I wonder if sending someone a card has become a lost art? Has writing a letter become gauche, old-fashioned, and dated? Like me? Facebook is so smart, it lets me know on the day when one of my “friends” is celebrating a birthday. The next step is me going to their home page, write a 2 sentence (max) snippet, wishing them a great day. Time to move on. What in the world happened to writing a letter or sending a card? I used to be queen of sending cards. Not just birthday, anniversary or thank you cards. For all occasions. Better yet, a no occasion card. My favorite kind of card to get in the mail.

 

My favorite card I’ve ever gotten…

This is what the card says inside. Hysterical…

 

Writing letters, and thank you notes were a big part of my life growing up. No texting, IM, e-mail, Tweets, Twits, Facebook, or Instagram. I still don’t know what some of that stuff is. Although I do know several twits. Heck, we didn’t even have the luxury of leaving a message on the phone. There were no answering machines. If you left a message, it was with a real person. Who just might forget to forward that message for you. But usually it was the mom or dad of who you were calling. No voice-mail. I’m one who fully appreciates technology, probably more than most. Since I’ve lost a huge chunk of hearing in both ears, I’ve come to the realization that the phone is not my friend. I used to love yakking on the phone. Now I dread it when it rings.

 

Card attached to a gift from Peyton. She was 10…

 

I started e-mailing my kids years ago. Moved on to texting, Messenger, even FaceTime recently. My 5 year old grandson Graham does not like to talk on the phone. But several months ago, Sarah had him FaceTime me. I didn’t realize that my iPad was singing a different tune. And I didn’t know how to answer it (him) at first. Graham is actually more interested in watching himself make goofy faces as he carries on a conversation with me. But I’m ok with that. I’m happy to see his little mug while he arches his eyebrows, scrunches up his adorable face, or sticks out his tongue. Not long ago, I heard that familiar chirp coming from my iPad. Yup, it was Graham using FaceTime. He’s up at the crack of dawn like his gram, so I knew it was him. While we were talking he started wandering through his house, twisting and turning his iPad so many times at weird angles, I was getting dizzy. Soon I heard Sarah in the background. Graham turned and questioned her, “hey mom, you want to talk to grandma?” Oh-oh, Mom didn’t know that Graham had called me. All on his own. At age 5. What a hoot!

 

Graham making faces like when we FaceTime together. 2014…

 

Enough with all the hoity-toity technology. Let’s get back to cards and letters. Since I was teen, I’ve written hundreds of letters. There’s not much that compares to the great feeling of getting an unexpected letter in the mail! (Although an independent call from my young grandson ranks right up there). Someone actually cared enough to take the time putting their thoughts on paper, address and stamp it, and slip it in the mail. For ME. How thoughtful. Do you remember writing notes constantly in school? It was an important social aspect of being a teenage girl.

I recently found some old cards and letters from the 1960’s. A couple were from my best friend Char. Filled with gossipy tidbits surrounding the lives of 14 year old cliquey girls. But there’s a huge difference between reading her letters written personally to me, than having someone put them on a post on Facebook. For the world to see. Another letter and birthday card were from a boyfriend when I was 12. They’re so funny. Wasn’t much about him declaring his undying love for me as much as his insecurities. Comparing himself to some other boys in our class. Pretty strong cutdowns. But I can remember those scary, insecure feelings. At the end of the letter Tom did profess I was his one and only true love. At least for that month. Or week.

 

12th birthday card from my boyfriend Tom…

Signed in pencil. In case he changed his mind?

Signed in pencil. In case he changed his mind?

Signed in pencil. In case he changed his mind?

 

I have some really old letters that were sent to my grandma when she was young. Wonderful, newsy 4 page affairs from her sister who had moved away from their Sioux Center, Iowa home. Her penmanship was almost like calligraphy. Worth the price of admission right there. Beautifully written visually, with heartfelt love in her prose. You know what I think a huge problem in the whole sending out cards and letters scenario problem is? It’s my smart (ass) phone! I used to have all important phone numbers memorized. Along came the smarter-than-me phones and tablets. Now it was no longer necessary to keep those phone numbers in my head. My phone did it for me. It got worse with Facebook. Although I have friends, but no addresses or phone numbers. If I need to get a hold of them, I zip over to their home page and leave a private message. But there’s really no way of contacting them by phone or at home address because of all our technology. Some of those personal connections are a thing of the past. My Christmas card list is way down the last decade.

 

Homemade card to my Mom, about 1957. Misspelled my name…

 

My Mom had beautiful penmanship. I used to love getting letters from her. After we moved to eastern Iowa, I wrote Mom and Dad a couple times a week. Of course my kids were small then. I could always find things to write about the kids. New things they were attempting or accomplishing. First steps, new little toofies, starting their potty training, kindergarten. Worrisome things, childhood diseases, diaper rash, teething. It was a great way to stay connected. At the time, long distance phone calls were much too expensive to talk about everyday, routine things. Even if you waited until nights or weekends, I was always logging up my minutes in my head. Trying to keep that phone bill down to a minimum. So we wrote. It was with great anticipation that I waited for the mail each day.

 

Mom’s handwritten recipe in the back of her cookbook…

 

Over my lifetime, I’ve gotten cards and letters that have stuck with me for months. Months afterward, I would get a lump just thinking about a certain card I had received. Usually not a thank you card. It’s the ones that were totally unexpected. “Thinking of you” cards. Either by what they wrote personally, or the clever way the card was worded and designed. Ok, shout out to Hallmark. You get it right most of the time. Usually in a hilarious way, or so thoughtful that reading it makes me cry. But my word, have they gotten incredibly expensive? Once social media exploded, society started changing. This wasn’t something I noticed right away. But after awhile the cards slowly dwindled in my life. When I think about it, I really miss getting cards and letters.

 

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Receiving this could and did make my week…

Receiving this could and did make my week…

Wonderful couple. I’ll get to their story soon…

Receiving this could and did make my week…

 

A couple of year ago, I met Sarah’s 90 year old grandma at Graham’s 4th birthday party. Betty was born, raised and lived most of her married life in Michigan. She had moved to California a few years ago, and just moved back to Michigan. I had given Sarah and Adam some jars of my canned goods. Sarah in turn, shares them with her Mom, sister and grandma. Not long after meeting her that day, I received a darling handwritten note from Betty. Thanking me at length for the pint of pickled beets Sarah had given her. One of her favorites that she hadn’t had for awhile. In her note, Betty explained she and her husband had huge gardens for years, and beets were one of their staples and favorites. It was just the cutest, most thoughtful note. I wrote her back immediately, thanking her for taking the time to write me. She wrote back immediately. Ta-da, I got a new old-fashioned pen-pal. Out of the clear blue. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure it’s my turn to write Betty back.

 

Sarah, pen-pal grandma Betty, and mom Karen…

 

I’m still a sucker for cards. I have to force myself to pass by a card shop. I love having a huge variety of cards in the house. This stems from one of my kitchen quirks. I don’t like to run out of anything. Ever. If I want to make 12 dozen assorted cookies right now, I want all the stuff I need to make that happen. At my disposal. I am slowly paring down the quantity of kitchen staples I keep, since I’m no longer cooking and baking for all my little people. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I never used to make a batch of anything that required less than 4 eggs. Most times it was 8 eggs or a dozen. Now stuff looks funny in my Kitchen Aid mixer bowl, having such a puny amount in there. And I’m not baking very much. That feels different too.

 

Hurts to look at. She had tremors, but still wrote me…

 

When I was Parish Visitor, I wrote a ton of notes, and sent a lot of cards. I’d do a month’s worth of birthday cards on the 1st of each month. It just took a minute to write a couple sentences in each one. I’d seal them, but not put the stamp on the envelope. Rather I’d write the date of their birthday in the corner. Stack them numerically. When I was leaving the house in the morning, I’d check my stash of ready to be mailed cards, stamp the appropriate ones that needed to go out that day. Now I have all the time in the world, yet send out very few cards. I’m blaming Facebook. They should get their act together. I need to know these birthdays a week in advance. Not the day of. And since Facebook knows so darn much about all of us, find their home addresses for me. I got a bunch of cards I want to mail. Maybe Facebook and my sarcastic phone are not as smart as I thought…

 

A postcard that still has a squeaker…

From the Beumer’s mid 1950’s…

From the Beumer’s mid 1950’s…

 

 

I, unfortunately was born with Chronic Icy-Cold Arm Syndrome. It can literally be 90 degrees outside, yet my arms feel downright chilly. I get goose bumps, and the 3 hairs on each arm stand straight up. (I didn’t come from a hairy bunch). Since I’m unable to substantiate when exactly this strange phenomenon struck me, I’m going with my birth at home, December 1950. I have found a couple of photos with me as a normal kid. And I’m baring it all. Well, I mean all of my arms. But I think those pictures have been doctored.

 

Neese 1953. Pic has been doctored. I’m wearing a hoody…

I thought long and hard about when my unique remedy for this chronic problem actually manifested itself. Seems like it’s been a few years, tops. But then I started going through the old pictures I’ve downloaded on my iPad.

 

Summer 1955. Lin, me, Doug and Larry. Both Gerritson’s wearing long sleeves…

 

You know, that’s often the toughest part when I write my blog. Selecting just the right pictures to go with my story. Sometimes I can visualize the picture in my head. But I can’t find it. Every couple weeks I end up hauling a box of old pictures downstairs. This is a learning process. And I’m a very slow learner. I am getting better though. At first, I was so focused on searching for a certain picture, I’d flip through them at warp speed with wild abandon. Where is the dang picture for that paragraph? A few days later, I’d slap myself along side the head as I was writing a new post and think, “ah, you dumb shit. You had that very picture in your hand, yet haphazardly threw it back in the box. Now you need it.” Lately, when I go through them, I stop, frown for a split second and ponder, wonder if I’ll ever need that one for a blog post? See, I’m getting better.

 

Shannon 5, Joshua 8 mo. Me w/o flannel, 1976…

 

Anyway, back to the old pictures. It seems as though I’ve been wearing long sleeved shirts for a very long time. Not always flannel, but about 90% of the time. It just feels so good. Soft and snuggly. Especially after they’ve been washed 400 times. They’re used as an apron cooking, baking or canning. And eating. Catching all my spills, keeping my t-shirt sparkly clean. But Job 1, first and foremost, is always about keeping my arms covered and warm.

 

1979. Adam, 2 months. Mommy with Chronic Cold Arms…

 

A dozen years ago I took a very nasty spill while walking. So embarrassing. It was still dark out, and I had no business being out that early. The cause of this bizarre accident? I, um, actually slipped on acorns. Yeah nuts. I know how to do shame right. One foot slid out on a dark sidewalk filled with nuts, (me included) and I went down in a heap. Landed hard on my knee, chin and left elbow. My elbow bone took the brunt of it, finally stopping it’s forward progress before getting cozy with my shoulder.

Several days later I had major repair surgery, complete with a dozen attractive staples. The surgeon explained that I would never be able to fully straighten my left arm. It seems the real problem and cause was an old junior high injury. Fell off the parallel bar in Rock Valley, during P.E. class. It had been diagnosed as a simple dislocated elbow. A quick shot of morphine, and it was rolled back to it’s original location. No, not by Dr. Hegg. My childhood hero. Our family doctor, whom I worshipped. He happen to pick that very week, (his first in maybe 5 years) to go on vacation. Timing is everything, and I’ve never had that technique down pat. But that early serious injury had caused a bone fragment to break off. Which had gone undetected and unrepaired for 40 years. Plus this new, complicated break. There was just too much damage. The incision itself caused nerve damage. Most of those little buggers repair themselves, but they their sweet time in the healing process.

 

Probably 80 degrees! 1995..

 

After weeks in a cast, I suffered through a month of physical therapy. My therapist was a sadist named Brunhilda. There wasn’t one session during rehab that I didn’t leak tears while she (brutally) attacked my arm. But she’s also the reason my arm is almost un-noticeably straight. She literally yanked on it for the entire month. Thanks Bruiny! You’re the worst-best.

To put things in perspective, easy to understand, I’ll use junk food. The incision area was about the size of a Twinkie. Totally numb like it was chocked full of novocaine. Weird numb. Feels creepy, like ripples, chills or goose bumps sliding up and down my arm. The numb area has been halved in size. We’re talking double-stuff Oreo sized, but still not gone after so many years. And that creepy, ripply feeling lingers too. I don’t feel it when my arm is covered though. If it’s bare and I set my arm down on a chair or table, it gives me the willies. So I keep it covered. Kind of like an arm burka. Sorry, that might be spuuting (Dutch equivalent for making fun of religion, not cool). Ok, enough talk about my fabulous 40 years in flannel high fashion-wear. Living the dream, Baby.

Over 15 years ago, Kathy, a friend and co-worker at McDonald’s moved to Grand Rapids. It’s only about 45 miles away, so I’d drive over after work every few months. Quite close to where she lived was a fabulous new mall called Rivertown Crossing. We’d go to the mall, then have supper together. Even though the mall was new, the area around the mall was not very built up yet. Not like now. But there was an older, small strip mall right between Kathy’s house and Rivertown. A really good Chinese restaurant, named Hunan was located there. Soon becoming our favorite place to eat. Wasn’t long before John was going with me, eating Chinese when we were in GR together. He liked it too.

 

Shannon, Landon and flannel me, 2002…

 

After Shannon had Landon, she took an extended maternity leave of about 6 months. Grand Rapids was about 80 miles from her. So we started a mini-tradition. Every couple weeks while she was off work, we’d meet at Rivertown Crossing. We’d shop for a couple hours, then enjoy Chinese food for lunch. She’d drive back to Jackson in time to get Ari from school. I’d zip back home the other direction to North Muskegon. We started this tradition again after she had Peyton in 2004. Although I have missed those days with Shannon and her newborns, I never thought it would be fair to ask for another grandchild because I craved Chinese food. (I’m kidding. She said no anyway). Soon she introduced Tracey and Ari to our Chinese restaurant. Now our whole family loves that place. And we almost always have the same waiter. A young Chinese man, who after 15 years of waiting patiently on me, I’ve yet to learn his name. He does however speak much better English now than he did when we first started going there. I’m so embarrassed. I’m going to ask his name the next time I go there. And how his mom is doing? Make up for some lost time cause I’ve been a jerk.

 

Me, flannel and Marie, 2004…

 

John’s sister Elly, her husband Dewey, their married son Ken and Jeannie came to visit us a couple years later. We had lived in their quaint little town of Spencer, Iowa for several years, forging a wonderful relationship and have remained close ever since. Elly is 18 years older than John (the hubs). She got married when John was about 2, so they never really knew each other very well. Our youngest son Adam was born in Spencer. (check out his story called “Party of 5” on my blog archives. Written on his 35th birthday. For all those not celebrating his birthday with us, it was 9-12-14). To our kids while we lived in Spencer, having Elly and Dewey around was like gaining another set of grandparents.

 

2009 w/Graham. I'm wearing 3 layers. Sigh…

 

So back to their visit. We had a wonderful time while they were here. Shannon couldn’t come to North Muskegon, but really wanted to see her aunt and uncle. (This is the aunt who used to French braid her hair so tight, Shannon looked Asian for days). So we decided to meet at our mutually loved favorite Chinese restaurant. Got one of those big round tables with the lazy Susan on top that spins your assorted dishes around. That you’re willing to share. As if. We had bragged up that restaurant to Elly for days. And there’s no person on earth who LOVES Chinese food more than Elly. We were all yakking, listening to Ari, 12 and Landon who was about 2. It was only fitting we got our usual and favorite waiter, who shall remain nameless (I’m really mortified here folks). I should make a quick trip there, snarf down some food, so I can at least learn his name. I mean, he’s almost like family. Well, a family member who you don’t care enough about to learn his stinking first name. Ugh. Anyway the coolest waiter dude ever was making his way around our table taking orders. (You know, he could have, at some point in the last 17 years, asked my name too. This can’t be all on me. Shouldn’t I be like family to him too)? When he gets to Elly, she looks up at him and says, “I’ve been hearing about this restaurant all week, so it better be good. I’ll have you know, I drove all the way from Iowa to get this Chinese food!” Without a moments pause, nameless dude shoots back, “And I came all the way from China just to wait on you.”…

 

Shannon, Elly, Adam, Dewey, Josh. Spencer, Ia. 1980…

 

 

–>

 

I’ve never been ashamed of my age. Most days I’m in awe and a little panicky at how fast the years keep clipping along. But this is my life, and it’s been pretty great so far. No major illness, my family is healthy. Thanks God. I’ve earned every one of my worry lines (ok, more like my fair share of wrinkles). It wasn’t easy learning how to cook when I couldn’t boil water, trying to raise kids when I was so clueless on mothering, and moving around a lot during nearly 46 years of marriage. But boy did I feel old, out of touch, even ancient, when I started thinking about simple pieces of cloth today.

Shannon w/ grandpa Rich. Don’t think he was changing her diaper. June, 1971…

 

So I’ve been reminiscing about diapers. Weird. No, not the ones for me. Yet. The real vintage ones made of cloth, years ago, when I was pregnant with my firstborn, Shannon in 1970. Although we were still living in the age of stone, Pampers had been invented. But who could afford such luxuries? Certainly not this young couple, who were barely making ends pass through the same time zone, let alone meet. We were broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted. Yikes, these old songs are messing with my head. We were not only totally inexperienced in the marriage department, but thoroughly hapless in our upcoming exploration in the joys of parenting. Back then, Pampers came in packs of 30 and cost about $1.25 a box. About once a month they went on sale for a buck a box at Scott Drug in Sioux City. If there was ever a spare buck floating around (usually not) our tight budget, we would buy one box.

Remember gas was about a quarter a gallon, a carton (that’s 10 packs) of cigarettes would set you back 3 bucks, and change. I think John was taking home about $125.00 a week. He loved his job at KTIV, but we were starving to death. No money in small television station affiliates. You really want to know how backward KTIV was in the early 70’s? The station’s owner refused to run any Preparation H commercials. I kid you not. Whenever a Preparation H commercial was aired on the NBC network, John would have to over-ride it with a public service announcement on KTIV’s air waves in Sioux City.

 

Sorry, couldn’t help myself…

 

The only time I could justify using my precious Pampers stash was when we were going out of town. Or if there was a very bad case of diarrhea zipping through our house. And Pampers had no sticky tabs when they were first introduced. You had to use diaper pins. Remember them? Cute, gigantic pins, usually with a plastic animal stuck on the end. It was really hard to get the safety pin through 2 layers of disposable diapers. I was almost guilt ridden, but giddy when I got to open a box. Such an easy, new fangled, modern convenience.

 

Had to have cute pins for our cloth diapers. 1971..

 

So when this naive 19 year old girl was expecting her first baby, it was 4 dozen cloth diapers that my Mom brought over one day. Almost blindingly white, large soft rectangles. They looked pretty uncomplicated. Ha! Harsh reality check baby. We had no washer or dryer, so I would be hauling them back and forth to the laundromat. I also had no clue how long 4 dozen diapers would last a newborn. I got more instructions on how to take care of diapers than I did on how to take care of the kid. Once those stark white diapers were soiled in any way, there were several procedural steps that needed to be taken. Post haste. My Mom was the cleanest woman on the planet and would not tolerate stained diapers that were not lily white. EVER.

 

Similar folds this mom used 4 plus decades ago…

 

We were living in Hinton, which is about 45 miles from Rock Valley. Once Shannon was born (Yay, Mom finally had her first and only granddaughter) she visited quite often. Making sure the diapers had gone through all the necessary steps to maintain their stain-free dazzling white status. Not as easy as one would imagine. You could just bleach the living snot out of them to keep them white. Clorox, however was quite hard on little baby bottoms. And if you used too much bleach, it yellowed fabrics. That I would not be able to live down or go through the embarrassment of cloth diapers that had yellowed. For shame. My biggest goal was nurturing our exquisite daughter, Shannon Marie, but not far behind was my high maintenance diaper duties.

 

Newborn Shannon Marie. December, 1970…

 

Actually Mom had some really good methods for keeping diapers clean, white and smelling out of this world. Here’s Florence’s take on everything you wanted to know about cloth diapers, but were afraid to ask:

1. Every diaper (and I mean every one, no matter how soiled) got rinsed in the toilet. Every one. Every single time.

 

The joy of rinsing out diapers in the toilet. You can just see the diaper pail…

 

2. They were then placed in the diaper pail. My diaper pail was half filled with warm water, just a titch of Clorox (like a thimble full-see above for delicate baby butts) and Dreft. Don’t know what Mom had against Ivory Flakes, but she preferred Dreft. So I used Dreft.

3. Mom’s secret weapon for sparkly clean, awesome smelling, but still somewhat soiled diapers wasn’t kept in our house. Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you got to do is call. Sorry, I got caught up in a James Taylor moment. But it’s true, no matter what kind of weather we were having, these now semi-clean diapers needed to be hung up outdoors. So, after swishing them around in the toilet, (gross, but I never really thought so back then) soaking them for at least a day in Drefty solution in the diaper pail. Next I’d wring them out by hand. Haul the heavy buggers outside and clip 2 or 3 diapers together with a clothes pin on the clothesline. Leave them outside for a couple days. I couldn’t leave mine out too long, cause I only had 4 dozen. If there was a day when I wasn’t up on my game and discovered a diaper with a permanent stain that had now been set by the laundromat’s hot as Hades dryer, I would be held accountable. It was just easier to bury the thing out in the yard before Mom came back for another visit.

During bleak, harsh Iowa winters, the diapers outside would be froze solid, sometimes covered with snow and ice. Yet, most of my diapers remained pristine white, and honestly smelled like they had been laundered in some kind of expensive, exotic, phenomenal soap. They actually smelled better when I brought them in the house off the clothesline, but were technically still soiled, than after I brought them home from the laundromat. Clotheslines don’t seem very popular anymore, but the smell laundry had after hanging outdoors was really hard to beat. Nothing better than clean-dried-outdoors-in-the-wind-fresh-sheets-on-a-bed.

 

My Dad was called to clear a path to the clothesline…

 

Then there were the rubber pants issues to deal with. Horrible little things you pulled over a diaper. So the first time the baby piddles, you didn’t get soaked too. (My newborns tinkled about every 3 minutes). Rubber pants 40 years ago used to do one of two things. Got as hard as styrene and would crack all over, or melt in the dryer if you forgot to separate them from the clean, wet diapers. Rubber pants needed to air dry. So much to remember for this new mom. The pressure was enormous. But nothing in comparison to the qualifications required in my next big hurdle of motherhood. Stay strong, new mommy Neese.

 

Scuffed shoes, Daddy’s glove, and a humongous rubber pants, 1971…

 

 

There is a real art form to folding diapers. Complicated, intricate maneuvers, not for the faint of heart. Only the most accomplished moms pulled this off with real finesse. Quarter folds, triangular, halves, twisting, doubling up fabric for certain “problem areas.” The easiest way to become a professional FYI-er (fit your infant) were exclusive classes held in secret locations throughout the city. New moms were given codes before they left the hospital noting where their first class would be held. As a gesture of good will, the hospital gave new moms their first diaper folding lesson free. It was a universal newborn diaper fold, pretty much fitting any little squirt under 9 pounds. If your kid came out weighing 10 pounds (ouch) you were on your own until you figured out the code, and were up for classes after being discharged from the hospital. Here’s a little known factoid. Pregnant women from China were sent to the U.S. under the loose guise of wanting to give birth here. As soon as the “newborn fold” diaper was no longer keeping baby halfway dry (we’ve got a leak down her left leg) these women used our FYI codes to learn the next needed diaper folding technique. Then they rushed back to their homeland. They, in turn taught others and started using different mediums and textiles. Then slyly changed the name to stay away from lawsuits and copyright infringement. This is where the word “origami” was invented. Yup, snatched from the clutches of our own All-American diaper changing moms.

 

Ha! Origami my foot. Stolen from American moms diaper folding techniques…

 

Soon I became proficient in keeping diapers soft, white and speed folding. (yes, there were some stiff competitions held in each diaper size division, nation wide). You’d tuck the clean diapers in your own little antiquated diaper holder that hung over the door knob. All of a sudden I’d realize Shannon’s little tush had grown just enough that this diaper fold was no longer doing the job. Well drats. She was spouting more leaks than an outside sprinkler. Time to go back for another code, more classes and new folding techniques. Sigh.

 

Shannon and pregnant me, 1974. Josh was on the way…

 

Shannon was about 2-1/2 when she brought up the subject one day of doing away with her diapers. What? Mommy’s just getting the hang of this. She submitted the proper paper work in accordance with Iowa’s state laws and was approved. Wasn’t long before diapers in the Van Berkum house were but a fuzzy white memory. It kinda reminded me of labor pains. Excruciating and miserable, but once she was born, the unpleasant memories faded away. Soon the cleaning steps, diaper pail, exact Dreft measurements, frost bitten fingers, and wading outdoor to clotheslines through 3 feet of snow were forgotten. Until I found out about a year later, I was preggers again. Got out the diapers, took a refresher course from Mom on the washing “steps.” An easy pregnancy. Major heartburn, and strange cravings (sauerkraut and lemon meringue pie), but labor was cut in half compared to Shannon’s. Plus the baby, rather than being 10 days late was born on my due date. “Denise you have a beautiful baby boy,” my doctor said quietly. “What? Wait a minute,” I shrieked. “What do you mean, it’s a boy? I can’t have a baby boy. I don’t know how to fold boy diapers.”…

 

Joshua, 1975. I did learn how to fold boy diapers…

 

 

 

 

Let me set the stage for you. It was May, 1990. We had been living in Michigan for about 3 years. John and I had done something remarkable. Monumental actually. We had both stopped smoking, cold turkey on May 5th. It was about 2 weeks later. Neither of us had yet spoken ONE civil word to each other. But we hadn’t snuck any smokes either. The insides of John’s cheeks (the upper ones in his head) were gnawed and chewed up, resembling ground chuck from chomping gum with a vengeance 24-7. I’d like to say I remained cool, calm and collected, but I was a mess too. Headaches, insomnia, major bitchy-ness plaguing me big time. Joshua was 15, Adam, 10. Shannon was 19. It was the end of her freshman year at Michigan State.

 

Shannon, Joshua, John, me and Adam. About 1990…

–

Shannon approached me first. Told me she thought she might be pregnant. Dear God, please no. My brilliant, beautiful, over-achieving daughter. She had been dreaming (more like zoned in, totally focused and determined) about going to college since she was 6. Got a couple of home pregnancy tests, both positive. Here’s where I made my humongous mistake. Could not bring myself to break the news to John. So I waited, and said nothing. You think a couple weeks would not make a noteworthy difference in the scheme of things, looking at the big picture. But not telling John right away caused a rift between us of epic proportions. This proved to be as close to a divorce as we’d ever come. Still to this day. Betrayal to him, pure and simple. Now, not only was Shannon in the dog house with her dad, (dog house was putting it mildly) I was on his shit list, big time. (Shit list summed it up about right). And deservedly so. Not a happy home. Shannon got her old job back at The Parlour, where she had worked during high school. No more college. I was devastated for her, but for me too. Such high hopes. Just shattered. Shannon wasn’t living with us, so she and her dad rarely spoke. Like never. Heck, John and I barely spoke. Poor Josh and Adam, they didn’t know what to think. Or say. This went on for months.

 

Ari, cute as a tulip. 2002…

 

Ariana Brianne arrived one month after Shannon turned 20. I had just turned 40. How in the world could I ever have thought that this was not just the best thing ever? For Shannon? For me? For the Van Berkum family? For the whole freaking world! Shannon was instantly transformed into the most caring, nurturing, unselfish mother in the world. Joshua and Adam thought Ari was the best thing since Hostess Twinkies. (They were too young to get the whole “sliced bread” thing). Ariana was the most incredible baby ever. And I mean ever. EVER. John was just a titch slower to realize the importance of how much better everyone’s lives were after Ari joined our little realm.

 

Ariana, 1992…

 

This is how their two worlds finally collided. Shannon moved back home when Ari was a few weeks old. We had a huge finished family room downstairs, so she and Ari moved in it. Shannon went back to work at The Parlour, while I took care of Ari. Trying to keep Ari appeased (nursing babe who really didn’t care for the bottle) while Mommy worked.

 

Shannon working hard at The Parlour…

 

This particular day, Shannon and Ari had been shopping. Shannon brought Ari in the house in her carrier that attaches to the car seat. You’ve seen those car seats everywhere. I think they’re a nation-wide law for infant safety. Mom’s lug them around on their arms. But they’re really handy cause the baby can sorta sit, lay, see what’s going on, all from this position. Anyway, the carrier with Ari strapped in was plopped on our dining room table, while Shannon brought in some stuff. Ari was about 10 weeks old. John walked around the dining room table, pausing for a second at the baby carrier. Just then, Ari stuck her chubby fist up and grabbed John’s finger. This image remains burned in my brain. Like the song, “Just One Look, that’s all it took, yeah, just one look.” Except it was her tiny fist latching on to his index finger. She owned him, pure and simple. She was smitten with his voice, his beard, glasses, just about everything grandpa. From that one simple little moment I captured, I saw and realized how much John loved Ari. They shared a special connection. A bond which has not been broken. Never even nicked. Talk about a mutual admiration society. That’s the Ari-grandpa-show-for-sure.

 

Ari and grandpa at The Falls, in SD, 2004…

 

Without any help or a word mentioned beforehand to either John or I, Shannon announced she and Ari were moving out that fall. They were headed back to East Lansing and Michigan State together. Shannon got an apartment in married housing for the 2 of them. She signed Ari up at Spartan Child Development Center. This was the one constantly-mounting-bill that proved most troublesome for Shannon. She’d call me, horribly upset, “mom, they’re going to kick Ari out of Spartan!” Sigh. “Ok Honey, how much money are you behind?” I’d ask, dreading the answer. “Umm, I owe $750.00,” she’d sob. Cringe. (Why not tell me when you’re 3 or 4 hundred behind? Too independent and stubborn). Here’s the semi-smart thing I always did when any of our kids asked for monetary help. Took down the name and address of where our hard earned money was headed. Sent the check directly to the business.

 

Ari and Landon. '03 or '04…

 

Shannon took a full load of classes, year round. If Ari was sick, and couldn’t go to SCDC, I’d scoot to Lansing to watch her or bring her to Jackson for a couple days. Shannon took summer classes, graduating with a double major in journalism and psychology. After a year or so, she landed a job working for the State of Michigan as a social worker. Applied and was accepted for her Masters degree program in psychology. Which she attained in less than a year. Then she got promoted at the State to Supervisor of foster care. Ari was 6 while Shannon was getting her Masters degree. What I wouldn’t give for a snapshot of them together one day when I walked in for a visit. They were sitting on the couch, facing each other, at opposite ends. Both of them were reading, (well, Shannon was studying). With their toes touching.

 

Ari 7, 1998…

 

 

Shannon bought a little house in Lansing. Ari was enrolled in a private elementary school. Shannon fell in love with a guy she knew from Jackson High. He had been playing pro basketball in Europe. He’s the same age as Shannon but graduated 2 years ahead of her when he was 16. Yeah, he’s brilliant. Tracey was teaching in Jackson, so he drove 35 miles to work everyday. A couple years later, he was offered Jackson’s varsity basketball coaching job, along with teaching. Shannon was pregnant with Landon, so they started discussing a move to Jackson. Ari was about 10 and looking forward to being a big sister. Besides, while their little house fit Shannon and Ariana just fine, 6’5″ Tracey filled it up quickly. Landon was a fussy baby, with all kinds of allergies they knew nothing about just yet. So they shopped for a new house in Jackson. We had already moved 150 miles west a bit before Shannon and Tracey were married in 1998.

 

Tracey, Ari and Landon, late 2000…

 

In 2004, Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) was almost 4 and Shannon was expecting her third child. It was a girl and Ari was delirious with anticipation. At 13, Ariana honestly could not wait for Peyton to be born. The 2 girls have always been very close. Side note. Peyton, now 11 had this conversation with me a couple months ago when the two of us were in their living room together in Jackson.

 

Ari and Peyton, 2006…

 

Peyton: “gram, you can never do a story on me unless I get to read it first!”

Gram: ” umm, why not Honey?”

Peyton: “well gram, that whole paragraph in Landon’s story about nipples and nursing. I wouldn’t be comfortable unless I get to edit what you write about me.” (My blog post archives, story on “Landon Andrew,” December, 2014)

Gram: “Peyton you realize there’s only a few people who read this blog, and they’re my friends. They’re mostly grandparents and hardly any of them know you, right?”

Peyton: “yup, but I still really need to read and edit what you plan on writing about me beforehand.” Believe it folks!!! Hilarious.

Before Shannon went on maternity leave with Peyton, she applied to start her doctorate program, hoping to get a degree in Clinical and Humanistic Psychology. That’s a mouthful. From the Michigan School for Professional Psychology. An intensive 4 year program. So during the next 4 years, she basically studied from the time the kids went to bed, until 1 or 2 a.m. Slept about 3 hours a night, drove to Detroit daily, raised 3 kids, and worked part-time. Can’t cut Tracey out of this equation either. He schlepped kids back and forth to preschool, doctor appointments, elementary school, the Y, dance class, little league, basketball camps. Plus running his own basketball program, lesson planning at night, baths and bedtime stories. Shannon could do more multitasking with one arm tied behind her back than I’ve been able to do with 4 arms on my best days.

 

Ari, sport shooting. Won't let anyone touch her shotgun…

 

When you finally reach adulthood, you never really think about getting older. I never did. We were always the young couple on the block with 3 little kids. I can’t ever remember thinking, “wow I can’t wait to be a grandma.” Yet besides my 3 incredible kids, becoming a grandma is the biggest blessing and by far my best and favorite life-time accomplishment. It’s not something you actually plan for. Getting Ariana in my life was a surprise since she was not planned at all. But it was one of the best gifts God ever gave me. Who knew? Well, besides God?

 

Ari and me. The Black Hills, 2003…

 

This started out as just an Ari story, but morphed into adding the whole Lowder crew. Guess it was sorta the natural order of things. Ari has become a lovely young woman. Inching her way to a degree in early child development. She’d like to have her own preschool someday. You go Ari! She loves a wonderful young man named Josh, and both are happily living their own lives. Although I’m not planning on it, I could very well become a great-grandma in the next few years. Seems young to me, but when I was Ari’s age, I had already become a mom for the second time with Joshua. (Yeah, they are two are different Josh’s. What are the odds in such a small family)? But it’s ok Ari, you can wait a bit longer in becoming a mom and making me a great. Although I’d pretty much like being “great” at anything.

 

Ari, Christmas of 1992 with her own Vette…

 

I still think of the little girl, playing with her own battery operated Corvette that John bought her in the early 90’s after he got his 1964 Vette. They used to wash them together on the front yard in Jackson. Last summer Ari did a photo session that turned out exquisite. Since the day I laid eyes on those prints, my mantra has been, “a grandma should never be able to use the adjectives, sultry, sexy or risqué in the same sentence as the word granddaughter!” She’s drop dead beautiful when cute, silly, or sexy. And just as sweet as she is pretty.

 

Gulp. Sexy, sultry and granddaughter Ari in the same sentence…

 

My dearest Ariana, I do not love you any more or less than my other 3 precious grandchildren. It’s just been my blessed privilege to have and love you a lot longer…

 

Goofy grands. Ari, Landon, Graham and Peyton, 2013…

 

 

 

 

 

 

–>

 

 

Looking over my blog posts, I realize not many have been about Mom. And most of the ones I’ve written about her haven’t been in a very positive light. Slightly askew. Sorry Mom. I know much of your life wasn’t easy. An unhappy marriage. Tragically losing your 12 year old son Larry in 1958, when you were only 32. I think these insurmountable challenges throughout your life were almost more than you could bear.

 

Mom and newborn me, early 1951…

 

I assume I was not part of your master plan. By the time you were 20, Mona and Larry had each made their appearance in your life. But birth control methods were dicey back then. About 2 weeks before your 24th birthday, you became the mother of 3 with the addition of me. Nine bouncing pounds of Denise Lynne. I think you might have regretted many things during your life. Never did I feel you were sorry that I’d been born. Quite the opposite actually. You doted on little Neese. Ok, I admit, I was pretty awesome. Before I became a world class brat. Around age 10.

 

Mona, Mom and Larry. Before my birth, about 1948…

 

In my memory bank when we lived in the little house on the west side of Rock Valley, we were happy. A stay-at-home-mom with 3 kids under 8. Most of the pictures I have show us as a close knit group, enjoying family life. Simple trips to the park, swimming pit, celebrating Rock Valley’s Diamond Jubilee in 1954. Day trips to Yankton and The Grotto. Our Lake Okoboji family picture in 1957 depicts a family that really enjoyed doing things together. We don’t look miserable or unhappy. We look like a well-rounded, normal family. We were going to a great church. Larry and Mona were in school, so you devoted all your attention on little old me.

 

Larry, me, Mona and Mom at Yankton, 1956…

 

We needed a bigger house but that wasn’t a problem. You and Dad saved up money for the down payment on our house on 15th street. We could each have our own bedroom. Yay. The first 3 years in that house were great. Dad worked on it constantly after his long day at the State shop. Remodeling, making the house into a home for us. I was finally in school, and out of your hair. You started working so we’d have some extra money. Life was good. So what happened to our all-American family?

 

Okoboji 1957. Larry, Mona, Dad, me and Mom…

 

I think it all fell apart after Larry was killed. It’s been said even the happiest, most stable marriages cannot recover from the loss of a child. I believe that to be true in our family’s case. Dad found the Lord (a good thing, but he was over the top about it for a couple decades). And you, my poor Mom sunk into a deep depression hole that would take you a couple decades to climb out of. And I don’t think you ever really fully recovered. Had you been encouraged to talk about your feelings of loss with a support group or therapist, it might have changed your life. Not to be. But this isn’t the day to talk about what should have happened over 50 years ago.

 

Dad, Mom, me and Mona. Canton S.D. 1961…

 

Here are some positive things about Mom. She never gave up. And she could have. Might have even wanted to at times. She always put on a good front. Good fronts were something she excelled at. Mom always took care of us. Her family suppers (everyday but Saturday night) were always good. Her house was immaculate. (And I do mean spic and span. Nary a germ in the place) She always had me dressed to the nines. She encouraged me. She rarely said “no.” (I love this part, but in retrospect, might not have been the best thing for me. See above: really a brat by age 10). And this was well before I became an angry, belligerent, disrespectful, rebellious teen. Mom taught me how to drive a car when I was 12. She taught me how to knit and crochet. I should have paid more attention to learning how to read knitting patterns, but she was always there to show me how to do it. She was so proud of this loser girl. Awful-student-that-I-was-and-all-around-pain-in-the-ass-shit-that-I’d-become.

Mom thoroughly enjoyed letting me skip school to go shopping for an afternoon (pretty much except for that one awful time). She liked when I brought friends home. To our unusually quiet house. I can remember Randy Vandevelde and I doing a skit for Mom in the living room when we were in high school. We were re-enacting a goofy TV commercial. Mom was in stitches, as were we. She especially loved my friends Char, Wan, and Kay. Tolerated a couple others, one who always managed to scuff up her glorious oak dining room floor. She made me anything I was ever hungry for or craving. Fudge, divinity, popcorn, cinnamon rolls, apple pie. She was immensely proud when I was selected to be a cheerleader. Couldn’t wait for that annual trip to Sioux City to buy my new cheerleading sweater for the season. While maybe some moms might have been fretting about the cost, she couldn’t wait to shell out money for my special outfit.

 

Faye, me, Kay and Diane, 1968…

 

Although Mom was most unhappy with my choice in the husband department, she adored the grandchildren our union produced. (I think she preferred to believe I managed to do this part all by myself. Think immaculate conceptions, times 3). When our then small kids visited Mom and Dad in Rock Valley, it was usually just one kid at a time. So they could really spoil the heck out of each one. Let them be the big cheese separately. Mom and Dad never enjoyed or tolerated their sibling rivalry. Shannon, Joshua or Adam would come home with happy tales of the things they did. Baking tiny sugar cookies, the size of my thumbnail together. Trips to Sioux Falls, the Zoo, the Falls, parks, restaurants, malls. Taking them to Sioux Center, Canton or Rock Rapids. Never doubted how much Mom and Dad adored my kids. Not always in a healthy way, but for the most part idolized my kids.

 

Joshua, Adam and Shannon, 1979…

 

Mom and I pretty much had a complicated relationship our whole lives. The older I got, it was as though she couldn’t help herself by intruding, interfering and manipulating in our lives. But I always knew she loved me. Mom, this is to assure you, I always loved you too. No matter what…

 

Made in school, Mother’s Day about 1958…

The poem inside my card to Mom, 1958…

The poem inside my card to Mom, 1958…

 

 

 

 

 

 

–>

 

She just appeared one Wednesday morning at staff meeting. Curious, we gawked and waited. Preacher man, alias Two Fish for those keeping up with my blog, introduced us to Becca. She would soon be graduating from seminary with a MDiv degree. Our children’s director position had been open for a couple months again. TF had canned the last two directors since I’d been working for him, maybe 3 years. Which was odd since we hardly had any children in the congregation. Guess he thought he should just keep hiring people until one miraculously started mass-producing kids from thin air for our aging church.

 

Becca, 2008…

After our meeting, some of us met in the library with Becca to give her a feel for the church and staff. I should have warned her by shouting, “run Farrester, run.” But she was enthusiastic, optimistic, and filled with the Holy Spirit. I liked her right off the bat. She was the same age as my kids. Her mom lived in Oregon. Perfect. Since my days, nights, weekends were filled with everything elderly, this new friend was gonna be a nice change for me.

Becca knew how to win people over. She laughed out loud when I told a story about my Dad. The time he insisted he got into a friendly argument with John Wesley (who was born in like 1703) over predestination. Get this, Dad said it was during a Billy Graham Crusade in the 1970’s, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota of all places. Not gonna repeat the story. But it is really cute. If you want to read it, go back in my blog archives to July, 2014. The story is called, “The 3 Amigos.” Becca’s smile was infectious. She won me over, hook, line and sinker. Becca’s plans at the moment were going back to school for a few weeks, graduate, then start her new job/career with us.

 

John Wesley. Dad was convinced that he attended a Billy Graham Crusade, 250 yrs after his birth…

 

You gotta understand some things about our staff first. We were all old-school. Back then, I was just getting comfortable using a computer and email. But I had never heard of Facebook. And I was one of the younger people on staff. So when Becca joined our weekly meetings, she brought along her laptop. (AND USED IT DURING STAFF MEETINGS) Sacrilege. She’d type in meeting times, calendar events and took notes. (ON HER COMPUTER DURING STAFF MEETINGS) Blasphemy. The frown and worry lines were apparent every time TF glanced over at her. This was not on the approved behavior list for our staff meetings. Holy smokes, maybe she was secretly playing solitaire, just trying to look like she was paying attention. That whole techie-computer-stuff at staff meetings was disconcerting. It just wasn’t right. Or natural. Funny though, at one of the last staff meetings I attended, 3 of the higher-ups were all holding iPads, gabbing like junior high students about playing the game Angry Birds.

There were a few people Becca’s age in our church, so she made friends quickly. Soon after she started, she asked if she could go along visiting with me? She was a full-time employee, but with less than a dozen kids in church, how was she going to fill up 40 hours a week? I said sure. Happy for the company. Many times “my little people” read the newsletters about new members, staff or changes at the church. But since most were home bound, they never actually got to see any of these changes or meet new people. Becca enjoyed visiting. (She may have loved kids and youth, but what I witnessed was someone connecting with older folks with love and empathy. Seriously, she might have been trying to squeeze me out of my job. She happily tagged along several times during her first couple months. Meeting and visiting many folks she would never see inside the church.

 

Becca, God makes her smile like that…

 

Soon new signs cropped up in the church hallways. All about activities for the kid’s ministry. You could not fault Becca for her bubbling excitement. But that so-called euphoric feeling you get with a new job was over way too soon. She called me while I was at Shannon’s house for a couple of days. In tears and in a panic. TF had called her in the office, very upset about some assigned tasks Becca had supposedly messed up royally. Some of the staff were planning a trip to New Mexico for a seminar. Part of Becca’s responsibility were securing all the plane tickets. Although Becca produced documentation proving she had followed through with her part of the responsibility, TF was not convinced. “Denise, I think I’m going to be fired,” she sobbed. I actually laughed. “Becca, honey, you’re still in the honeymoon phase. He’s not gonna fire you after 4 months. We don’t even know you yet. Please don’t worry.”

Well guess what? He did. And with his usual, off the reservation flair. He told Becca that SPRC (staff-parish-relations-committee. Are you kidding me? Replace the word “staff” with preacher, then you have the real substance of that committee) was meeting that night to discuss her disappointing job performance thus far. He would call her in the morning to let her know the outcome. Could he even manage to do that right? Meet her calmly in his office at a reasonable hour? Of course not. At the time, Becca was house sitting for a friend/church member who lived about 15 miles out of town. TF called her after 9 pm saying the SPRC committee had come to a decision. He and the 80 year old committee chairwoman drove out after 10 pm to relieve Becca of her new 4 month old job. My gut feeling was that this was really a monetary decision, handled horribly. I think TF was in panic mode because the church finances were in such a mess. Overspending, but membership and money was down. He just realized that the church could not afford her salary BECAUSE WE VIRTUALLY HAD NO KIDS.

Devastated, jobless, homeless, no severance package, thousands of miles away from family and loved ones, Becca’s outlook might have looked grim. But that’s not the end of her story by any means. It was really just the beginning for Becca. Our dear mutual friend, whom I’ve written about a couple of times, Rosemary, offered Becca a place to live until she found a job. Rosemary, who had the biggest heart in the world, also had an exquisite new home. (By the way, Rosemary would have celebrated her 51st birthday this week. She died almost 5 years ago from cancer). It would take a couple months, but Becca was by no means down and out. She found a part-time children/youth director’s job at another church about 40 miles away. Supplemented her income by substitute teaching. Rosemary and I drove over to see Becca one Sunday, because she was singing a couple of solos. This church was proving to have a positive, healthy work environment. Who knew there were such places? In a church? She also went back to school to acquire her Elder status which would enable her to do pastoral ministry rather than be limited to children/youth. Soon she met a great guy, who was going through a tumultuous divorce. She and Jeremy were married a year later. Becca wholeheartedly stepped up to the plate in the role of stepmom with his 2 young children. After getting her Elder degree, she became the full time pastor here in Michigan. Jeremy then went back to college and just graduated. Guess what? Now he’s headed to seminary. As soon as he’s done, Becca’s plans are to go back for her doctorate. These overachieving young people. It’s mind-boggling to witness how much Becca’s, Jeremy’s and their kids lives have changed in the last few years. One amazing God, bringing them together.

 

Becca and Jeremy…

 

Becca’s been after me to come hear her preach. She’s being moved to a different church a couple hours away this summer. Since John was gone for the weekend, I decided it was a good time to scoot up and hear her. Wow. Just wow. What a blessing in her message about Peter. How lost he was after Jesus was crucified. What did he do? What Peter knew and was comfortable doing-he went fishing. With some of the disciples. But they caught nothing all night. Their nets remained empty. When Jesus called out to them from the shore the next morning, none of them recognized Him. Jesus told them to throw their nets on the other side of the boat. This was Becca’s take: guys, stop throwing your net on the “good Friday” side. Start fishing on the “Easter side” of the boat. It was then they caught their boatload of fish. Suddenly Peter and the disciples knew the time was right, and they were more than ready and willing to spread the word of Jesus. I bawled through most of the sermon, and the special music. Which was Becca singing. Wow.

 

Becca from the pulpit…

 

I still have grave misgivings about the Methodist church in general. Really, how can one remain optimistic about the church and it’s ministers when I had 4 in a row that were not great (and I’m being kind here) in the “boss” department? But hearing Becca’s sermon, watching her “Christ-like glow,” doing God’s work, has given me new hope.

I didn’t realize that Becca kept up with my blog. She rarely comments. Two of her comments though have had a huge impact on me. The first time was on my story, “Called.” This is what she wrote: “Love the poem. And love that you were called to visit. You know that’s the hardest part of my job, but it’s also the greatest joy. So much of my ministry is about politics, putting out ridiculous fires. And then I sit down with someone and just listen, and realize that THIS is what pastoral ministry is all about. It gives me encouragement, hope, fuel to keep going. Thanks for dragging me along with you a few times. You taught me how to do pastoral care.”

The second time was on my painful blog post called “Two Fish.” Here’s Becca’s comments: “Forgiveness isn’t about them, it is about us. You don’t have to get to a point where you say, they didn’t hurt me, or they aren’t evil. Forgiveness is getting to the point where you say, I’m letting go of the negative impact this is having on my life. It’s about you and God, and not the other person. The truth is, God is the one who forgives and forgets. As humans, we are called to forgive, but we don’t have (and I usually find it is impossible) to forget. So, my prayer for you is that you can slowly open your hand that has been holding onto that hot coal, drop it, and allow the healing to begin. That fish-shaped coal will still be ugly, hot and capable of great damage. It just won’t be able to damage or impact you anymore.”

So this amazing young woman of God named Becca, who has yet to celebrate 4 decades on this earth is also wise beyond her years (and mine). She forgave “Two Fish” a long time ago. Without him and what happened here, her life might have been turned out very differently. So how come my hardened heart seems incapable of doing the same? It’s true, I’m not nearly as bitter as I was, and 6 years have passed since my big run-in with TF. But I can’t seem to let it go completely. I think it’s because I truly believe TF purposely went out of his way to hurt me. This man of the cloth. For now, I cling to the thoughts I carry from Becca’s message last Sunday. I asked her if she could please send me of her old sermons for awhile? Something to help change and soften this hurt heart of mine…

 

 

 

They were both retired when they moved back to Muskegon, 20 some years ago. Ann had an aging mother, and a spinster aunt living here, both of whom needed help. Bob and Ann had lived most of their married lives in Greenville, which is northeast of Grand Rapids. Muskegon is northwest of Grand Rapids. They were familiar with the area and had their church papers transferred back to the same church they had attended when they lived here years ago. It was like coming home. There were many renewed friendships, and this move fit them like a glove.

 

Ann and Bob, about 2000…

Ann had taught elementary school for many years. Helping form young minds. She loved her work. Bob had been an engineer. He was also an avid golfer. Playing as often as he could since he retired and could conjure up a foursome. Ann stayed busy caring for her mom and aunt until they both passed away. Plus she was involved in several organizations, like retired teachers and PEO. They had 2 grown children. Their daughter lived about 150 miles away. Their son was on the west coast. For the first couple of years of my Parish Visiting stint, the only time I saw them was in church. They had gotten well into the swing of our aging congregation and were active participants.

They were not on my radar because they were doing fine. I really took no notice of them. My plate was full enough with an ever growing list of elderly, not doing fine for me to visit. Our church didn’t have a lot of young people, youth or kids. I was then in my early 50’s and John and I were some of the younger members of the church. But you know how that goes. Things change, we all age, and pretty soon their name popped up.

Preacher said it had been brought to his attention that Bob and Ann had been absent for a few weeks. Would I be so kind as to stop there and see how they were doing? Sure. They lived in a beautiful condominium complex. Actually about 6 couples from our church were living in that string of condos. A couple days later, there I was, driving 8 miles an hour, trying to find their address. Got out with my little basket of goodies. Bread and Butter pickles, pickled beets, and an assortment of jams and food. Honest, that’s probably the only thing that got me in the door. Holy moly, Ann was hot, and I was the (un) lucky recipient of her wrath. What in heavens name did I do to deserve this? Plain and simple, I got reamed that day.

Guess they had actually missed 4 or 5 months of church in a row. And no one from the church had called on them, or at the very least, given them a phone call. One of their neighbors had been in the church office and casually mentioned that Bob and Ann were noticeably absent from all activities lately. The church had measures in place to insure this would not happen. During the church service, you were supposed to fill out this little welcome form. It got tossed in the collection plate, separated and brought to the office. Then someone was supposed to track members attendance during the week, letting the higher-ups know WHEN AN OLDER COUPLE MISSED 16 SUNDAYS IN A ROW. Or maybe a titch before 16 weeks had passed. Wow, that ball had been dropped. All I could do was apologize. And promptly put all the canned goods, cookies, soups and bread on the counter as a small peace offering, and wait for the dust to settle.

 

Typical goodie basket I brought folks when visiting…

 

From that day forward, they were on my parish visitor list. And the friendship that grew was extra special, considering our rather rocky start. But Bob was failing. Legs were messed up, losing strength. He’d perk up for a few weeks, then have another relapse. A couple hospital stays thrown in. He was losing ground. After one particularly bad bout, he had to spend some time at a long care facility. (Don’t care for 2 terms used frequently in my line of work. Nursing home is one, so I usually say long term care facility. Makes it sound like you might just get out of there yet. The other one even more problematic for me. Shut-ins. So gross, hate it. I say home-bound which is about as bad, I guess. But to me it doesn’t sound quite so hopeless or helpless). Sorry, I digress. Now where was I? Oh yeah, Bob was moved from the hospital to care facility for some re-hab.

I totally remember the day. I stopped at the care facility, which was right next to the hospital to check up on him (them). Their daughter was just leaving as I walked in. Bob seemed to be doing pretty well. We were having a great visit. There was a dusting of snow on the ground. Bob’s bed was right next to the window. As we were discussing various local assisted living centers and the the possibility of Bob moving as soon as he was stronger, a (bunch, herd, flock, gaggle?) of wild turkeys started strutting their stuff right outside his window. A wonderful distraction and some lively conversation ensued.

After work, I headed out of town to spend a couple days in Jackson with Shannon’s family. I was only working 20 hours a week, which I usually tried to complete in four days. Unless a broken hip, illness, ER visit messed with my loosey-goosey schedule. I wasn’t at Shannon’s a day when I got an email from Mary. She was in charge of the congregational prayer chain. Many times a person on my visiting list or a family member would call me before they called the church or Mary. Whoever got the call first passed it on or called the appropriate people. This disturbing email said that Bob indeed had been moved, but to a new Hospice facility in town. Massive stroke. Not good.

I got home from Jackson late the next night. No more news from Mary, the church or Ann. By the next morning we had 6 inches of new snow. Yuk. I hopped in the car about 6:30 and slid my way 10 miles south to the mall because they open their doors at 7 for walkers (not of the Walking Dead variety). As I’m chalking up my laps, listening to hip-hop, I planned my day. Going to slide my way back home, shower, turn right around, slide my way back. Practically to the exact spot I was right now. Our new hospice facility, Poppen House was about 3 blocks from our mall. Wait a minute. That’s really dumb. I should just stop while I’m already out here. Would Ann or Bob really mind that I’m wearing sweats, and my hair is crazy-scary from wearing my oversized Bose headphones? Probably not. But I hadn’t showered yet, or found some plaster to make my face presentable. Bonus points though cause my teeth are sparkly clean. Well, heck with it, I’m gonna risk it.

Your signature is required and who you’re visiting when entering Poppen House. I signed in, asked for Bob’s room number and slunk through the familiar halls as inconspicuously as possible. A nurse was in his room. She turned to me and quietly asked, “are you his daughter or family?” “No, I’m just the Parish Visitor from his church.” She curled her finger for me to follow her to the hall. “He’s not doing well at all,” she whispered. “Um, have you called Ann? Or his daughter,” I asked? “Yes we have, but with the weather, Ann doesn’t want to drive and is waiting for a ride” she continued. “Do you want me to go get her?” I offered. Hesitantly she said, “I don’t think Ann would want Bob to be alone. And she will be here as soon as her ride arrives.” “Alright then, I will not leave Bob’s side until family comes, ok?” Clearly relieved she said, “That would be great, thanks.” I stopped in one of the all-purpose rooms where families can gather and picked up a hymn book. Or else it was another trip trekking back out to my car where I kept one. I pulled a chair next to Bob’s bed, clasped his hand in mine. Started singing in my awful, off-tune voice my favorite hymns. His breathing got slower and more shallow by the minute. I assured him that God, Ann and the kids loved him very much, and everything was going to be ok. Forty-five minutes after I got there, Bob breathed his last.

I found the nurse, then called our minister. Explained what happened. Told him I really didn’t want to break the news to Ann, period. Especially looking like I belonged on the set of The Walking Dead. He said he’d jump in the car and come as quick as he could. I left. He made it there before Ann did, thank heavens. Traumatic for me, but so glad I was there. Still wonder about that odd morning. Racking up my 3 miles, listening to hip-hop, when I suddenly decided to forget what I looked like, and just stop in for a minute to see him.

Ann and I continued our close friendship after Bob’s passing. Some time later I invited Ann and a couple other gals over for a soup and salad luncheon. It was a beautiful spring day. They loved coming to my house, watching the lake. I set the table with my fancy china. Ann walks in with an old Sass shoe box, covered with masking tape. Barb walks in with a pretty African violet for me. Ann plunks the box in my hands. “What’s this?” “Ah, open it after we eat,” she says. Such a nice afternoon. When they were getting ready to leave, Ann instructs me to open the box. Inside is a stunning piece of Lladro porcelain. Ann held up her finger to shush me. “You know I’m moving out of the condo, and into independent living. I asked my son if he wanted the Lladro? He said no. Asked my daughter? She didn’t even know what it was. Remember the time you stopped a couple years ago? We were busy talking, when all of a sudden you piped up, “Ann, is that a Lladro? Well, when Bob and I were in Spain, we bought this piece and I carried it on my lap in the plane. We were traveling with friends who also bought a couple pieces of Lladro. They had theirs shipped. They never got them in the mail. I don’t know anyone else who’d love and appreciate it like you will. Don’t say a word Denise. Not one word.”

 

Lladro gift from Ann. Mother and Baby…

 

Ann’s had a couple setbacks of her own. Fell and had to wear a neck brace for several months. Later had to have gall bladder surgery. But she’s still doing ok some 7 years after losing Bob. She was one of my staunchest supporters when the big church snafu occurred. Stood up, grabbed the microphone and said, “Denise has one of the most important jobs in this church. She is loved by many, and eliminating her job would be a grave disservice for those of us that she visits regularly. She’s really the umbilical cord from the church to those who are no longer able to attend.” Wow.

 

My retirement dinner. My son-in-law Tracey talking with Ann. 2013…

 

When I decided to retire, the church had a lovely luncheon for me after a Sunday morning service. The phenomenal amount of cards I got was unreal. Even more so, the stuff people wrote in the cards. Here’s how Ann summed hers up:

 

D-elightful: She visits the sick and the 60+ group.

E-nergetic: She makes to give; pickles, jams and soups.

N-ostolgic: She wants to return to her dear family.

I-mpressive: She imparts: CUM does care about me.

S-miling: She brings sunshine into one’s day.

E-njoyable: She arrives, chats, and too soon AWAY….

 

 

My retirement thank you card from Ann. She is special to me…

 

 

–>

 

 

I’m really ready to move on. The hurt and anger are just a dull ache lately. And that’s good. For you Johnny-come-lately’s who haven’t kept up with my blog, (for shame) this is the final installment (I promise) about lamenting over my 4 lousy bosses. Yes, I wrote 4. My work was a terrific mission. I can’t really call it a job, it was more like a calling. Definitely not the last you’ll hear about my little people. It was work that I loved, and was very good at it. Most of you know how I feel about elderly people. They have been close to my heart since I was a little girl.

 

A yearly luncheon held for the home bound and guests when I was Parish Visitor…

I worked at 2 different churches for the span of a dozen years. I had 4 bosses. All of them were preachers. Every one was a subpar boss. By the time I was working for boss # 4, I wondered what the odds were that I would get 4 in a row who were hopeless? They all had different gifts. I recognized their strengths and weaknesses. In a nutshell: # 1 preached good sermons. # 2 was the only one who enjoyed visiting my little people and was good at it. (But he was the worst boss). Now it’s time to move on to 3 and 4. Already did painful stories on the first 2, One Fish, Two Fish last year. We’ll call the last 2, Red Fish (RF) and Blue Fish (BF). Yeah, I’m clever like that.

Our church was in turmoil. Attendance was down, money coming in was way down. As a member of the church staff, I had been highly critical of boss # 2. Probably too vocal. Ok, not probably, flat out, I was too vocal. I was very critical when he went off the reservation. I made a point of telling him in front of several other people that he had lost all credibility and to please stop shooting himself in the foot. He had just fired another staff person. Then contacted all the area churches warning them to steer clear of this person. Ugh. I believe in my heart after I sort of belittled him, he made it his mission to get rid of me. Which he tried to do but was unsuccessful. Instead the congregation supported me, and started a petition to move the pastor. It wasn’t kind for anyone involved. Very painful and unchristian like for all of us. Yeah, I can be an ass like that.

Enter boss # 3, Red Fish. We were assured by our District Superintendent, RF had been trained in healing broken congregations. He was an interim pastor and was slated to spend 2 years with us. He didn’t last a year. He might not have done any harm, but he sure didn’t help either. In his defense, why try and embrace a job you know is temporary? His head definitely was not in the game. My ladies circle asked him to speak about his calling to be a pastor, his goals and gifts. During his talk he became animated and engaged over 2 subjects only. The rescue dog he had just adopted and the novel he had been writing for the past several years. Which he wore around his neck on a flash drive. At all times to keep it safe. Yeah, I can be snarky like that.

During my tenure as Parish Visitor, it wasn’t very often that I called on the pastor to help me out. To be honest, most of the folks I was visited on a regular basis were not hankerin’ to see the preacher. Let’s say someone had been home-bound for the last 5 years. Over those 5 years I had probably stopped in to see them 75 times. Brought them soup, canned goods, cookies. Plus news from the congregation, keeping them in the loop as much as possible. During that same time frame, they were lucky if they had seen the minister 5 times. Really, 5 would have been a stretch. But in the minister’s defense, this was the Parish Visitor’s job. My job. My little folks respected, loved and looked forward to my visits. And I felt the same about them. If they were going to confide in someone, more than likely it would be to me, not the preacher. But on occasion I did ask for help. If someone was facing something very grave about themselves, or a close family member, I’d request that the boss visit them. Usually wait until staff meeting, or email my request. Describe what was going on in their life and ask him to please make a point to visit. Yeah, I could be thoughtful like that.

 

Opal at our Golden Circle luncheon. She was in her late 90’s here…

 

A few of my folks were going through some very rough patches. I emailed Red Fish and requested he visit 2 ladies. One had slipped on the ice and broken her ankle very badly. The other had just lost her infant great-grandson in a tragic accident. I sent the details to him, including that they lived just a few blocks apart. He never answered or acknowledged my email. Meanwhile one of my favorite little guys had broken a hip for the third time in 2 years with yet another fall. He was in a nursing home facility re-habbing. Another much younger guy on my visiting list had just been given a terminal diagnosis on his lung disease. Yikes. If I was feeling overwhelmed, think of these 4 poor souls. So I emailed the pastor again. Brought him up to date about the last 2, then reiterated the details on the first 2 again. “Hey, haven’t heard back from you about the first 2 gals I requested you visit last week. Now I’m adding a couple men. Probably plan on this taking you most of an afternoon. Call or email if you have any more questions about them. Thanks.” Waited several days. Did not hear back from him. Yeah, I can be assertive like that.

This is what transpired at the following staff meeting. RF wondered if anyone (about 10 staff members at the time) had any issues? Yup, me. I asked if the church’s Internet service was working? It was indeed. “Then why when I sent you a couple emails over the course of several days have you not responded to any of them?”

RF: “Where’d you send them?”

Me: “To your email address.”

RF: “Which one?”

Me: “The one that’s printed in the bulletin and newsletter. Where all our church business correspondence to you is supposed to go!”

RF: “That’s the wrong address. I never check that email address. That’s the secretary’s fault. Here’s the one I use.” (Brings me an email address).

Me: “Shouldn’t you make a point or priority to check your other inboxes if that’s the one the congregation and staff assume you’re using? And make sure the email address is correct in both of our publications? It’s not like I ask for your help very often.” Did I mention that I can be a smart ass like that?

He never responded. (BTW, during this whole exchange not one word by any other staff person was uttered. RF walked out of staff, and the building. Then the rest of the group erupted). “Way to go Denise. That needed to be said months ago. He’s not doing his job. Thanks for calling him on it.” (No, really thank all of you for stepping up to the plate and voicing your support with me. Your total silence 5 minutes ago helped me immensely).

Here’s the real problem. Not ONCE during that exchange (or anytime after) did he ever say, “holy mackerel Denise, what are you talking about? Who are these folks and what are their needs? Talk to me after staff meeting so I can jot down their concerns, and get their addresses. Thanks for following up on this. I dropped the ball. I’m sorry.” (Dude really, was that so hard)?

It was announced soon after he was leaving. Don’t know if our little heated exchange had anything to do with it. Not surprised if it did. But I do not care one whit. Yeah, I can be horrible like that.

Yay! We’re now down to my last mediocre-at-best-boss! Enter stage left, boss # 4, Blue Fish. Not much say about the only female of the group. I worked for her for 3 very long years. She had her own agenda. BF was there ONE year when she fired our office manager. Under the guise of wanting that position to do more of the bookkeeping duties. Thus saving us thousands of dollars. The office gal was a member of our congregation and 62 years old at the time. When trying to justify this to us during a congregational meeting, BF’s hubby stood up and offered this tidbit. “Let’s get down to brass tacks here folks. She should have never been hired in the first place. She wasn’t qualified. And you should never hire someone from the congregation!” Wow! We were all just speechless. He was now an expert on our congregation and staff after worshipping with us less than a year. I still feel awful for not standing up and defending our secretary. Then giving him what for. (Note to spouses of clergy: Don’t ever do this if you’re relatively new to the congregation. Better to keep your lips zipped). I would have loved to have been a fly in their car on the ride home. Hope she read him the riot act. But I doubt it. Yeah, I can be sarcastic like that.

So here’s the deal. Had I known Blue Fish was being moved in June, (after only 3 years, which was unusual) I certainly would not have retired that February. While the high death count of those I visited was nearing a hundred, and taking a huge toll on me, I would have remained their Parish Visitor a while longer. I still miss visiting the folks a lot. I’ve stopped attending the church. Any church. That resentment hasn’t left me. Kind of down on organized religion lately. Need to restore my faith in the church. My faith in God is doing just fine. But politics in a church can be worse than Washington. The only time I’ve gone back is to attend a funeral, or drop off some of my canned goods that UMW sells on Sunday mornings for mission work. I do wonder if I were still visiting, would I be working for another lousy boss? That would make it 5 in a row. More than likely. The odds lean heavily in that direction. Yeah, I’m skeptical like that…