This special couple, one of many, have been part of my life for one reason or another in recent years. Many folks for years or longer than a decade. One lady, only a few minutes, some a few weeks or months. Each have made a lasting impression. God put them in my life for a specific reason. I have been immeasurably blessed by each and every one of them. Maybe one of the reasons is telling you a snippet of their story. Guess I won’t know the reason until I ask Him. Hopefully that will be much, much later.

 

Bob and Nancy, hopelessly devoted. Around 2000…

Bob and Nancy weren’t on my parish visitor’s schedule. Yet. They sat a few pews away during church when I first noticed them. When Nancy spoke, I thought maybe they needed a little help. Because when Nancy spoke up, rather loudly, it was smack dab in the middle of the preacher’s sermon on Sunday morning. And the conversation wasn’t directed at him for something she disagreed with. Nancy just no longer realized she was in a church service and should be quiet. That filter in her brain had been short-circuited or disconnected. Bob quietly hushed her, grabbed her hand and scooted out the door. With as much patience and dignity as he could muster.

They lived pretty close to me, so late one afternoon as I was on my way home, I decided to make a quick stop. Bob answered the door and I explained that I worked for the church and just wanted to introduce myself. He cordially invited me in. Nancy was at the kitchen table. She took one look at me and quickly walked down the hall and into a bedroom. As Bob and I conversed, I could see Nancy occasionally peek her head out, watching me. Thus began our friendship. Nancy did get more comfortable in my presence. Especially if I brought cookies. She’d snack on a half dozen, quietly sitting near Bob. With an ever watchful eye on the stranger in her midst. Bob was lucky if there was one cookie left by the time I was leaving. And he’s the one who really needed them.

One afternoon Bob and I were visiting while Nancy was watching us from the hallway. I noticed a pot holder hanging on their kitchen wall. I had one very similar hanging in mine. I had bought several that I wanted to give as gifts at our church bazaar. Much more than a simple pot holder though. Really more of a intricate mini-quilt. Soon Nancy was sitting next to me, no longer wary. Plus I think she was enjoying the compliments. And Bob’s explanation on what a magnificent seamstress she had been.

 

Beautiful, intricate mini-quilt pot holders. Nancy made them by hand…

 

Bob was frail physically, but sharp as a tack. Nancy’s body was fit as fiddle, but mentally she was losing ground. They had no children, but so far Bob was attending to most of Nancy’s needs. Usually once a day they went out for their big meal. Some favorite local restaurant. That came to an abrupt halt when Bob fell down the basement stairs, cracking his head a good one. He was in ICU for a couple weeks. Nancy, unable to be on her own, was quickly moved to a local assisted living facility. I visited them both, reporting how Nancy was doing to Bob. He finally recovered, but more frail than ever. No way could he be home on his own, let alone care for Nancy. Bob moved in with Nancy at the care facility. While Nancy had been twitchy in this new, unfamiliar place, she settled down as soon as Bob was near.

Just a couple weeks into his re-hab, Bob seemed to realize that all of Nancy’s needs were now being met. He didn’t have to worry about her living arrangements. She had help with daily grooming, dressing, meals, and showers. More importantly, she was safe. His reason for living, helping Nancy, the love of his life navigate through the last stages of Alzheimer’s was now being managed by others. He just let go. Passed away quietly in his sleep, not long after moving in. Nancy appeared not to have noticed at first. She still ate my cookies when I checked on her every couple day for the first couple weeks after Bob’s death.

 

Only 2 pot holders left. Now so stingy, I don’t want to give them away. Greed, it’s ugly…

 

Soon it became very apparent that Nancy not only was going downhill quickly, she knew something was off. I always tried to visit folks in long term care facilities on different days and times. Trust me, if you visit someone every Thursday at 2 pm, that resident is going to be “company ready” on that day and time. I really thought of these visits (the folks with serious mental health issues, who could not carry on a normal conversation with you. Or tell you if something was amiss) as well “baby checks.” Remember when you brought your baby to the doctor just for a checkup? Nothing was really wrong. The doc would check the baby’s growth and development. And I mean that in the kindest, most sincere way. To me, my job for these folks was as an advocate. Especially the folks who didn’t have children, or relatives that lived close. My long term goal was to see that their life was comfortable and make sure their needs were being met. That meant surprise visits at 10 am or 4:30. On any day of the week or weekend.

One such surprise visit came about 6 weeks after Bob passed away. I used the security code to get in the building during the late afternoon on a week day. Found Nancy wondering down the hall. Glasses were nowhere to be found. She was barefoot, hair helter-skelter, standing straight up, every which way. Hearing aid was missing. Her partial plate was gone, and remaining teeth looked like they had not been brushed in a couple days. I brought her back to her room, sat her in a chair and gave her a cookie. Stomped off in a royal huff to find someone to ream. I realize that glasses and hearing aids could be misplaced, probably by Nancy. Maybe even her socks and shoes. But she looked like she had just gotten out of bed after spending 3 days being very sick. That certainly wasn’t her fault. Found a nurse in the office and told her, not so nicely, about Nancy’s shabby appearance. These were bare minimum, essential daily grooming needs that were not being met for Nancy. Went back to her room, grabbed another cookie and offered it to Nancy. She looked at me blankly, then just a tiny smile touched her lips. She took the cookie. While she munched, I held her hand and told her about my day. Just the part that happened before I walked in to visit her.

After I got to my car, I called my boss. Number 2 in the line of my 4 not-great-bosses. All of whom were ministers. Don’t get me started. We’ll just continue to call this one Two Fish. If you want or have to catch up on our complicated relationship, you’ll have to read my story on him. Think it was back in October of 2014. Anyway, told him how distraught I was about Nancy’s inadequate care. Part of the problem was lack of family and visitors for her. TF said he’d contact her 2 nieces who both lived about 50 miles away. In TF’s defense, he was the best visitor (and only) of the 4. Went out of his way to keep track of the senior members of the congregation who no longer attended regularly. It was pretty on his priority list too. TF called a couple days later and explained that the 2 nieces had stopped to see Nancy, and had talked to the staff. One had called TF back, and thought Nancy would be better cared for if she were closer to them. They were checking out facilities and would get back to the church when the final decision had been made.

Unfortunately, the move would not be in time. With that tiny glimmer of clarity still poking through for Nancy once in a while, she too gave up. Must have realized that Bob had gone on before and without her. And she was having none of that. Just a few days and couple visits later, I found her in bed. Eyes closed, both hands grasping up in the air for things or people unseen by others. Could not coax her into opening her eyes. Not even for a cookie. Nancy slipped away just shy of 2 months after Bob. Gone were the separations, hospital stays, strange care facilities that would never be home for either one of them. Finally neither one had a worry in the world. As it should be when you got each other’s back and now call heaven home…

 

 

 

 

 

I have been a collector of “stuff” most of my adult life. Not borderline hoarder, but getting close to needing an intervention to stop. Maybe a long term program to ease me slowly off that addicting “hunt” which usually concluded in the one piece to make my life complete. It took me many years of pretty intense collecting to realize I had acquired the inner fortitude to say quite honestly, “I need to think about this for awhile.” Or the skills needed to just walk away from the deal completely. Couldn’t and didn’t do that 30 years ago.

 

My beautiful oak wardrobe. Only had it 20 some years…

 

Shannon was born with this same collecting gene. Certainly not for anything old when she was in the throes of teenage angst. I remember her stomping through the house and loudly proclaiming, “I’m never owning anything old. My house is going to be filled with chrome and glass.” But she quickly grew out of that quirky stage. Soon she was a single mom (to our incredible granddaughter Ariana) and back getting her first degree at Michigan State. Her budget was limited, but she had an ace up her sleeve when she bought a piece of junk furniture that had real possibilities. Good old mom and dad to work on it’s restoration. As John and I kept collecting nicer antiques, Shannon gladly adopted our hand me downs.

 

Shannon & Ari in our hot tub in Jax, 1992…

 

The trips started soon after Shannon had Ari in 1991. When Michigan State was done for the summer, we’d drive to Iowa to visit the grandparents. My folks were still doing pretty well as was John’s mom. They all thought the world of Ari. Our hypnotic, exotic, stunning new addition to the Van Berkum clan. We’d shop our way across Michigan, Illinois and Iowa. Always stopping in Davenport for a day or 2. I’d see my old bowling buddies and play double deck Euchre. Shannon would visit with her oldest, dearest friend Angie who had a couple of kids of her own.

We were both hooked on Coach handbags. In the 90’s it was unusual to see anyone carrying one. They were expensive and unique. We always made sure to stop at any Outlet Mall on the way to Rock Valley to check out Coach. I remember giving John a hard jab in the ribs at least 20 years ago. We were following another couple into a very nice restaurant. The gal had a beautiful Coach bag on her shoulder. I whispered furiously to the clueless wonder, “Coach!” John’s eyes darted everywhere BUT her shoulder looking for some famous sports coach. For the last decade Coach has over saturated the market with mediocre, non-descript bags. I haven’t bought one in years.

After our mother-daughter infatuation with Coach, Shannon and I oddly parted ways. I became enamored with Michael Kors handbags and Shannon’s smitten with Kate Spade. I tried to like Kate, but her bags are just too stiff and structured. Exactly meeting all of Shannon’s requirements. A nursery-room sized bag that holds exactly one metric ton. My needs are more slouchy and smaller. The older I get, the fussier I am about my dumb purses. I refuse to buy anything with 2 handles. The double straps always fall off my shoulder. I like bumpy leather, not smooth. And not boxy, more hobo or ergo styling. I want several purses in an array of different colors. So does Shannon. As long as all of hers are black. Blech. She takes after Henry Ford when he claimed you could order your car in any color you wanted. As long as it was black. What’s the fun in that?

So most summers Shannon and I took at least one road trip together. Along with her kids as she had them. Josh and Adam too until they were older. Which meant not a whole lot of shopping at first. Really, kids just don’t want to wander slowly through an antique shop or an outlet mall. Or be in a car for 12 hours. Ugh. When the kids were along, the highlight was usually a hotel with a pool. And vending machines. They loved buying the same sweet and salty treats as you had at home. This way they got way less for way more.

 

Ari and Landon in our hotel, 2003…

 

Here’s one of the strangest things that ever happened on the way to Rock Valley. It happened about 12 years ago. We were getting close to the Williamsburg, Iowa Outlet Mall on I-80. I’m driving, Shannon’s trying to keep Ari and Landon occupied. Suddenly Shannon shouts, “mom, look in the field.” As God is my witness, there in an Iowa corn field was a young black bear chasing a white POODLE! The dog seemed to be having fun teasing the bear. The bear thought maybe he was supposed to be having poodle casserole for lunch. Honest both of our jaws dropped to the floor. And the carpet wasn’t that clean. Funniest scene I can remember. I mentioned to a store clerk about our out-of-this-world-weird-bear-encounter. She said there had been other sightings, some who had called 911. We couldn’t do that as we were unable to speak coherently without either of our bottom jaws. The explanation she heard was that when a boy bear gets a couple years old, he needs to have his own space. They kind of get pushed out of the neighborhood, which was probably Minnesota. This hormonal, hungry, teenage bear was now trying to call I-80 and central Iowa his home.

By now Mag had been gone for a few years, and my Mom had just passed away. Dad had moved to Michigan to be closer to me (ha, we know it was the inmates who wooed him here) and the family. Not many reasons for Shannon and I to be road-tripping anymore. That’s when we came up with a novel idea. Why not go away together for a few days without the kids? Splendid. Sounded pretty good to us. But. Ah, there’s always a but. Number one, it was pretty tough on Tracey. The first year Shannon and I went away was during the summer. We thought it would be easier with the kids out of school. Wrong. By now they had 3 children. Peyton had just wormed her way into everyone’s heart. We’d usually leave on a Thursday, coming back on Sunday. Tracey was running his butt off taking 3 kids to 15 different activities. Plus I think he was teaching summer school. After that first year, we decided it was easier if we went during the school year. PJ was in daycare, Landon and Ari were in school. That way, he just had to pick everyone up, run them to their various activities, get supper, help with homework, baths, bed and lunches. A snap. Yikes. But he never complained about it. At least I didn’t hear about it.

 

Ariana, Landon & Peyton, Christmas 2004…

 

It was my job to plan the trip itinerary. This was the time period when Shannon had quit her state job and was in school full-time working on her PHD. (Probably the reason Tracey was teaching summer school). She just didn’t have time. I’d Google Outlet Malls in the area and state we were headed. Instead of antique shops, I had better success if I specified antique MALLS. We didn’t want to drive 75 miles out of our way for one piddly little shop. Rather find an antique mall that boasted 100 dealers. That way we could spend a couple hours at one stop. We did trips through Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and most parts of Iowa during different years. We (meaning Shannon) had some very unusual requests. Since we usually stayed 3 nights in different hotels and cities, sometime during the day we’d have to find the movie theaters. The only movies those days that Shannon was watching were animated G rated Disney. A requirement of hers was that we see at least 2 R rated movies while we were gone. Something with adult dialogue and content. If we were near the Quad Cities, it got worse. Before we’d go into the theater, we’d have to stop at Whitey’s Ice Cream (her fave) and she’d buy a large watermelon shake (blech) to smuggle in. Luckily that wasn’t a problem with her metric ton sized purse.

 

The sign in front of Dr. Shannon’s offices…

 

We were traipsing our way through Illinois. Stopped in a little town where I found one of my all time favorite antiques. An oak dresser with claw feet and a beveled mirror. Gorgeous piece. We were driving John’s pick-up and on our way home. It was raining like we should have been trying to find Noah and climb aboard. I wanted the dresser so bad, but the thought of 6 hours of rain beating on that gorgeous wood before we got back to Jackson was almost a deal breaker. The owner of the store wrapped the entire dresser in Saran Wrap. When we hit Jackson, I backed the truck bed just inside the garage and went in to sleep. Next day I drove home, and the dresser was no worse for the wear. Other trips have scored beautiful Waterford and Orrfors. One little town in Indiana had a resale shop filled with Longaberger baskets. The car filled up fast with baskets before we scooted out of town.

 

My gorgeous oak dresser w/Shannon’s dress. A road trip find…

 

We enjoyed our trips immensely, but we weren’t compatible about everything. I’ve always been a morning person. Shannon, like her dad, is a night owl and likes to sleep in. When we checked into our hotel, I’d get my early morning walking paraphernalia, plus the key card, and store all in the bathroom. When I woke up at the crack of dawn, I’d get dressed, slip out of the room (although hotel doors are fricking impossible to ease shut). After walking for an hour, I’d stop in the lobby, drink a cup of coffee and watch or read the news (I looked like crap, sweaty, hair not combed, but hey, my teeth were brushed). After what seemed like an eternity and surely it had to be at least noon, I’d slink back in our room. Find clean clothes, shower and be ready for whatever the day held in store for us. Finally Shannon would crack open one eye. “Mom, I’m on VACATION. If it’s not at least 10 o’clock, you’d better not say one word!” Complete silence on my part because it was edging close to 9 am.

Then something kind of odd happened. We switched places. John’s company went bankrupt during the crash of 2008. Our house was already so full of antique oak furniture we barely had room to walk. I was only collecting bits of Waterford crystal. Shannon, now with a Dr. in front of her name was acquiring antique oak furniture with purpose. Our roles had reversed. She was flush with cash, I was watching my spending, and trying to downsize a bit. Weird.

The trips have since stopped. Shannon’s got her hands way too full and is spread way too thin. She running her own full time clinical psychology therapy practice, plus owns 2 office buildings with a couple of her peers. The 3 have hired several therapists to work for them. Landon’s heavy into basketball and has joined a travel league that takes the family all over the country to tournaments most weekends. Peyton, 11 takes a couple dance classes, piano and voice lessons every week. Tracey, now the principal of a huge Ann Arbor high School has a job that requires a lot of his time. The older your kids get, the more stuff they’re involved in. I get it.

The last trip we took was almost 3 years ago. Josh was getting married and Erica’s family was having a shower for them in Pennsylvania. Shannon and I decided to go. She had never been to Niagara Falls, and since it’s my all time favorite spot, we stopped there first. Plus they have an awesome Outlet Mall. Kors and Spade stores. Another perk was walking by the Falls during my early morning outings. And it was my duty as a diligent mother to introduce her to The Anchor Bar in Buffalo, New York. Where buffalo wings originated. She was impressed and has since taken Tracey (the wing man-as in chicken) and the family there and to my famous Falls.

 

The Rapids before my beautiful Niagara Falls…

 

 

R-rated movies together. Blizzards before noon. Suppers un-interrupted. The unlikely mother-daughter duo shopping trips which always included upscale stores, and cluttered antique malls. An odd combination indeed. It worked for us. The trips were great fun. A way we stayed connected without hubs, kids, and sibs. I treasure those moments and memories. But I miss our yearly road trips. A lot…

 

 

 

 

 

I chide myself for stuff I didn’t do when I was younger. More often though about stuff I did and wish I hadn’t. You’re all familiar with many of those incidents and events because I declare ownership on all by putting them in print. Sometimes in excruciating detail. Ugh. One of my silliest regrets is that I didn’t run away from home to attend some concerts as a teen. Three to be exact. How I wish I would have gone to see the Beatles, Doors, and Johnny Cash. Cash is a strange one for me since his music should not appeal to me. But it does and I love him. The first “real band” I saw in person were the Buckingham’s. Lake Okoboji at the Roof Garden, about 1967. “Kind of a Drag.”

 

Neese at Lake Okoboji. Roof Garden, John, Buckingham’s, 1967…

Guess I just wasn’t into music that much. I listened to the radio, and watched Dick Clark’s American Bandstand on Saturdays. But I never had rhythm. If only sarcasm were a dance move, I’d been top dog for like 3 minutes. Couldn’t dance as a teen. Still can’t dance as a gram. Music was never very high on my list. I joined high school’s choir just to be part of the group. Never had a good singing voice. Now it’s just hopeless. The more deaf I become, the worse I sound when I sing. So I don’t. Except when I walk. I sing my heart out. I don’t care who’s listening or watching. Deal with it.

At First Reformed Church youth’s choir, I was required to take part when I was a teen. We had practice after supper, so most my friends were there too. Another social outing for me. Yay. Got me out of the house for the night. Maybe we’d go to the bowling alley afterward to get something to eat. My favorite? Our bowling alley made a fresh homemade pizza that cost a whopping 60 cents. Or we’d ride around the loop in Rock Valley. Which, I might add included “our one and only famous stoplight.” I played snare drums in Rock Valley’s High School band, but it was a lackadaisical career. I never really tried very hard. For me, being a part of the group was front and foremost in importance. Not doing particularly well in any group never really mattered. Being in the group mattered.

 

Our one fabulous Rock Valley stoplight. Wow what wide streets…

 

I’ve gone to a few concerts over the years. Lamented with Kenny Rogers begging “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” I took a bus from Davenport to Chicago to hear Neil Diamond croon “Sweet Caroline.” Love that man. Sang along with 3 Dog Night, who warned me repeatedly, “Mama Told Me Not to Come!” The Pointer Sisters got “So Excited” they had to “Jump!” Ray Charles was thinking bout “Georgia On My Mind.”

But music did not really become important to me until I started walking daily in 1998. Hmm, that was about the same time I started losing my hearing. Coincidence? Don’t know. A lot of people enjoy the sounds of outdoors when they walk. Or maybe it’s the indoor sounds they don’t hear while they walk. I walk on a rather busy street, so the sounds of cars zooming by and birds chirping weren’t cutting it. I needed something to keep my feet moving, and take my mind off of all those steps I was taking. Music was the answer. For several years I listened to the Beatles, Doors, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and the Pointer Sisters. You got the part about several years right? Bored out of my skull with the same tunes, year after year. While John made me cassette tapes of music we already owned, my techie son Joshua introduced me to music from the years 1995 forward. He’d make a tape of singers and bands I’d never heard. Black Eyed Peas, Train, Offspring. (I gotta feeling, Hey Soul Sista, Gotta keep ’em separated). After awhile, if I liked a tune, I’d research the band’s music and buy more songs. First on Rhapsody, then on iTunes. Finally something I could manage without Joshua’s constant help.

 

One of Ari’s graduation pics. Same time as Lady Gaga concert…

 

A few years ago, Lady Gaga was just becoming a hot commodity. She’s got great walking tunes. Joshua and I went in kahoots and bought a Lady Gaga concert ticket for Ari’s birthday. Plus one for each of us to watch her in Detroit. This just amazes me. Seriously, I’m amazed. Here’s a hip 34 year old uncle, Joshua, and his super cool, beautiful 19 year old niece, Ariana. Plus me, mom of Josh and gram to Ari. Unbelievable. Going to a hip-hop concert. Together. Honestly, nothing better. Or cooler. Maybe not to them, but it was to me. They might have been mortified to be seen in my company, but they covered it up nicely all night. Besides they were both kind of impressed that I knew the words to her songs. Well, Denise’s hard-of-hearing version of the lyrics. Might not have been what was originally written, but I stood up, swaying and singing along. It was an awesome night. Jason Derulo was Lady Gaga’s opening act. I had never heard of him until that night, but I was impressed. Bought one of his songs. “In my Head.” Nice choreography, and he had some sweet dance moves. As bizarre as Lady Gaga sometimes appears, she is a gifted musician, songwriter and singer. She played the piano on her haunches. Squatting with her butt one inch above the piano seat. Her legs splayed out like a frogs across the piano bench. Fabulous talent. Ari and I stayed overnight at Joshua’s. We had breakfast together the next morning before Josh went to work. Then I dropped Ari off in Jackson and drove back home. Maybe a titch more deaf.

 

Ari’s big purchase on the way to P!nk. Isn’t she just the cutest Hawkeye???

 

A couple years ago, I came across an article on the super talented singer, P!nk. She was starting a concert tour after releasing her last wildly popular album called “The Truth About Love.” I texted Ari on a Sunday morning to see if she had an interest in going to a P!nk concert? Her answer was plastered on Facebook. Something like, “my gram just asked if I wanted to go with her to a P!nk concert? Umm, yes! Coolest gram ever!” By then Josh had gotten married to marvelous, lovable Erica. Joshua begged off, Shannon had no interest, Sarah and Adam had to work. So our new cozy three-some was Ariana, Erica and tag-along gram-mother-in-law. Me. Ari and I spent the day in Detroit shopping while Erica was doing her car company engineering job. We all met for supper at a restaurant close to the Palace of Auburn Hills. There’s just not the right words to describe a P!nk concert. She spent a third of the concert, swinging from a trapeze attached to the several stories high ceiling of the Palace. In a rather nude body suit. Singing. She was utterly amazing. Plus I knew all the words again. My version. Great concert. Ari and I drove back to Jackson and I spent the night before driving home. Maybe a titch more deaf.

 

P!nk flying thru the air SINGING. Concert 2013…

 

I’ve been crazy about Adam Levine and Maroon 5 since I bought “Payphone “and “One More Night.” When I heard they were going on tour, I looked up when they would be in Detroit. Asked Ari and Erica if they were in? A resounding yes from both. Ari’s boyfriend Josh (not to be confused with my son Joshua. Really, what are the odds?) wanted to go too. Our seats were the best so far of our 3 Palace of Auburn Hills concerts. I drove to Ari’s and Josh’s apartment in Ypsilanti, and rode with them to Detroit which is just a hop, skip and a jump away. Of course we met Erica after work at the same restaurant as the P!nk concert. That’s now a tradition. The Maroon 5 concert was quite different than Lady Gaga’s or P!nk’s. Those 2 performers spent thousands on elaborate costume changes and sets. Adam Levine came out on stage in a black-non-descript-jacket, white T-shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes. After song number 3, he tossed the jacket. Never changed clothes. Never stopped singing. That’s really what I pay for. Still, gotta give it up to Lady Gaga and P!nk for their “wow” entertainment factor. It was a great concert. A wonderful night. All 3 of them have been. I went home with Erica and spent a couple days with her and Joshua. Maybe a titch more deaf.

 

Maroon 5 ticket with Ari, Josh, Erica & me…

 

While we were eating supper at the restaurant, before the Maroon 5 concert, Erica said she and some friends are planning to attend a Madonna concert in Detroit this fall. Ari turned to me and asked, “who else do you want to see gram? What’s next on your concert bucket list?” Without hesitation, (fully expecting and thoroughly enjoying their dropped jaws) I casually replied, “Pitbull.” …

 

 

 

 

 

 

It all started on our vacation trip to California back in 1961. Just Mom, Dad, and me, then 10 years old. Plus 2 paying passengers joining me in the backseat of our 1958 Canyon Pink, Chevy Biscayne. Sigh. A 2-door without air. Sigh. Our west coast relatives did their best to entertain and introduce us to new things. Knott’s Berry Farm and Disneyland were fantastic. Swimming in the Pacific was chilly but unforgettable. They took us out for Chinese food. Mom would only eat the fortune cookies and drink the tea. For me, following her lead, it would mean another 2 decades before John literally forced me to try Chinese cuisine again. Guess what? I love it. But when the relatives took us to the newly transplanted L.A. Dodger’s field for a baseball game against the Cubs, Mom discovered a new exciting pastime in her life.

 

Mom and Dad in California, 1961…

My Mom. A sports nut. Who knew? She was the most unlikely candidate, to say the very least. I remember she watched tennis on TV. Loved Arthur Ashe and Jimmy Connors. Adored Billy Jean King long before she whooped on Bobby Riggs hiney in the Battle of the Sexes. When I was cleaning out their house after she passed away in 2004, I re-discovered how much she really enjoyed spectator sports over the years. And for so many different teams. Seems like she’d become enamored with a “player” then follow his team for awhile. Mom had hundreds of sports articles saved. Neatly clipped from her beloved Des Moines Register. Dusty Baker, decades ago, chewing bubblegum and blowing a bubble the size of his head. George Brett, going ballistic with the umps over the “pine tar” incident.

 

Dodgers vs. Cubs in L.A. 1961…

 

In 1962 we took a camper-trailer (yes, you read that right, the Gerritson’s in a camper, I kid you not) to the Twin Cities. What was she thinking? Mom was not the camping type at all. She was a neat nick, germaphobe who washed her hands 30 times a day. Minimum. Any kind of camping was WAY TOO primitive for her. Gotta give her credit for trying though. Trying to make our small, downsized family unit closer after Larry died and Mona got married. But my Mom? She always wore a dress back then. I never saw her in a pair of jeans. Slacks, when the popular polyester pant-suit made its way into her fashion world. Anyway, on this trip we spent a day at Como Park Zoo which was great. But the highlight of this trip (and our last with our newly bought used camper-trailer) was a Minnesota Twins game. Mom was captivated by Harmon Killebrew. Until he took off his baseball cap to wave and acknowledge the crowd. He was bald. OK, it was time for Mom to move on.

 

Dad and I eating breakfast in the camper during our Minneapolis adventure, 1962..,

 

Mom then fell for the Kansas City Royals. Really it was all about that hunka-hunka third baseman named George Brett who played in the major leagues for 20 years. He was really cute, and a superb hitter and fielder. A couple years later, she moved on to the St. Louis Cardinals. She loved their short stop, Ozzie Smith. Watching him snag those thought-to-be-hits from going into the outfield. Mom and I drove to St. Louis to watch a few games. Enjoyed “The Wizard” doing his famous backflips on the field. Although by then I was a die-hard fan of the hopeless, hapless, helpless Cubs. Double sigh. I sure can pick ’em. The Cards were playing the New York Mets during that series. By the time we were done enjoying our 3 game series, Mom was done with the Cardinals. Sorry Ozzie and Whitey Herzog. Mom was moving on again.

 

Minnesota Twins stubs, 1962. Yeah, Mom saved everything…

 

Now her attention (and span) would focus on the Mets. Long term commitment for her. Really Mom? How could you embrace any New York team? They’re just so unlike-able. Side note, my Dad always loved the Yankees. Even worse. Steinbrenner. Ugh. Until Dad moved to Michigan. He started watching and rooting for the Detroit Tigers. Mom was smitten with the whole stinking Met team. Mookie Wilson, Gary Carter, Keith Hernandez, Lenny Dykstra. I think she liked Lenny because his name was Dutch. She would have been terribly disappointed in his life choices and business decisions of late. Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden and Ron Darling (who was just that). But when you’re a Cubs fan, it’s a given. You gotta hate everything about the Mets and the Cards. Period. Decades old rivalrys.

 

Our plain-jane ’58 Chevy Biscayne. Long trip to California hauling 5…

 

Mom and I did a lot of arguing over baseball. Players, managers, teams and stats. Hard to win any argument when the team you love happen to be the Cubs. They’ve had a couple of play-off worthy years. Should have been in the 1984 World Series against the Tigers. I don’t think the Cubs would have won, but it would have had a better series than with the Padres. During the ’80’s the Cubs were quite notorious in their trading tactics for famous players. Getting rid of youngsters and rookies who just might have turned that team around and into something special one day. What’s the fun and logic with that? Trading them away for high-priced-has-been-players who were long past their prime. By at least 5 years.

 

Ron, The Penguin’s adoptive family…

 

Ron Cey was a perfect example. The Penguin (aptly nicknamed cause he looked like one. Unfortunately, ran and fielded like one too. Tough to catch those line drives at third when your arms and legs are so stinking short). Cubs got Cey years after he pip-squeaked. I mean peaked. Ended up lugging around that high salaried tub way too long. It wasn’t like we needed him to draw fans. The Cubs, no matter how many games they finished out of first place (usually last) always had one of baseball’s highest totals in attendance every year. Chicago did have some pretty awesome players during my die-hard years like Ryne Sandberg, Rick Sutcliffe, reliever Lee (don’t-touch-my-fro) Smith, Steve Trout, Mark Grace, and Andre Dawson. Those perennial losers who could never make it past the playoffs when they finally managed to get there every quarter or half century. My love and devotion towards them has waned over the last decade. Just not very interested in baseball or football anymore. Mom stayed devoted to the Mets for the rest of her life.

 

My Harmon Killebrew Louisville Slugger mini…

 

But she would also have a crazy long love affair with the Iowa Hawkeye’s too. She really loved college basketball. Remembering Steve Carfino, Bobby Hansen, BJ Armstrong, (half of the twin towers, Michael Payne), Roy Marble, Brad Lohaus and Kenny Arnold back in the day. Mom knew each one of them as well as one could without being related or having ever met them. She was a nervous wreck on game nights against the powerhouse Big Ten teams. Jud Heathcoate at Michigan State (do any of you recall watching Jud years ago when he caught a ball that flew out of bounds at him on the sidelines? He was ticked at the call, and bounced the ball hard on the floor in front of him. Only to have it bounce right back and hit him snack dab in the face. On network TV. Classic). Gene Keady, the great coach at Purdue. Plus the horrible, awful, ruthless, mean, S.O.B. Bobby Knight at Indiana? Iowa’s had a string of coaches since I’ve been watching. Lute Olson, George Raveling, (who managed to lose a game, with under a minute left, and a substantial lead, 6 or 8 points I think. Plus he broke Brad Lohaus’ spirit). Not a good coach. Dr. Tom Davis who ran the team like sprinters. Steve Alford who was just awful (Bobby Knight clone wannabe).

 

My favorite pic of Mom flirting with Joshua, 1978…

 

Mom and I were in Chicago for a few days during the late ’80’s. Mom wanted to experience riding the “L” to the end of the line. So we did. Ended up on the south-WAY-south side. Only 2 women on the train. Then we had to get off, walk around to the other side to catch the trip back north. Now that was a little bit frightening. Ah, we were fine. This was the last series Mom and I attended together at Wrigley Field. The Cubs vs. Mets. The weather was fantastic. Nice, but not too hot. Beautiful summer days. We were in the shade. This was just before the Cubs got lights to hold night games. (Sorry, I often feel bad about the lights. Necessary evil, but still have issues embracing this change. It’s only been 25 years. Maybe I’ll get used to it). We were having a wonderful day. There were a two guys in their 20’s sitting a couple seats away. Mom and I were arguing about a call when she looked over at me with a frown on her face. This is how the conversation went.

Mom: “Denise do you smell anything strange? I smell something really weird. What is that?”

Me: “Umm Mom, I think that’s pot you’re smelling.”

Mom: “You mean pot like the marijuana drug pot?”

Me: “Yes, I believe so.”

Mom: “Do you think we should call over one of the attendants? Or go find a policeman?”

Me: “No Mom, we’re gonna just let this one slide.” She was furious and astounded that illegal drugs could be seen and smelled during the day at Wrigley Field while we were enjoying America’s pastime. Sometimes she was very innocent. Oh Mom…

 

 

 

Oh the significance of the numbers 69 in my life! Some lasted several years, others were one-time events. First one. I’m from the class of 1969. You know that always used to have a recent sound to it. Lately it sounds kind of ancient. I don’t feel ancient. It seems I might have slept through about 25 years. Or they zipped by in such a hurry, I didn’t realize that they were already gone. Here’s some memories of being part of the class of ’69.

 

Holy spit-curls Batman! My kindergarten picture…

I remember walking to kindergarten with Arlyn Hammen. Sometimes Gary Miller walked with us. The school wasn’t quite 2 blocks from my house. My kindergarten classroom was in the old section of the school building. Sitting on little chairs by small tables that sat about 8 kids. The windows in the room were very long. Miss Oliver pulled the shades down when it was nap time. The room got very dark. Arlyn was homesick one day and started to cry. I felt so bad for him. I loved being there.

 

Half of our kindergarten class with Miss Oliver…

 

By second grade we were in the brand new elementary part. Most often the door to our room was left open. I was in awe when “the big high school kids” walked past, especially on game day. The cheerleaders wore their cheerleading outfits for the whole day. Becoming a cheerleader was already on my “to do” list. This was also the year that my brother Larry was killed when he was hit by a car riding his bike. Mrs. Ver Hoef was my teacher that year. She was the kindest woman. She caught me after I had quietly delivered her May Basket, and was sneaking back to the car. She gave me a big hug and a kiss. One of the highlights of that dreadful school year. Pretty sure my first crush on Dave Plueger was about that same time.

 

Mrs. Ver Hoef. My second grade and kindest teacher…

 

I went home most days for lunch. My Mom worked in town and she came home, so we usually had lunch together. Most often one of us would check the lunch menu at school though. There were some favorite meals at school that the lunch ladies made that I never wanted to miss. And Mom didn’t mind if I wanted to stay and have hot lunch. Topping that list was cinnamon rolls. Didn’t care what the main course was. I was only interested in the huge frosted cinnamon rolls. Turkey dinners were special treat too. I remember watching high school boys go back time after time for extra peanut butter sandwiches. I think they were allowed to eat as many as they wanted. Most of these guys lived on farms and did a lot of physical labor. I think they were unable to ever be really full.

But heaven help me if I changed my mind about hot lunch. Maybe I forgot to check the menu. Or Mom had already left for work and I decided that I was going to stay for hot lunch. When the bell rang for our lunch break, my heart would start hammering in my chest until I thought it would burst. I didn’t have my LUNCH MONEY. The school had recently hired a hitman posing as a woman. This was a sure way to intimidate 8 year olds who couldn’t pay for their lunch that day. This woman used an alias to dupe folks into believing she was really Mrs. E.R. Haas. No first name, just Mrs. E. R. Infiltrating Rock Valley Community Schools as the superintendent’s wife, no less. Clever. I could hear my heart pounding as the line crept forward. She sat by a small table just inside the lunch room door. My mouth was so dry I didn’t think I’d be able to speak. Or ever have spit in my mouth again. When this keppi-strunt little Dutch girl finally found her voice, it was squeaky high and jittery. Honest, looking directly into her eyes was like getting zapped by a modern day taser. Her head would spin around a couple times at warp speed. Then a huge-scary-clown-smile because she smelled my fear. Enjoying my panic when my lower lip would quiver. Watching, waiting (and hoping) for me to turn and run. Tongue like a Komodo dragon’s (maybe with the same spit poison too). I had witnessed that 2 foot, razor sharp fork-like-fang hauling kids back to the line to face the music. She would slowly turn her eyes downward, salivating just a bit as she eagerly looked for your name on THE LIST. Oh dear God, there it was. Denise Gerritson. Beady eyes in slow motion easing upwards, locking me under her hypnotic spell. The kids closest to me slowly backing away. A small puff of black smoke flew out of her left ear, at the very same moment a tiny orange flame exited her left nostril. Never the right, always the left. Unseen by staff and other adults. How she managed that was unclear, but never questioned. Her voice was deceivingly soft. She wanted you to lean forward, getting caught unaware. I knew kids who fell for this trickery and still bear the scars. Menacingly she cackle, “This is your second charge. You owe 70 cents! No more charges until your Mom sends you back here with money!” Honestly I went through this for a CINNAMON ROLL. Still have nightmares about her when I was in line without lunch money.

I absolutely loved school until the 5th grade. I still rue the day Eileen Henderson ever came into my life. She was unfair and a horrible excuse for a teacher. Favored boys and picked on smart girls. (Which is why she left me alone-most of the time). One day she walked up behind Anne, who was sitting at her desk with the top lifted up. Mrs. Henderson gave Anne’s long ponytail such a hard yank that Anne’s headband flew off her head and landed in the back of the room. Henderson was just plain mean. Unfortunately 6th grade wasn’t much better for me. I had Mrs. Kosters. She at least treated all of us the same. And she wasn’t a bad teacher, just not very likable to me.

During P.E. class in junior high I fell off the parallel bars, dislocating my left elbow. So unfair that Doc Hegg had chosen that week for probably his first vacation in 5 years to be out of town. Mom had to take to to a doctor in Hull to have it rolled back in place. Forty years later, a old bone fragment was found when I broke that same elbow. I swear Doc Hegg would not have missed that. He was my hero.

I went out for cheerleading in junior and senior high. Really scary. All of your peers sitting crammed on one side of the gym while you do a little routine. Vividly remember wearing tennis shoes, shorts, knee socks and a blouse. One of my first try-outs. Blouse was not tucked into my shorts. Mortified when I did a cartwheel and my blouse flew up, almost revealing-horrors. MY. BRA.

 

Pam, Shirlee, Neese & Char, about 1967…

 

Basketball games on Tuesday and Friday nights. The old small gym packed like sardines with parents and students. The concession stand. I would buy Royal Crown Cola and a bag of Planters Peanuts. Toss the peanuts in the pop. Weird. If the games were out of town, I’d pay a quarter to ride the pep bus to and from the game. Some of the memories from those rides are my fondest about school. Singing, shouting, cheering, flirting. Loud, so loud. Mostly on the way there though. Many times on the way back we were too hoarse to be obnoxious. We tried though. Good times. Now when I see a full school bus, all the kids have their heads down. In their own little world with ear buds, phones or Tablets. Man, they are missing out of so much. Sad.

Home Economics class was a real stretch for me. I had never cooked, couldn’t sew on a button. I believe her name was Miss Weiner. Poor thing. Something had happened to her, and she had a wooden leg. This was in the early to mid ’60’s. Before all the advancements made with prosthetics. Plus she had me as a student. She was very patient, especially during the sewing segment. Probably lasted 6 weeks but felt like 2 years to me. I think I sewed the sleeve on wrong at least twice before she finally gave up on me. Ripped it out, sat down at my machine and stitched it on right. Thanks Miss Weiner. It was better for both of us that way. I didn’t do too bad in the cooking and baking part. The kitchen set up was massive considering how small our school was. I don’t remember exactly how many kitchens there were, but I think about 6. We made baked Alaska once. And it turned out great.

I had a very close wonderful friend named Char through most of school. She lived about 3 blocks away. Her family was normal but unusual. The unusual part was her parents had kids who were already grown up and gone. Then they had a second batch of kids. All girls the second time around, and pretty close in age to me. Char was the 2nd kid of this group. Sunday’s were so slow in Rock Valley. The whole town revolved around the many churches that day. The drug store was open for a couple hours, but no gas stations, or restaurants. Wouldn’t have mattered to most of us anyway if they had been open. It was wrong to spend money on Sunday. Period. “Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work, and on the 7th day thou shalt rest.” After the morning round of church and Sunday school, a big dinner, the rest of the day went unbelievably slow. When we got back from visiting my grandpa, I’d head over to Char’s house. Her house was bustling. I loved it there. So different than my quiet, somber house. A couple of Char’s older brothers had moved to Colorado, but her married sister Audrey lived in Sioux Center. Audrey and her family came over every week for a big Sunday supper. This put their total at the table at about 10. I was invited to stay most Sunday’s. Man did I enjoy being with that family. They were so good to me. Mrs. Schelhaas went all out for this meal. Usually a delicious roast and either twice baked (the best) or mashed. They mashed their potatoes with a mixer. That was new to this kid. Those spuds were so smooth. Sometimes we had hamburgers. Which were very small. As in 50 cent piece sized. Everyone was talking quietly. Absolutely the best way to spend Sunday’s. Soon everyone was helping clean up because it was back to church for evening services. Char’s parents were custodians for our church. Audrey’s family went back home. The rest of us went back to First Reformed for RCYF and the preacher’s sermon. My time spent with Char and the Schelhaas family are still the dearest memories and highlights of my childhood. My heartfelt gratitude, love and thanks for all the times they included me. Even in their bullhead fishing trips to Minnesota. Don’t get me wrong, this was 2-way street. My Mom and Dad adored Char and included her in most of our family’s outings. Char joined us nearly every Saturday night when we went out for supper. And shopping trips to Sioux Falls or Sioux City. Many times Mom bought Char an outfit, or got us matching tops. Char, still the best bud.

 

My best friend, Char. Mid 1960’s school pic…

 

I really wasn’t a bad student. But totally unmotivated. For me school was a social event everyday. I sure should have put in more effort, but that just wasn’t me. I don’t think I ever really tried. I did enjoy English. Yup that was about it for me. Pathetic. Glad my kids were all great students, each one getting their college degree, and more. My 4 fabulous grands are smart as whips too. None of them got it from me. As for the rest of my ’69’s? Well in 5 years I’ll be 69. John and I were married in 1969. A one-time event. Trust me. Plus this is my 69th blog post. Trying to get at least 100. I plan to have my own hard cover book published of all my blog posts. With comments of course, they’re usually the best part. Just for me. You ever walk in a care facility and notice a little old lady carrying around a doll? That she thinks is one of her kids? That will be me, but lugging the book of my goofy stories. Sometimes painful, some funny, but all in all a wonderful, blessed life. A very old Neese, standing by the front door, begging complete strangers to read me the old stories of my life…