. I was bringing supper over to her almost every night, but she felt it was time to make a change. She was moving into a ritzy independent living facility about 5 miles away. She needed to downsize considerably, and asked me to help her price her belongings for a sale. I spent a lot of time at her house going through my antique books to get a bead on what some of her glassware was worth. I had no computer, EBay or Google back then. I was knowledgeable in any kind of antique oak furniture. I hadn’t stuffed my house so full that I had quit collecting yet. Wouldn’t be long though. That’s why I started collecting Waterford crystal. I had absolutely NO MORE ROOM for another piece of oak furniture unless I could hang it from the ceiling. Stella gave some of her heirlooms to step-grandchildren, kept many of her nice things, but sold a lot. She offered me anything she had for sale as payment for my pricing and working with her at the sale. I chose a scale she had used for years at motel/resort. It’s a black cast iron Fairbanks, and was used to weigh letters, and postcards for postage. It’s just the cutest thing. It has been on my mantle for 25 years. Until I had to strip my house of anything meaningful when we listed it for sale. Just an awful way to live. All my shelves, knickknacks, family pictures, half my furniture is in storage. Don’t get me started. Scale is there too, but this is close to what it looks like. I keep a picture postcard of Stella’s resort on the scale.

Fairbanks postal scale

Although we’d only live in this house 7 years (a new record for the nomad Van Berkum clan) it’s the last place where I really got to know all my neighbors. Three reasons in my case. School is number 1. Adam was in 10th grade when we moved to North Muskegon. Once he graduated, I no longer went to parent/teacher conferences, school activities or sporting events. You lose that connection with other parents, teachers and community. Another reason is age I think. Partly my fault too. The older I get, the harder it is to make friends when you move. People my age already have plenty of friends. It’s easier for me to just stay home and be content in the kitchen and my “nest.” We’ve been in this house in North Muskegon now over 20 years and I know a handful of folks. The town is about 4,000 people and a little bit snooty. I’m still an outsider. Wasn’t born and raised here. The last reason I was so well aquatinted with this group of Jackson/McCain Road people is I went to each and every house several times to get a petition signed. Yeah me, the most non-confrontational person on the planet. But that’s a blog story for another day. And it’s a doozy…

The back yard finally discovers the sun…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Christmas tree is coming down for another year. I really enjoy having it up, but I get twitchy after Christmas and want my living room “back to normal.” I’ve never minded people who put up their decorations early. The ones that drive me a little nuts are those who cling to their tree and outside lights through January, sometimes February. Time to move on folks. This is about my fascination with ornament collections, and growing to love my Christmas tree. (A favorite, my Lladro collection. Kinda pricey which is why there’s only 3)

 

Lladro’s

I didn’t think my relationship with trees was that complicated. Gee, I rarely thought about them. Until I moved to Michigan almost 30 years ago. Suddenly they were pushed to the forefront. Trees, who knew? I don’t dislike trees. There’s not much that compares to the spectacular colors that nature offers when it comes to trees during the fall. One of Mom’s favorite saying’s was the first couple lines of Joyce Kilmer’s poem, Trees. “I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.” (A little copse of birch trees I watch daily from “my nest.”)

 

Neighbor’s Birch trees

 

It all started when we bought our first house in Michigan. A rambling ranch on an acre plot. Overflowing with trees. This was disturbing because I was born and raised for 36 years as an Iowan who loved the sun, and could see for miles. (Iowa is and will always be my home, no matter how long I live in Michigan) Michigan has trees everywhere. I had trouble finding a spot of sunshine in the yard to plop my chaise lounge. Wound up moving my chair every few minutes. (Part of my Lenox collection)

 

Lenox

 

To me it’s just such a closed-in, cooped-up feeling. Almost like I couldn’t catch my breath. Or breathe deeply. I still get that feeling. Looking at Lake Michigan helps. I can see for a long ways when I’m at the big lake. Our house is on Muskegon Lake which flows into Lake Michigan. Looking across our lake is ok, but there’s a drab city across the water. And it feels like I’m not very far from the city when I look out. But that “ben-out” (Dutch word for stuffy) feeling does not totally go away until I cross the Mississippi, heading west. It’s like my constantly constricted chest that’s been in spasms since I left Iowa, finally lets go and is loosey-goosey, free at last. (Homemade ornaments from the kids and grandkids. Truly priceless).

 

Priceless ornaments from kids and grands

 

Trees were just never a big part of my life or thoughts. Not even Christmas trees. I barely remember having a tree for Christmas when I was very young. I’m pretty sure my brother Larry brought them home from Koster’s Market. After he died in 1958 there were no more Christmas trees or celebrating in our house. I had just turned 8. Years later when John and I were dating, I realized Christmas trees were still a big deal in most homes. For the first 2 decades of our marriage, we bought real Christmas trees. Sometimes John took the kids out to chop down our own, for the whole “Griswold family Christmas tree experience.”

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

John’s sister Elly has had an artificial tree for at least 50 years. Yes, the SAME one. I noticed her tree held and displayed ornaments much nicer than real trees. They handle the heavy ones better. She has the most beautifully decorated tree I’ve ever seen. Not one of these “theme” or only stick to one color ornament either. She’s been collecting special one-of-a-kind-ornaments for over 60 years. She wanted me to love Christmas trees the way she does. When we were living in Spencer she made me this adorable tree skirt. Depicts different scenes of Santa. That was about 35 years ago. Doesn’t seem possible. (Elly’s gift to me in 1980. I bunched it together so you can see 2 of the 4 Santa’s).

Elly’s magnificent tree. Has about 450 ornaments, honest…

 

We got our first artificial tree about 25 years ago. I did miss the smell of pine at first. But we had 2 kids with allergies and asthma, and a dog who liked to lap the water out of the tree stand. Plus John was forever hacking off the trunk until it fit in those old tree stands. In and out of the house until it fit properly and was level. Then about a week later, the needles would start dropping off by the thousands. There’s not much about a real tree I miss.

My first Christmas ornament collection started by accident. Maybe most collections happen like that. Adam, who was about 6 bought me a Precious Moment upside down clown ornament for Christmas in the mid-80’s. A couple days later I had my Christmas party with my bowling/Euchre/Secret Sister gang and got another PM ornament. This one was a gal carrying a pie. (I Had 150 Precious Moments at one time. Got them down to about 50 now).

 

Precious Moments faves

 

The rest is history. At one time I had so many in certain collections I had to get a second and third tree to hold them. Then I started searching for unusual, one-of-a-kind ornaments. Hand blown ones that were very fancy. I bought several small wrought iron shelves/hangers so I could keep them up all year long. Hand painted ones, too pretty for only displaying a couple weeks a year. (Rhyne-Rivet collection, all hand painted)

 

 

My friend Diane had an oddly-freaky, felt Mr. and Mrs. Claus with hand painted faces. She rescued them from the trash collectors one year when her mom was throwing them out after Christmas. They each stood about 3 feet tall and Diane nestled them standing near her tree. My whole family thinks they’re homely. But I thought they were cute, and had to get some ornaments. (My Anna Lee’s. They’re different, but I like them)

 

 

Once we moved to the west side of Michigan and shopped at the Dutch Village in Holland, I discovered Blue Delft ornaments. I’ve collected Blue Delft since I was a teen, but not ornaments. Soon Lenox and Waterford ornaments were added to the mix. I had to stop. Decorating started feeling like a chore. Most the pricier ones have their own boxes. Takes a long time to get them unwrapped. At least when I’m decorating the tree, it’s fun to reminisce when I got it and who it’s from. Taking them down after Christmas is not nearly as much fun. So I started paring down the collections. Kept only the ones from each collection that really meant something to me. Went back down to one nice tree with multi-colored lights. (My gorgeous Blue Delft ornaments)

 

 

But it’s the family hand me downs, and the ones the kids made in school that mean the most to me. Now the grandkids are making ornaments. I really love getting those out each year. The smeared dried glue, with yarn hangers that are a foot long to hang on a branch. Those are the ones that get the prime spots on the tree each year. It’s not the Waterford’s or Lladro’s that give me a lump in my throat when I unpack them. It’s the little laminated yellow star with Adam’s school picture. The back of it that reads; 1986, Adam. I am 7. Those are the ones that make me cry (but in a good way) every December when it’s time to decorate my tree…

 

 

 

 

 

Joshua. Our middle kid. Only one of the 3 who arrived on his due date without much fuss or fanfare. His name was the only one we did not have to compromise on. We both loved the name Joshua. He had so much beautiful hair I took pictures of the back of his head. Probably got all that hair from the strange cravings during my pregnancy. Lemon meringue pie and sauerkraut. Not always at the same time, but more often than not. I could and did eat whole cans of sauerkraut. Usually right out of the can, cold. Kind of surprised I still like both those foods. Though Josh arrived on time, he was pokey with everything else. I guess the word is contented. He was not in a hurry to do anything too soon. Crawl, walk, or talk. Except get rid of his bottle. From day one on this earth he always preferred his thumb. At 8 months he gave his bottle a major league toss across the room, strongly indicating he was done with that thing.

Joshua 1976

The summer Josh turned 3, we noticed he was having trouble getting some of his words out. He’d hesitate, kind of stutter over a word, then finish the sentence. Usually his sister Shannon, age 7-1/2 would just finish the sentence for him. That fall, once take-charge-of-everything-big-Sis was back in school during the day, all stammering stopped. Josh was our second child to get through life unscathed on the killer rocking horse.

My little cowboy Joshua, 1979…

We were living in Spencer, Iowa. Great little town. Often the second coldest spot in the country during the winter. Right behind International Falls, Mn. Really not my favorite trivia tidbit about the town. I was having a major tooth problem. Had been to the dentist several times trying to clear up the infection with an abscess. My regular dentist was out of town when I woke up one morning, lip and gum very swollen. I saw the guy filling in for my dentist who ordered some different antibiotics and a pain pill. After 3-1/2 year old Josh and I got back home, I took both new prescriptions. Wasn’t long before I felt really sick. Fell and passed out on the kitchen floor. To this day I don’t know how Josh managed to call his dad at work. On a wall landline phone, dialing 7 digits, getting through the operator to John’s extension. He calmly told Daddy that Mommy was on the floor sick and wouldn’t wake up. John flew home, only a couple miles away, and carried me out to the car. Loaded up Josh and zipped us to the hospital. I was fine after a few hours. Combining the new and old medicine with the pain pill was just too much. Thanks Josh. Pretty sure you saved your mom that day.

Joshua practicing his fine motor skills, 1980…

The summer before he started kindergarten, we were frantically trying to figure out how to get 5 year old Josh to stop sucking his thumb. Something he did unconsciously when he was tired or watching TV. There were some nasty products available with a guaranteed success rate, but using them seemed mean (and nasty). John and I decided we would first try good old bribery. Told Josh he could have anything “in the world” if he would stop sucking his thumb for 7 days. “Is there anything you really, really want?” “A Hershey candy bar,” he said quickly. We laughed. Who couldn’t love this kid to pieces? John got out the Christmas catalog. Remember those catalogs? Kids went through them with a fine tooth comb, circling or checking off all the things they wanted for Christmas. John told Josh to look through the catalog and choose the biggest, best present of all time. Then if he would stop sucking his thumb for 7 days, we’d order that present for him. Took him a couple days to decide. Probably a ruse while he sucked his thumb, contemplating if giving it up was really worth it. Finally he picked something out he felt worthy of giving up his favorite thumb for a whole week. A-Super-Duper-Double-Looper. In other words, a race track where the tiny cars literally took loops. It was fancy and expensive. We should have quit while we were ahead with the Hershey Bar. As I remember he had to start over after a small thumb-sucking flub-up and had already made it through day 2. Smooth sailing after that. Must say that race track was worth it to us and certainly to him. Don’t know if there was a toy he loved or played with more.

First day of kindergarten for Josh, 1980…

Soon after we moved to Davenport, Josh was just old enough to show an interest in sports. We signed him up for little league. Josh and Dad went shopping for equipment. Cutest little leather glove. And his first ever–cup. He begged us constantly to play catch with him. The diamonds these little squirts played on were nothing but weed filled dust patches. Looked like they were playing during a blizzard with all the dandelion seeds floating through the air. Josh was playing seldom used left field. Boys this age had the interest span of 30 seconds, max. After closely examining the nearby 40 varieties of weeds, and blowing off so many dandelions seeds he was turning blue, Josh plopped down on the ground, barely visible way out there. Might have been bored with his fast paced, exciting baseball game. He was sitting with his legs sprawled out like a frogs. Don’t know if he had a chigger bite, dirt in his pants, or was chaffed, but suddenly he raised his right hand high above his head, swung it down, smacked himself on “the cup.” Shock and almost delight spread across his face cause it didn’t hurt. Wow. It didn’t hurt. Decides he needs to try that again. Hitting his cup in amazement and wonder. Amazement wasn’t the emotion I was feeling. Thankfully the other team only scored 17 runs during their half of the inning, so he wasn’t out there all day.

Our house in Davenport had an octopus type furnace in the basement. Gigantic, with all these “arms” that fed heat to different parts of the house. The kids really didn’t play down there very often. The rest of the house seemed huge after our year long stint in the tiny rental, and the lure of playing outdoors almost always won out. But that day they were playing dodgeball in the basement. Josh came up from the basement, went over to his dad and quietly admitted he had kicked the ball hard and it had hit the furnace. Now it was making a funny hissing noise. “Please don’t be mad at me Dad. I didn’t mean to break it.” John had the good sense not to switch the light on when he went to examine he damage. Yikes. When Josh kicked the ball, it hit a small pipe. The pipe had split and was leaking gas. John shut it down, flew to the hardware store to get a section of replacement pipe and had it fixed in an hour. I still wonder how many kids Joshua’s age would so easily admit their mistake. He probably saved all of us that day from a gas explosion. He was and still is thoughtful, truthful, tolerant and one of a kind.

Josh was in driver’s training and was anxious to get his own set of wheels when he turned 16. He talked to John and said he would like to get an old truck. John thought this was a great idea. Trouble was, neither one talked to each other about what the word “old” meant. This was 1990. To Josh an “old truck” was about a 1983. To John an “old truck” was something older than a 1960. Great minds not always thinking alike here. John’s brother Les had a friend, who had a friend, who knew a guy. Yeah, one of those deals. When we went back to Iowa for spring break to visit parents and relatives, holy smokes, there was an old truck. Really dirt cheap, through this whole maze of virtually unknown people. A 1949 Ford pick-up. Kind of a mess, but it looked pretty good. Bed wasn’t attached, tires were shot, but some restoration had been haphazardly started. The bench seat had been recovered in a dark maroon fabric. That was the extent of the work done. But hey, the seat looked great. John was intrigued, excited and ready to put in some bucks and back-breaking work to get the thing running by Joshua’s 16th birthday. Josh was not quite as enthusiastic, but that didn’t damper his or dad’s spirit.

The engine was shot, but John had talked to a guy in Detroit who knew where there was a wrecked ’49. It was still stored indoors in Bad Axe, Mi. Yeah, one of those deals again, and yup that’s the name of a real town. Next business trip the guy stopped and convinced the old man to sell him (us) the engine for $500. The motor purred like a kitten. New brakes, tires, headliner, paint, oak bed-boards, and a year later the truck was done. Looked sharp and ready to go. Josh finally and carefully worded his reluctance about the truck. Admitted to his dad he thought he would be laughed off the face of the earth if he drove that old truck to school. John assured Josh he would be the coolest guy on the planet once they saw his amazing truck. Good old Dad was right for a change. Josh was the envy of all the guys at school with his own, very cool, vintage truck.

Joshua’s 1949 pickup, 1992…

 

A couple of years and semi-crummy jobs after college graduation, Joshua decided to start his own company with his partner Tim. 15 years ago they opened Sourcepath. Computer software networking systems. Back then, Josh had to work the oddest hours. If he was doing “an install” it usually had to be done when the company wasn’t open for business. Josh would go in at closing time on Friday and work solid through the weekend. That way, new system would be up and running by Monday morning when everyone came back to work. Sourcepath continued to thrive and grow. A few years ago they changed the name of the company to Motor City Technology. A true commitment to working in and with the city of Detroit and it’s long standing Big 3 car history. Josh loves Detroit, always has. I really can’t tell you much about his company. I’m almost computer illiterate. It’s all Greek to me. They manage IT services, network, server, desktop. Backup disaster recovery, and filtering and firewall protection. They now employ quite a few people.

A little over 3 years ago Joshua met “the one.” It was a fast and furious romance. Josh was 35, and beautiful, smart engineer Erica, a couple years younger. Neither had been married before or had kids “from a previous relationship.” Very unusual in this day and age. They had a beautiful wedding in Cancun with 45 of their closest friends and family in November, 2012. Now happily married, a CEO, with a successful business. I really couldn’t be more proud of my middle kid.

Josh and Erica’s Cancun wedding, 2012…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It started in 1998. My life changed. I woke up several days in a row and just felt different, strange. Couldn’t put my finger on anything specific. Not physically sick, but I felt weird, especially my head. Head felt full and crowded. Not the typical spot people usually insinuate where I’m full of it. Went to see my family doctor. She found nothing wrong. She referred to a local eye, ear, nose, throat specialist, Dr. Fox. After some tests, he concluded I was suffering from a temporary or permanent hearing loss in my left ear. He wanted me to try some prescription steroids. Sometimes massive doses of steroids will kick start a nerve that’s gone off the reservation in your ear. You start gradually, increasing the steroid amount per day, then decrease just as slowly. So this wasn’t a quick fix. Took a couple months before I was done taking them. Unfortunately there was no change. Notice how well my hearing is in this picture.

Me and Shannon, 1992. Perfect divinity!!!

Just as troubling as the apparently now permanent hearing loss, was all the noise in my head. You’d think if you’re going deaf, there would just be silence. Not so. I have constant, distracting noises that nearly drive me to drink. Especially at night when I’m trying to fall asleep. If I really listen to all the noise when it’s totally quiet, I’m sometimes surprised that I don’t go insane. The doctor explained this is my brain’s way of compensating for stuff it no longer hears. My brain makes noise of its own for me. One side of my head sounds like the “snow sound” of a TV station that’s off the air. The other side varies between a chain saw that never lets up or a dentist’s high pitched drill. Look, it’s dueling brain noises! Thanks dipstick brain. If there was a nerve that would sever the constant noise in my head, I would have surgery today. No scratch that. Would have happily insisted that be done at least 10 years ago. There’s not. Doc suggested trying some white noise. Turn on a fan when we go to bed and see if that helps. It did a little.

I got a summons for jury duty. As I was filling out the questionnaire to send back I wondered what would happen if I was seated on a jury. If I were on the left of a witness testifying, and it happened to be a child or someone soft spoken. Would I be able to hear and understand what they were saying? Called Dr. Fox’s office for advice. The nurse said they would write a letter that I should include with the paper work when I sent it in. I could pick up the letter at his office the next day. The letter was in an envelope but wasn’t sealed. So I read it when I got back in my car. “Please excuse Denise from jury duty. She suffers from a profound hearing loss in her left ear.” I was stunned. Sat in my car and just sobbed. “Profound.” It was seeing the word profound.

There was no explanation of what was causing my hearing loss. No illness, accident or blow to my head. None of my family was deaf. My Mom’s hearing was exceptional. (Honestly she could hear me talk about her when I was in Michigan and she was in Iowa.) About 25% of the people who suffer a hearing loss just wake up one morning not being able to hear like they did the day before. I had worked for McDonald’s for 6 years, and often wondered if that environment contributed. I worked in the kitchen with very loud exhaust fans, grills, ovens. People yelling special grill requests. It was noisy. Doesn’t really matter. What did matter, now after a couple of years my hearing had steadily gotten worse.

Dr. Fox decided it was time to see an ear specialist. Sent me to a fabulous guy. Dr. Daniels practicing in Grand Rapids, about 45 miles away. Since my hearing loss was only in one ear, he thought a special hearing aid would benefit me a lot. It had a tiny microphone going from my (good) right ear, sending the sound to the hearing aid in my left (bad) ear. This only works if the hearing in one ear is really good, and mine was. He also discovered a couple other problems with my head. (Yeah I bet John could have easily filled him in on a few things in that department without charging a couple hundred bucks.) I had an MRI to rule out a somewhat common problem associated with a sudden hearing loss. A tumor behind your ear. Nope, no tumor. Thanks God. He did find an Easter egg sized cyst in my head near my ear, but assured me it was not the cause of my hearing loss and not to worry about it. Not so sure about that one Doc.

Easter egg size cyst? Yikes…

The other issue I was experiencing was dizziness and a balance problem. Couldn’t look up or down quickly, climb a ladder or walk up and down stairs without hanging onto a railing. When I laid down, the room would spin out of control. (Nope I was stone cold sober). And my eyes would do the weirdest thing. Either opened or closed, but usually closed, they flutter underneath my eyelids in an uncontrolled, rhythmic cadence. Makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. If you hold the edge of pages of a book and let them fly through your fingers fast, that’s the movement of my eyeballs. So sickeningly gross. I have to raise my head quick so it’s not down flat for several seconds, until that icky moving stuff stops. Often happens when I’m changing positions while sleeping during the night. Nasty thing to wake up to. The name of this new phenomenon now part of my life is called Meniere’s Disease. It affects my hearing and balance with vertigo and tinnitus (that’s dizziness and weird noises in my head which have nothing to do with my warped personality or those odd voices) I’m lucky, my case is mild. There are people with Meniere’s who vomit for 12 hours straight when they have an episode. I take a diuretic that helps stabilize my fluid in my inner ear, limit my salt intake (easy one for me) and have gone caffeine free.

My hearing loss started affecting different facets of my life I didn’t even realize. Darkness now freaked me out. I’m sure this is caused by my balance issue. Soon I had night lights all over the house making me feel more sure of myself and my wobbly balance. I have listened to music as soon as I start the car since I was 16. Not anymore. Now the radio makes me edgy and distracted. John and I were unable to watch TV together. The volume I required made his hair fly backwards as though he had just weathered a bad storm without an umbrella. It was also going to cause him to go deaf soon. He bought me a set of wireless headphones for the TV. He listens at normal range, while I pump up the volume on my headphones.

The only way I can enjoy a movie at a theater is through headphones. And I still miss a lot of dialogue. Some of this is not my fault though. Dang movies have such loud background music, even during quiet dialogue. Although I can hear they’re speaking words, it’s all muddled gobbledy-gook which I can’t decipher. Can’t spend big bucks on certain venue tickets unless they have headphones for the hearing impaired. Not for concerts like Lady Gaga, or P!nk. (Yes I’ve attended both in the last few years. Next up is Maroon 5) I actually take out my hearing aid for those. But then I’m unable to carry on a conversation with anyone around me for the whole night. When we attended “Book of Mormon” in Detroit with Josh and Erica, Josh had reserved headphones for me well in advance. Thanks Josh, you’re the best.

Soon I started missing stuff again. Blamed the TV, headphones, John talking too soft, and the movie theater but John insisted, “sorry honey, it’s you.” Back to Dr. Daniels. Discovered since I had seen him a couple years before, I’d lost another huge chunk of my hearing. No wonder I couldn’t hear the “white noise fan” anymore. Now get this. John got so used to the fan, he can’t sleep without it. The hard part for me to accept this time was the hearing loss was in my “good” right ear. Now my type of hearing aid was a hindrance. “Forget about your left ear, it’s hopeless. Let’s concentrate on your better ear,” Dr. Daniels encouraged.

Honestly I was about to give up Parish Visiting. Missing a lot of the conversations. Typically the elderly are a pretty soft spoken bunch. One guy was always kind of nervous and had a habit of flitting his hands around his mouth. Never realized before that I was (unconsciously) starting to read lips. Except his of course. Dude put your hands down. The grandkids are hard for me to understand. Anyone who doesn’t move their lips very much when talking around me is literally falling on deaf ears. Same thing goes if you turn away from me and continue to talk. Adam is much harder for me to understand than Josh. His voice is a little deeper, so I miss a lot of what he says. End up saying “what” 50 times. Frustrating and maddening for both of us. Never thought I’d say this but I now hate talking on the phone. I mostly text with the kids.

Every day I lose more hearing the smaller my world gets. Already a loner, I’m becoming much more isolated. This is not a good thing for me. If something’s gonna shrink it should be me, not my little world. While there’s nothing that gives me more pleasure than having the family around, if 4 or more of them are in a room together, I usually just keep walking until I find a quiet place. Can’t keep up with noisy conversations, so I end up not contributing at all, or answering inappropriately. I do that a lot. Adding my 2 cents worth, then look at everyone’s confused reactions. OK so I might have misunderstood what was said a minute ago. Restaurants are miserable for me. So much background noise that I can’t concentrate on the conversation in front of my face. Being deaf is probably the biggest reason I enjoy writing. I write my part of the conversation, then wait for the rest of you to join in with your comments. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very blessed. I haven’t experienced any major crippling health issues yet. No cancer, ALS, MS, Arthritis or Alzheimer’s. All my internal organs are still playing the right notes so far. A brain hiccup now and then, but that too seems to function at somewhat a normal level for me. (Here’s my funky “zebra” hearing aid. Much more important than my credit card. I truly never leave home without it).

I’ve had this hearing aid almost 4 years now. My hearing hasn’t continued its fast decline, just a much slower, steady pace. So far I’ve lost about 2/3 of my hearing in my left ear and 1/3 in my right. Still scary. Dr. Daniels says if it gets much worse, a choclear ear implant is about the only thing that would keep me connected to the hearing world. Then instead of sound waves traveling through the air into my mostly deaf ears, it would be bouncing off my skull bones in the back of my head. After this devastating news I was feeling kind of low on my trip back home from GR. OK really, I was in a funk and wallowing in self-pity. Almost home and still crying, I turned west on Ruddiman for the last 2 miles before our house. It was mid-December about 5 pm. God was trying to get my attention by sending me a not so subtle message. Right smack-dab in front of me was one of the most beautiful, magnificent sunsets I’ve ever seen. Wow. Would if it was my sight I was losing instead of my hearing? No more sunsets, driving, reading, canning, baking, or daily walks without significant changes in my life style. Denise, for heaven’s sake, pull up your big girl panties, and thank the Almighty you’re still capable and able to do so many things. Enjoy and appreciate your wonderful life. Yeah, that was an “ah-ha” moment for me. Thanks God, Sorry, I can be really dense sometimes…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mom and Dad tried camping when I was a kid. Maybe some kind of bonding therapy after Larry had been killed. Mona was married and out of the house. They bought this tiny camper and decided our family should experience the joy and quiet contentment of the great outdoors. I don’t remember a family meeting deciding that the Black Hills (since none of us had ever been there) would be the destination of our first ever camping trip. So where did the Gerritson’s choose to go on their great family adventure? Let’s go to Minneapolis! The biggest city within 300 miles. What on earth were they thinking? Mom, who dusted the dining room and kitchen floors on her hands and knees DAILY. Camping-really? This was way too primitive a life style for her. It would be the only time we used the camper. It disappeared from the back yard not long after that strange trip.

 

1962. Neese in camping clothes???

“I wouldn’t give ‘ya a plug nickel for the first 2 years.” I’ve used that phrase when describing our early married life forever. It’s probably time to retire that statement. I’m still trying to put some meaning into those first wobbly years. (Shannon was the best thing) Even though we had dated for a long time, it’s very different once you get hitched. Two personalities trying to meld together. His family was big, loud, played cards and drank. Mine was small, somber, and subdued. He was way more social than me. I’ve always been pretty happy and content with my own company.

John was out-doorsey. He grew up hunting. Tagged along with his older brothers to learn the ropes. If you can imagine he used to routinely take his shotgun to school. Kept it in his locker all day, then would go pheasant hunting after school. Wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes he’d ride the bus on Friday to Dave Grossenburg’s house for a weekend of hunting on their farm. Then it was back to school on Monday morning with his shotgun. He also did a lot of fishing in the Rock River.

Once we got married, John was determined to make me “one with the outdoors.” This was difficult for both of us. I have always been rather resistant to change of any kind. But I did try. We started out with an 8 x 10 tent. John was off work from Friday supper until Monday supper. So a-camping we would go. A lot. Usually to this small, isolated, quiet place called Lake Shaokatan, in southwest Minnesota. I don’t remember how we stumbled upon it the first time. But until we moved to Eastern Iowa in ’74 we spent many, many weekends there. Looks like we took everything BUT the kitchen sink.

 

Camping 1972. Our green Vega and Lawn Darts….

 

Marv and Mamie owned a resort aptly named “Fisherman’s Hide-away.” They were a couple in their late 50’s, and had several one room cabins. After I got used to being away from civilization, I grew to like the whole camping experience. Ashamed to say at first I made John take our massive 13″ color TV along when we stayed in a cabin. Never turned it on, but it was more like a soothing pacifier should I need it. But I was always too busy to sit in the cabin and watch anything. Soon, it felt great to “be away from it all” with our rustic weekends. The cabins were really quite primitive. Not much different than the tent. It did have a bed which was nice. No bathroom though. You had to hike up to the office/restaurant/shower area. We usually stayed in our tent, it was cheaper. The campground back then was not busy at all. Many weekends we were virtually alone in the camping area.

We could rent a small fishing boat with a motor for a couple bucks. The perch fishing was unbelievable. The nice pan-sized fish practically jumped in the boat themselves. Marv had a couple grandchildren who stayed with them during the summers. These kids would clean, pack and freeze your fish for half a penny a piece. Yes, many times we would stand on the shore to catch just one more fish so we didn’t have to cut that penny in half. The summer I was expecting Shannon, I literally had bruises on my pregnant belly from giving the pole a good tug after I felt each nibble. When I had to go to the bathroom at night, (who doesn’t when you’re pregnant?) there were a million little frogs hopping all over the small dense pathway leading to the communal bathroom. Freaked me out. I made John bring along a 3 pound coffee can to use in the cabin instead. I didn’t want to squish any little froggies. Gross.

 

Shannon fishing at Lake Shoakatan, 1973…

 

I don’t remember the resort’s small restaurant being open for supper, but you could get a delicious breakfast or lunch for practically nothing. Out of this world pancakes were 50 cents. They hired no help in the restaurant either. Marv was the waiter and Mamie the only cook. Wish we wouldn’t have lost track of them. They were truly a wonderful couple.

One weekend we got a late start from Sioux City for Lake Shoakatan. It was pitch dark around midnight. We were still driving, but almost there. All of a sudden we heard a gunshot. Scared us to death. Pulled off the road, got out and cautiously checked out each other and the car thoroughly for the stray bullet. Nothing. Must have missed us. We were both pretty shaken up. Out in the middle of the boonies, very late at night and random gunfire. John got the cooler out to get us a snack and discovered the real culprit. Remember when the first glass 2 liter pop bottles came out? Well, a Pepsi bottle froze and shattered inside the cooler. Broken glass and slushy pop throughout the cooler. What a mess but a huge relief.

 

John setting up for a day of fishing at Lake Shoakatan…

 

The summer after Shannon was born, we headed to Shoakatan for a week vacation with John’s brother Arlyn. He had completed a couple tours in Vietnam, and just been discharged from the Navy. He had finally rescued his fancy stereo, speakers, and all of his cool music that we had been keeping for him. The huge reel to reel tapes consisted of his 2 favorite groups, The Beatles and The Doors. We were really going to miss that stereo. Good thing he was taking it though. Shannon was just starting to crawl and getting curious about sticking her little fingers in every available hidey-hole.

Arly brought along Vicki, his girlfriend of a few months. She was from Hull and the most perfect Dutch girl I had ever seen. Tall, blond, leggy and beautiful, about my age. We had also invited one of our best friends, Dale Duits. Dale was one of our witnesses when we eloped. Soon after that auspicious occasion, John and Dale were in a bar in South Sioux City, Nebraska. Dale was ogling a cute, petite, dark haired chick. As she was walking past later, John swatted her on the butt, and quickly turned around. She swung around, royally pissed, and gave Dale the stink eye and a piece of her mind. Just what John the matchmaker had intended. Soon Dale and Beth were dating. Now cute little Beth joined us on vacation that week too.

Arly and Vicky, 1972…

 

A couple of the guys knew how to ski and made it their mission on this vacation to teach the rest of us how to ski. I think we might have had John’s brother Jimmy’s boat along that week, because the motor was big enough to pull someone on skis. We all took turns until we each managed to stay up at least for a few seconds. I swallowed gallons of water, causing the lake level to go down a foot, but I did get and stayed up a couple times. I vividly remember being in that boat and watching my new friends Beth and Vicki. Shannon was about 8 months old at the time, and I was feeling pretty good about my post-baby-bod. I wasn’t looking too bad in my 2-piece swim suit. Single and beautiful, both Beth and Vicki had little tummies about the same as me. But I was the only one with a kid. Yup, feeling pretty good about myself during that vacation. Learned a couple weeks later, both of them were about 3 months pregnant. Boy did that deflate my fragile ego fast. For me, par for the course…

 

 

 

Nothing about me has ever been elegant. I’ve never had an ounce of fru-fru in me. Wasn’t really a tomboy, but didn’t care for ruffles and lace either. In high school I thought my short cheerleading skirts were really cute. But I always hated garter belts, nylons, slips, skirts, fancy shoes and dresses. I haven’t worn a dress or heels since Shannon got married in 1998. I’m more comfortable in a Nike t-shirt and jeans with my Keens’s and Merrell’s. Sweats at home are even better. I do admire women who are feminine, and dress to the nines. I’m just not one of them.

At John’s house, 1965. Hand knit sweater from Mom…

 

I’ve known 2 elegant women in my life. This gal’s name was Barb. A member of our church when I was Parish Visitor. They had moved about 30 miles away a few years before, so I never had a chance to meet her before. She ended up moving back to Muskegon because of her husband’s health. Barb was in her upper-80’s when I met her. She wore her salt and pepper hair in a small, neat bun. She’d regally glide down the main aisle of the sanctuary in heels, a Pendleton wool skirt, angora sweater. Always wearing a beautiful string of pearls. A dainty hankie hidden in the belt of her skirt. Manicured, tapered nails with clear polish. Her own nails, not chunky, squared off fakes. And usually a fancy hat. And it was because of the hats that I noticed a tremor in her head and hands.

Ray and elegant Barb. Around 2000…

Her husband’s health was failing and he had to move to a nursing home. That’s how I met her. Barb was no longer driving, so she depended on her daughter Cindy to pick her up from her apartment and drop her off at the nursing home each day. I stopped to see her husband Ray who was now on my parish visitor list. Barb was livid when I got there. She literally couldn’t talk. After she calmed down a bit, she explained. When she arrived a few minutes before me, Ray was missing his glasses, had his sweater on inside out, and his hair was sticking straight up every which way. It was almost noon. He should have been cleaned up and dressed nice by this time. I suggested she talk to the administrator. I walked her to the office where she elegantly voiced her concerns over the lack of personal hygiene help for Ray. After we got back to Ray’s room, she asked me about other nearby facilities for him. This was kind of dicey because her daughter was a social worker. I told Barb which places I felt were the best in town. She jotted the information down.

Suffering tremors but still wrote me letters in 2007…

Ray passed away before she could move him to another facility. Barb was lost without him. Because I got my foot in the door by visiting Ray, and helping her voice her concerns about his care, she considered me a friend. I started seeing Barb on a regular basis. She always wanted to know in advance when I was coming. Once as a surprise, she made a fresh blueberry pie for our visit. All the proper silverware, cloth napkins, beautiful china. Never coffee, always tea in dainty cups I could finish in one big sip. Elegant (her) versus (me), not so much. We had wonderful conversations, a growing love and respect for each other.

Barb moved to downtown Muskegon, very near our church. A renovated old hotel. Cute apartments with a washer and dryer in each unit. Most with a small balcony. She called me up and asked if I would come over and help her make some of Julia Child’s, Joys of Cooking dinner rolls. We had so much fun that day. She wore a beautiful apron and heels. Never got one speck of flour dust on her. I looked like Pigpen with an aura of flour and yeast surrounding all of me. The rolls turned out fantastic. Wish I could remember the name of them. They were special. Had little bits of real butter throughout the dough. We baked them, then each ate one, (yup, with real butter) just to be sure they were perfect. She sent a couple home with me to share with John. The rest she froze for her contribution to the family get together for Thanksgiving dinner at Cindy’s house.

One day when I stopped (yes, I had called ahead) she had lunch waiting for me. Not a surprise. She loved to entertain. The sandwiches were already made, wrapped up in the fridge. Barb had 2 oblong trays with china, and silver, all ready to go. And a sauce pan on the stove. Tea was steeping in the pot. She had ham and cheese sandwiches on big round slices of dark bread. I could see some kind of spicy dark mustard on the bread. Boy they looked good. She unwrapped them, and got out a pair of tongs. What’s this? Slid off the top slice of bread from each sandwhich. Took the tongs over to the saucepan and carefully took out long spears of asparagus. Patted them dry with a paper towel. Put a layer of asparagus on top of the ham and cheese. Replaced the top slice of bread and carefully cut each sandwhich in odd shaped thirds. They looked exquisite, but who in the world wants to eat asparagus on a ham sandwich? Guess what? They were delicious. Teaching this hick a thing or 2 about the finer things in life.

I had volunteered to host a small event at church during lent. Not a big deal. Preacher/boss #2 had a short, late morning service in the chapel. My job that day was to make and serve a simple meal. Homemade soup, bread, and bars for dessert. A couple dozen folks showed up every week for these mini-message-lessons. I called Barb when I got to church that morning. Explained that I had to serve the meal, then clean up, but I should be done by 1:30 or so. Was she up for a visit? “Why yes darling. (yup, that’s what she usually called me) That would be lovely!” She gushed. “I WILL PENCIL YOU IN FROM 2-5!” One of my favorite lines of all times ever said to this Parish Visitor. (That’s a 3 hour tour, Gilligan)

Barb wanted to be in charge, like most of the rest of the folks I routinely stopped to visit. Always wanted more of my time. My visits usually lasted about an hour. Oh Barb. Gotta admire their resourcefulness because they knew how to get their needs met. Had to smile about their motives and justification. Guess what else she did after I stepped through the door? Threw the deadbolt! (Denise-sit-stay) Still cracks me up. They routinely hustled me to spend more time with them. I was fine with that. Most were alone nearly all the time, so they were ready to explode with conversation once I got there. And they didn’t talk about themselves all the time either. There were several who frequently asked how my family was doing. But even more than that, they wanted to know what was going on in “the church.” Longed to stay connected with other members who had been dear friends for decades. Many of them were going through the same ordeals and no longer saw each other.

Barb attending a luncheon at church. About 2009…

I kept them in the loop. Once a lady from church had described me like this, “Denise is the umbilical cord that keeps us attached to each other and the church.” Humbling, makes me cry to think of her saying that in front of a big group of people. They absolutely hung on every word when I was giving out information on other members. How so and so was doing after surgery. Who had moved where. These separations were very hard on dear old friends. They could no longer simply hop in the car and just drive over to see them. Many still had some sense of independence, but most things we take for granted were now out of their control. Some parts of growing older are hard besides constant health issues.

Well you know where this is going. Friendship after friendship ended. Often slowly and painfully for me. Barb fell and was no longer able to live alone. She moved to a nursing home about 20 miles south of me. At least once a month I’d drive down to see her, then visit folks on my way back north. She had her elegant little bun cut off. All the angora and Pendleton were replaced by pull on slacks and knit tops. I had never seen her in pants before. The heels she lived in for 60 years were no longer safe. Grippy bottomed slippers now adorned her feet. Some months I was greeted with, “darling, where have you been? I’ve missed you so!” The wonderful memories of going out for lunch, baking rolls together, a surprise fresh blueberry pie, ham with asparagus topped sandwiches are still fondly remembered by me. But now forever lost to my elegant friend Barb…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Labor Day weekend, 2000. We were headed to Lansing, 100 miles away to meet Shannon and Ariana for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. Our son-in-law Tracey was in Jackson for the day, doing something at school where he was an elementary school teacher and the boy’s high school varsity basketball coach. Shannon was about 9-1/2 months pregnant. Hot, miserable and swollen, her moods no longer needed defining. Crabby (I’m being kind here to a much loved daughter) pretty much summed it up. We were halfway through breakfast when Shannon excused herself to the restroom. She came back and said her water had just broke. John leaps up from the table, yells, “move it, let’s go, let’s go!” Shannon shot him a look that should have ignited the building that hot September morning. “I won’t get anything but ice chips once I get to the hospital. I’m eating my pancakes. Sit down!” Alrighty then, let the woman (be nice I reminded myself) finish her meal. We called Tracey, finally headed to the hospital. Once Tracey arrived, we took 9 year old Ari back to their house for awhile. After lunch we drove back to the hospital just in time to see our first grandson, Landon Andrew, who was now all of about 10 minutes old. Ari was totally smitten. Tracey (his first child) was in awe and could not stop his tears. Shannon was happy and thrilled to no longer be pregnant (whew, me too).

 

Ari 9, Shannon and Landon, September 4, 2000…

A few months later, Shannon, Ariana, Landon and I were on our first big road trip together. We’re headed to Iowa to see my folks and the rest of the relatives. It’s very late and I’ve done all the driving thus far. Landon has been a very fussy baby since birth. (It would be months before his pediatrician discovered that he is allergic to milk, eggs, beef, chocolate, nuts and probably more) Being in the car helps. He’s hardly made a peep. We’re on I-80, cruising west, close to where we’ll hang a big right to I-29 North and head to Sioux City. Landon’s starting to grunt and squirm in his seat, while Ari’s sound asleep. Shannon said he needs to be changed and fed, so I pull into a rest stop. I’m beat. I stayed in the car with Ari, who’s still cutting z’s.

It’s dark and windy. I can see the trees swaying against the sky. If I just close my eyes for a few minutes, I’ll be ok. One of those quicky power naps. A few minutes later, Shannon and Landon plop in the front passenger seat. I’m dozing, it’s cozy and Landon is stating his rather strong case. If there is not a mommy nipple nearby in the next 30 seconds, there will be hell to pay. And by the sound of him, we’ll be continuing this trip without the benefit of any windows. Sudden silence, absolute quiet. Then huge nursing gulp-gulp-gulp sounds as he tries to catch up with the milk. One-of-thee-most-touching-moments-in-my-life! In the dark, eyes closed, parked car, middle of the night and the most wonderful sounds of a little grandson contentedly nursing. Really it doesn’t get any better than this. I’ve lost a lot of my hearing in the last 15 years. Thanks God for letting me hear those awesome, vivid, poignant sounds that night.

 

Landon, 9 months, 2001…

 

It’s fair to say Landon has spent quite a bit of time growing up in a gym since he was about 2. He’d get picked up by Tracey from daycare, later pre-school and join gangly, sweaty high school jocks, running drills, shooting free throws, defense, blocks, all the rest of that basketball lingo stuff. Shannon was working in Lansing, but they had moved to Jackson. Daddy was in charge of a lot of the hauling around of Landon and Ari. After Landon was old enough, maybe 2-1/2 to understand that he could not run out onto the court during games, he often sat on the bench with the team. Sometimes he went on the team bus. He was a tiny gym rat. Scared me spitless after games, especially an away game. When the final buzzer sounded, invariably some reporter would snag Tracey to get some quotes on the game for the paper. Landon would be on the court too, running around near Daddy, but neither paying very close attention. Landon would be saying “hi” to different players, or people and always trying find a loose basketball to shoot. But let’s face it, Daddy’s head was still in the game. I was petrified with fear, trying to keep an eye on Landon, talking to Shannon, finding Ari’s suitcase of stuff she always brought along. So afraid he’d get lost or worse snatched. Grandma, the worry-wort.

Landon, 18 months, 2002…

 

One day while I was visiting, Landon challenged me to a game of HORSE outside. He was 3. Regulation height basketball hoop out on the driveway. I think he had an H and I had H.O.R.S. when I made an unbelievable shot. Landon comes running over to me, slaps me on the ass, and says, “Dude, great shot!” Daddy had been watching, pulled the little stinker aside to explain we don’t slap grandma’s butt, basketball style, ever. Too funny. It’s what he was used to seeing and doing. You make a great shot, the high praise between players, and coaches is a swat on the butt. To him, I was just another player, a lousy one, but still deserving a swat.

 

Landon 4, 2004…

 

Shannon and Tracey were both busy until after supper, so I was picking 3 year old Landon up from Montesorri pre-school. After I got him in his car seat, and we were on the way home, I asked him if he learned anything in school today? “We learned bout colors grandma.” “Really, can you tell me some different colors?” “Um, yes. Mommy is a white color. And Daddy is a brown color. And you grandma are a tan color, just like me!” Neatest thing he’s ever said. The highest compliment he could ever give me. I should explain that if I (and I do, my bad) sit out in the sun for a couple hours in the spring, I’m about the same shade as this precious kid. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Yup, he had his colors nailed.

Got to tell you a little bit about his name. I love the name Landon. It fits him. Trouble is they stopped calling him Landon when he was about 4. Almost positive it was Tracey who started it. And I think he was the one that fought so hard for name Landon in the first place. He started calling him “Drew.” Soon teachers, friends and family were calling him Drew. It’s the way he signs his homework. Everyone calls him Drew but this grandma. And I like the name Drew, really. But then why didn’t you name him Drew? He was and always will be Landon to me. I get some mighty freaky looks from students and parents in the stands when I’m screaming about a great 3-pointer, pass, or assist he just completed. No one understands why I’m the only one calling him by the wrong name. Maybe I’ll get used to Drew, but it’s been almost a decade and it’s still Landon that rolls off my tongue.

Tracey had agreed to coach some summer basketball camps at Spring Arbor College. Landon (Drew to the rest of the free world) was about 7 and tagged along with Dad daily to camp. The kids participating in camp were in junior high. Guess who won the free shooting contest for the whole camp that week? Yup, second grader Landon. He’s got some moves.

 

6 yr old Drew to the rest of the world, 2006…

 

I’m starting to have panic attacks about next winter. No, for once, not really about the weather. Pretty sure Landon will either make the junior varsity or more likely, the high school varsity basketball team. If this house hasn’t sold by then, I’ll be making twice weekly trips across the state to watch his games. I think he needs the support of his grandma who knows his real name. He recently started playing with a team in Cleveland, Ohio, sponsored by Lebron James and Nike. It’s a 3-1/2 hour drive from Jackson that either Tracey, Shannon or both make once a month. He’s really that good. At school he plays on the junior high team this year. A couple weeks ago, I called Shannon and told her we were going to one of his out of town games. She said it couldn’t be a better choice. Both she and Tracey had commitments, and Landon would be happy his grandparents were there. I promised I’d text some updates to both of them. Shannon was guest speaker at a college that night. Wonder how those constant texts went over? As John and I walked through the gym doors, long before Landon’s game, he comes running over in his dress pants, shirt and sweater. Now taller than me, he gives me a big hug. Every single time I get a hug from him, especially in public, I’m almost in tears. I would rate that feeling right up there with Iowa-rest-area-big-gulps-14-years-ago. Hope those hugs don’t stop for a long time…

 

Handsome, sweet Landon 14…