During our 45 plus years of wedded bliss, we’ve moved a lot. About 15 times. If you factor that we’ve been in our lake home for 21 years, that’s not letting much grass grow under our feet anywhere else. Many were rentals. We’ve only bought 4 homes. And I’ve liked them all. This house was only 2 years old when we bought it. All the rest were significantly older. I always felt I was born to have a boatload of antiques (I do) and live happily in a 3-story, 1890’s Victorian. (Never have) Now my nearly 65 year old knees sees the writing on the wall about that little bucket list item.

 

Not to be. Too old to covet a 3 story house, sigh…

We’ve gone through a lot of neighbors. Some so forgettable I can’t conjure up names or faces. Others, dear friends whom I still keep in touch. Though we’ve lived here the longest, I have not had one truly close neighbor. It’s kind of a snooty little town. Since we’re rookies with only 21 years under our belts, I’ll use that as the excuse. My point. I’ve lived in places like Leeds outside of Sioux City for a year, and consider Carolyn, who lived in the other half of the duplex a close neighbor friend. After living next door to Pam for 20 plus years, she continues to be a nice acquaintance.

The playground with a soccer net in front…

 

When we moved here, our house had been the 4th one built. A narrow private drive butting up against a park. Consisting of a baseball diamond, couple soccor fields, small playground, and a boat launch. We now have 7 houses, with 2 empty lots owned by 2 of the homeowners. Muskegon Lake is on our south side. The first house built is due east of us. It’s stucco and looks like a Spanish hacienda. It’s cute, though more of a cottage feel with only 2 bedrooms and maybe 1,000 plus square feet. This was the style they had planned for our small cul-de-sac. Since there’s only one, I guess that idea didn’t fly.

Side view of hacienda. The shadow is from our house…

Until about 5 years ago, only one house of the 7 had changed hands. But repeatedly. About 30 years ago, the house was a summer cottage. The owners were having a party and one guest became infatuated (obsessed) with the little Spanish hacienda. Soon after the party, the same guest, lacking just the right amount of sanity, returned. We’ll call him RCG, (rich, crazy guy). Offered an outrageous sum of money for the hacienda. He wanted it all. Everything but the clothes on their backs. RCG bought it, lock, stock, barrel and boat dock. Included in this deal was a fishing boat.

Adam at our beach before dock and sea wall, 1996…

You can’t (or probably shouldn’t) stop a bass boat quickly. The front end of that style boat is quite low. So if you’re going really fast, then try to stop, a wave of tsunami proportions will gush over the whole boat. First time out, RCG went 50, then pulled back on the throttle. Sunk the boat. He was incredibly rich, but dumb as a rock. I own some rocks that are considerably smarter.

 

My rocks. Definitely brighter that RCG…

 

After living there a couple of years, RCG wanted to buy the empty lot east of him. He loved the hacienda but it was cramping his style. He was used to living large. The lot he wanted had been sold to a couple with building plans. No matter what RCG offered, they would not sell and started having their new home built. So RCG bought the corner lot east of the (normal) folks, Dale and Carol. RCG put up a 10,000 square foot house resembling a VFW Hall. But without all the frills. On a lot suitable for a 2500 square foot home. Everything in RCG’s new pad would be black, white or red. And he ended up redoing most of the red stuff. After walking on the new red living room carpet, the bottoms of his white socks were pink. RCG had the carpet tore out a week later and black and white tweed installed.

The 10,000 sq. ft VFW Hall house. Not pretty…

Wasn’t necessary for RCG to sell the hacienda. He didn’t need the money so he rented it to a friend. That’s who was living in due east when we bought our home. A nice guy with a dog named Sasha. Who ran away from him every day. Every. Single. Day. Sasha would run up to Josh or Adam and start playing, but as soon as Gene got within 10 feet, she’d take off. Gene didn’t stay long before buying a home in the country. That way, Sasha could run a lot farther away from him. Crazy dog. Next RCG rented to a couple who were here short term too. Don was the general manager of harness race track about 10 miles south of us. They were only here for the racing season.

Adam on North Muskegon’s baseball team, 1996…

This was kind of a tough time for Adam. Moving here at 15, not knowing a lot of kids yet. Our first time living on the water. He became quite a fisherman. On our spanking new, blindingly white dock. Dale and Carol now lived in between the RCG’s hacienda and his VFW Hall frill-free home. Adam and Dale became good friends and fishing buddies. Dale and Carol had a black lab named Junior. Junior would beg Adam and Josh everyday to throw sticks in the lake for him to retrieve. Hour after hour, from the time the ice melted until the lake froze over again. If you didn’t start throwing sticks, Junior would knock you to the ground. But Junior never picked on our pooch Chico, who was getting up in years.

 

East side of Dale and Carol’s home…

Dale became a fishing mentor to Adam. Muskegon Lake offers walleye, perch, steelhead, salmon, trout, catfish, sturgeon, large mouth bass and pan fish. Plus some less desirable species. Wouldn’t ‘ya know, that’s the one Dale and Adam enjoyed trying to land. They’re actually called bowfin fish, but around here they’re called dogfish. A vicious breed that eats anything that swims near their mouth. Adam left his mesh metal fish basket loaded with small bait fish hanging in the water, from the dock one night. Next morning, gaping holes and a couple toothpick long metal threads were all that remained of the basket. Demolished by hungry dogfish.

Water was so deep when we moved here, 1994…

So Dale and Adam started a weekly contest. Called it, “Doggin’ for Dollars.” Neighborhood guys, minus RCG cause fishing was beneath him. Plus he couldn’t touch anything as disgusting as bait. Each of the guys threw in 10 bucks. Which was a lot of money for Adam. John, Adam, Joshua, Pat, Dale and Don. Once in a while a friend of someone would also come down for the contest. From 6 until 9 pm. Whoever landed the biggest dogfish got all the money. Sixty or 70 bucks every week. Plus it help rid the lake of these nasty predators. The next morning there might be 10 or 12 dogfish lying on Dale’s yard. Still breathing cause they have lungs. Dale buried them deep in Carol’s flower beds. One of the reasons her flowers are gorgeous 20 years later. The guys came close to the dogfish state record several times. I think some of them were close to 10 pounds. The first biggie Adam caught ended up biting right through Adam’s thumb nail as he was holding it up with pride for all to see. Dogfish have teeth that resemble canines. Pain was worth it cause Adam won that night. Goodness, that got kind of long winded. Forgot this was all about the house due east. Not the going’s on outside. Still, makes me smile remembering all those summer Thursday night fishing contests.

Dogfish. My memory is much more eel like…

So RCG decided to sell hacienda. Bought by a retired lady who moved here from Chicago. Named Carol. Sigh. What are the chances? Two Carol’s next door to each other. Chicago Carol lost her husband, but all of her grown kids still lived there. Odd. She had a step mother-in-law here. Chicago Carol brought a Vizsla with her. Small, beautiful hunting dog who was crazier than a loon. Bit everything and everybody, including Carol. She ended up having a wooden fence built around her deck. Virtually blocking her whole view of the lake unless she was standing up. So the dog would stop snacking on anything with 2 legs. Chicago Carol wasn’t here long. Decided she needed to be out in the country so the dog could snack on bears and badgers.

New dock 20 yrs ago. Our house on left, hacienda with fence for crazy dog on right…

Next owner of the house due east was a single retired lady. Yeah, there were 3 or 4 retired ladies in a row. This lady (can’t remember her name) was a retired commander from the Navy who moved here from San Diego. She had a nephew who was a colonel at the Pentagon. He came to visit quite often. One of his chores was planting flowers in her yard. The colonel and John were good friends. She soon needed more care and attention, thus moved. The house due east was sold again. Another single, older gal. Surprise. She had a lot of family around town, but did not stay long because of failing health. Two years, tops. About the going rate for the place.

Next in due east was an older widow named Mary. She had been living in Washington state but her daughter (pain in the ass) lived here in a ritzy condo across the lake. According to PITA (see above) John mowed our grass too short, and we had too much shrubbery. Which her mom’s cat like to ruin with cat pee. Our dock was stacked in the back yard at this time because Lake Michigan’s water level was down about 4 feet. Our lake flows into Lake Michigan, so our lake was down at least that much. If we put our 100 foot of dock out, we weren’t even close to water. Those low water levels lasted more than a decade. Ugh. It’s back up now by 2 to 3 feet. Anyway, a couple of the top stacked dock sections had shifted and were hanging over about a foot on PITA’s mom’s property. Not touching her property, but John had to move them. A year or 2 later, PITA’s husband went bankrupt. They lost the fancy condo, and sold Mary’s house at a huge loss just to get out of town. They all moved back to Washington state.

Our stacked dock precariously close to house due east property line…

So up until about 5 years ago, only one home in our little nook had changed hands. But that didn’t last. An older couple built a small ranch on the corner as you turn into our private drive. The woman’s daughter, Pam lives in between them and us. Pam also owns the lot just west of us. No one will be building there because it would block her lake view. Pam’s mom, Jayne passed away suddenly. Not long after, Russ, Pam’s step dad passed away too. So that house is now on it’s third owner. RCG went bankrupt. No longer RCG, now just CG (Crazy Guy) lost his frill-less VFW Hall home, so another family bought it. Now the new VFW Hall family is going through bankruptcy. The VFW Hall house might be cursed. CG (formally known as RCG) has been married 9 times. I kid you not. We went to 3 or 4 of his weddings. Don’t know why he kept getting married. He NEVER looked any of his brides in the eye when repeating his vows. Plain to see, he doesn’t like or respect women. But he knew the wedding vows by heart.

View due east over the water…

Which brings us to Sandy. Who bought the place for that rock bottom price about 6 years ago. Appeared normal at first. Sigh. A divorced teacher about 10 years younger than me. Living with a decent guy. She has 2 sons, oldest one is handicapped, other was in high school then. Sandy completely remodeled the inside of house. Great job. Vessels instead of sinks. Planted flower gardens that completely surrounded her house. And she kept them up. Gorgeous. Added a pea gravel, meandering path from the deck to the sea wall. Breaking up her already minuscule back yard, which is only 50 feet wide. Then she lost her job. She had not yet sold her previous condo residence. Which they moved out of, to due east when they couldn’t get along with any of the neighbors. Ding, ding, ding. Warning bells, red flags, and radar going off here folks.

Three years ago, we came back from visiting our kids and noticed a strange couple in Sandy’s hot tub. Found out Sandy had moved back to their condo and was renting out the hacienda as a beach home for $1,500 a week. Every Saturday she and Lenny came back, drained and refilled the hot tub, cleaned the house and waited for the new weekly renters. They had no dock, so they used Dale’s. Showing renters around the waterfront, which was dry as a popcorn fart back then. On cleaning day, Sandy would go down to the beach with a big rake, sweeping the seaweed away from her shore line, leaving it smack dab on Dale’s shoreline property.

A gar pike Adam speared off our dock, 1996…

I asked Dale if Sandy or her renters used his dock and had an accident, who would be liable? Dale’s dock is a permanent one. It’s very high off the ground, especially when the water was low. Dale asked Sandy to please stop using his dock. She did not. So he literally had to block it off from her. After the first summer renting the hacienda, Dale suggested strongly to Sandy that she not leave that big pile of seaweed in front of his house anymore. Fine. She then left it in front of mine. Every week for most of one summer. When the pile got about 5 feet high and across, I had enough of Sandy and her seaweed. She now had a couple sections of dock, so the renters could keep a small boat or water toys. I put on old clothes, shoes and gloves. Carol volunteered and came over to help. It took us a couple hours but we hauled every last piece of stinky seaweed to her shore and completely covered her first section of dock. With her own seaweed. She never raked it over here again.

Our lake view due south…

Sandy’s at it again. She finally sold the condo, and moved back to due east last fall. Joy. Last week she took a can of paint and casually sprayed her lot line on both sides early one morning. Had a landscaping crew in for a couple days. Thought maybe she was installing a fence to block our lake view. Or installing an invisible fence for the yippy-yappy dog she just got. Who runs everywhere. Nope, they trenched along every couple of feet and rolled up 95% of her sod from the yard. Put down black weed control landscape fabric. Honest, she kept about a 6 foot circular spot of grass in her front yard. I think I could count the grass blades without too much trouble. Why she would keep that itty-bitty strip to mow I cannot venture to guess. That’s where it’s at for now. I’m sure this week several tons of pea gravel will be arriving. Then perhaps planting an English garden. A perfect match for the hacienda due east…

The way I imagine the yard due east will look soon…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve never been the brightest string of lights on the tree. I’m not an over achiever in any endeavor. Often don’t even compete or complete. Shouldn’t complain. Mostly content with my fair-to-middling life. I have been very lucky and blessed. No serious illness, and have a wonderful family. So when something so foreign and alien nicked me with a good right hook, I felt 3 things all at once. 1. Wow, I sure didn’t see that coming. 2. I think I just got clipped along side the head with a Louisville Slugger. 3. You coulda’ knocked me over with a feather.

Looks soft and delicate. Ha! Knocked me for a loop…

 

I started writing my blog story a year ago. Since doing this, I have felt oh-so-much-better about life in general when I write. But I’ve recently experienced the strangest phenomenon. Causing me a real rough patch. Not about writing. About life. My life. This “feeling” is different. And not a good different. Makes me feel strange, and a little wacko. Uneasy, unsure, weak. Icky. It’s kind of hard to share these feelings and weaknesses. And I’m weak in so many ways. But I hope it will hasten the recovery.

Usually I’m pretty optimistic. The glass is definitely half full, and it’s also refillable. I am a fierce defender of all things negative. To a fault. When someone makes a derogatory statement about almost anything, I feel compelled to defend, protect, and advocate the other side. The under dog. The little guy. The runt. Give me your tired, your poor, yada, yada. But my own recent smack down has put me on some pretty rough terrain. I’ve been unsure of how to react or respond. It actually scares me a little.

Reflecting back, it started late this winter. Not unusual for me to have a mini case of the doldrums. The winter blahs. Frozen lake, 4 feet of snow during the shortest, most miserable month of the year. February. But I always eagerly anticipate the month of March. The weather gets better, lake ice melts, and it’s time to start my daily walks again. I used to walk during the winter too. But after a few falls, I’ve learned if it’s nasty out, just stay inside. Plus I’m part slug, part sloth. And then there’s the plain lazy part.

 

In my opinion, there is no beauty here…

 

But spring finally arrived. My life is immeasurably better when I walk. Everyday. One of the best things I’ve ever done for myself. (Besides having 3 pretty awesome kids). And have seriously kept it up for over 15 years, barring a variety of boo-boos. Donning headphones the size of M-I-C-K-E-Y’s ears. iTunes blasting out Pitbull, P!nk, Maroon 5 or an Enrique song. And I did start walking again in March. For a couple weeks. Nothing physically wrong with me, but one day I just didn’t go out for my walk. Or the next day, or the next. Sprucing the joint up for a house showing a couple weeks later, I gathered my folded walking clothes from our master bath’s usual perch and slid them on the shelf in my closet. Haven’t looked at them since. The sheer magnitude that this seemingly inconsequential event didn’t buckle my knees and commence me blubbering in a full blown panic attack is truly alarming. Just writing about it makes me cry. A good habit I’ve adopted and sincerely don’t want to give up. But for some reason, I no longer crave that awesome feeling I’ve grown accustomed to when I walk. I’m without an anchor, drifting, no sense of direction. I definitely should have seen this coming though. I’ve followed the Cubs for 30 years. I know all about slumps. I’m in the middle of a slump. I’ve lost my mojo. And I didn’t have that much to start with.

 

I can almost hear them begging to worn with regularity…

 

It’s mostly about the house. Our nice lake home. That I’m beginning to hate. With a deep passion and every fiber of my being. The place we’ve lived the longest since we got married. And it’s the only thing holding us here in west Michigan. I retired, anticipating a move closer to all the kids and grandkids over 2 years ago. No, nothing major physically or mentally wrong with either of us. (I sure hope this slump is temporary) We just want to be able to visit, babysit, pick up one of the grands from school, activities, or attend little events without driving 3 hours first. Getting antsy and twitchy about über-sports-jock, 14 year old grandson Landon. Sneaking suspicion he might be playing varsity basketball as a freshman this winter. I will not be driving 175 miles one way, twice a week to watch him play. And I am going to watch him play. Every game, unless slippery roads stop me.

 

It’s a nice house. So why are we still here? It hasn’t sold…

 

John and I were handed out different play books on issues surrounding our house. He seems unperturbed, unfazed and casually says, “oh Denise don’t worry, it will sell eventually.” But I am in a constant dither. Which really bugs me. It’s getting on my nerves. I want to be rid of the house. Now. It’s nearing the point where I would almost walk away. From this house. Today. (Hey, maybe that’s the incentive I need to start walking again. Win-win). My house is making me nuts.

Do I realistically think I’m going to be deliriously happy in a much smaller home? No I don’t. Do I think we’re going to be inundated with constant visits from the family? Heck no. They’re busy with their own lives. But I also wouldn’t have this too big, too expensive house weighing me down. Sucking us dry. Plus being 180 miles from everyone I hold dear. Ok, except Hubs. This house is now a virtual noose around my neck. I want out. I need out. It’s an albatross. A miserable, stupid cross to bear. And I’m tired of it. Limbo hell. I get up, drink coffee, read the paper, write for awhile, shower, read some more, cook supper, watch some TV with John and wait for the day to be over so I can go to bed. But I hate sleeping, so I’m up before the crack of dawn. A vicious cycle. And it never ends. It feels like my whole life is passing me by or on hold while I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. I should have kept on working. Hindsight.

I want to lower the selling price with regularity (or just drop it big-time right now) until someone buys it. John has a very hard time with this. Is the house worth what we’re asking? Yup, it is. But it hasn’t sold. In well over 2 years. Always ready at a moments notice to show it to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Who all seem to dislike something about the place. Honest, potential buyers these days want the house perfect. From wall colors to eliminating flotsam near the sea wall. Now I’ve got the added responsibility of dealing with an irate Mother Nature. Who doesn’t take criticism well. I fear John is going to resent me big time if I force him to accept a low offer. But if I stay much longer, I think I will go stark raving mad.

I told Hubs a couple weeks ago I’m not going to can much this summer. I’d like to think the idea comes from my ever-present optimistic outlook that we will be moving sometime soon in my lifetime. Why move hundreds of filled jars? But this “no canning” business doesn’t feel right. I love to can. Yet I have not gone to the Farmer’s Market once this summer. And it’s almost July. This makes me think something’s wrong in the world of Neese. Why am I not giddy with anticipation about going to my fabulous Farmer’s Market?

It kind of reminds me of a very unusual aspect of my hearing loss. I have the great advantage of remembering what something sounds like. Even if I can’t hear it anymore. As opposed to someone who has never been able to hear. Not long ago I was holding an ink pen. Making one of my ever present lists. (Why does everyone hate my lists except me? Especially John. How can the world work in any semblance of order without a “to do” list? My brain is much too inadequate to remember all the mundane crap in my life if it’s not written down). Anyway, it was early morning and I was not wearing my hearing aid. I was deep in thought when I noticed I was unconsciously tapping the ink pen against a button of my flannel shirt. I looked down thinking, I know that makes a sound. I know what that sounds like. Yet I am unable to hear the sound it makes. Fundamentally I realize what issues are bothering me. (Mostly house) But so far incapable of implementing a remedy.

 

The original mute buttons are on my flannel shirts…

 

What the heck is going on? Deep down I want to make apricot jam, bread and butter pickles and pickled beets. Really. I just don’t feel like it. At all. That’s such a strange, weird feeling. I don’t like it. Seems like all the normal things that fill my time and keep me content are leaving me high and dry. I’m tired. Tired of living in limbo. I’m so ready to move forward, but nothing else is ready or moving. Plus add one more quirky thing into my slump.. I find myself on the verge of tears. Often. Little inconsequential things, not worth a plug nickel now gnaw at me. Never have tears been so close to the surface frequently without cause or reason.

 

Almost apricot season. Searching for my anticipation app…

 

I’ve sunk into a hole. Not too deep, but it’s scary. It’s not all encompassing. That’s a good thing. Although I’m not mired in a pit of despair, I’m not in a happy place either. I’ve got a lot of good stuff in my life, and so much to be thankful for. But that hasn’t eliminated this sad, morose, overwhelming, can’t keep my shit together feeling that’s been plaguing me lately. I made a bold statement that may come back to haunt me. Told John, one way or another, I will not be living in this house on my 65th birthday. Five months away. We either lower the price until the house sells, we rent it, or he stays here by himself. I’m out. If he needs me to sign off on the house title, give me a pen. I’m done.

So now I have a goal, unrealistic as it may be. Moving forward. I will be setting up the Christmas tree somewhere else. New beginnings. I started purging again. Always makes me feel better. No, not the hurling kind. Hate that. Paring down all the cumbersome “stuff” that’s been weighing me and my life down. Went through a couple of closets. Now going through my kitchen cupboards.

 

Same dishes, 20 years. Ugh…

 

 

During our married life we’ve always used Corelle dishes. I think we’ve had at least 4 different patterns of Corelle since 1969. Well maybe one set of bendable Melmac before Corelle. Worse. My last Corelle pattern has delicate little flowers that make me want to hurl. Yes, the projectile vomiting kind. I’ve had these suckers for 20 years. They had to go. I needed something totally different. No more Corelle! I wasn’t ready to embrace the whole new wave of square plates. I’m square enough already. But I bought some dishes that chip if I’m not careful. I got this pretty set of Pfaltzgraff. Gave me new enthusiasm while I was cleaning out my cupboards. I got rid of my 20 year old, scratched Corelle dishes. Had to shake things up a bit. Now I’m going to my closet and get out my walking duds. Again. I’m eager and ready to put one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder out of this hole. Onward and upward…

 

Yeah, I’m wild and crazy these days. New and chip-able…

 

 

 

 

Jean was a member of my women’s church circle for several decades before I joined. Quiet, petite and very nice. She was also a Stephen Minister for our congregation. Taking a class consisting of 50 hours of training in the art of listening. Meeting one on one with someone going through a traumatic experience about an hour a week. These ongoing sessions sometimes lasted a few weeks, sometimes years. Loss of a spouse, job, illness, divorce etc. Jean was vibrant, active and busy. I was drawn to her immediately.

 

My dear friend Jean. About 2005…

She was in her mid-80’s when I met her. No reason to go visit her, because she clearly wasn’t on my Parish Visitor list. But I couldn’t help myself. There were maybe a dozen singles or couples from church with whom I cheated. They really didn’t need my duties as their Parish Visitor. Yet. But I needed them. Several people I routinely visited were not the most talkative folks. Most through no fault of their own. In nursing homes with health issues or worse, memory issues. There just wasn’t a lot of flowing conversations on some days when I went calling on folks. But these were necessary visits. Just checking on them, watching, observing, and advocating their needs were being met. Keeping track of their progress or decline, painful as it was at times, was part of my job. But group of few of these mostly non-verbal (at least on their part. I did most of the talking) visits together over a week’s time, and I’d get antsy or down a bit. That’s when it was necessary for me to get a cheaters fix in. Help for Denise’s psyche. Most were folks who were older, still fairly active, but didn’t need my services.

The first time I stopped at Jean’s house, I almost broke down and wept. She welcomed me and didn’t seem surprised at all when I just showed up on her doorstep. Ushered me into the living room as if I were one of her oldest, dearest friends. She said, “find a comfortable chair!” I admired her beautiful cat. The most unusual polka-dot, camouflage, black, white, cream and brown cat I’d ever seen. Then my eyes wandered a couple of feet past the kitty. And there it was. On the couch. A John Grisham novel. A recent hardcover one. OMG. She knew and read a top selling author. Be strong Denise. Don’t start crying for pete’s sake. Right then and there I pledged my life long devotion to this amazing, wonderful woman. We became fast friends. Soon enough it would be necessary this frail little woman would really need my visits. But until then, I needed her. She still cooked, she canned, she might have been playing golf for a short while before she started having health and balance issues.

 

Jean, hip and reading best sellers, 2005…

 

Jean had lost her husband a few years before I met her. She had 6 children. Where in heaven’s name had she carried those kids? In her apron pocket? I swear if she had swallowed a pea, it would have been noticeable. Most of her kids lived nearby. One living about a hundred miles away was having some health issues. (Maybe this was the real reason we needed to see each other) It would take a year of testing with various specialists at different clinics, but when the diagnosis became clear, the results were devastating. ALS. Every parent goes through 7 kinds of hell and anguish when serious health issues face their children. It’s bad enough that Jean was experiencing her own aging health issues. Ten times worse when it’s one of your kids.

Jean did slow down. Drove less, stopped coming to monthly circle meetings. And so I continued to visit (now visits were on the books, since she was added to my list. Sad that she now needed me, but the visits were cherished by both of us) and love her with my all of my heart. We’d sit in her enclosed back porch chatting. Watching the birds. Her yard had many mature trees (not many found in our yard, living on the lake). I spotted a new, different bird. “Jean, what kind of bird is that? I’ve never seen him before.” She followed my eyes near the top of a massive tree. “That’s a Rose-breasted grosbeak!” “Isnt he beautiful? Look at those striking colors!” Often with Jean, we might sit for several minutes in silence. It was never awkward or uncomfortable. We had the kind of friendship that didn’t always require yakking a mile a minute.

 

Rose-breasted Grosbeak…

 

One winter night about 5 years ago, the phone rang about 10:30 pm. It was Jean. She said a couple of her children had just left the house. I could tell something was very wrong. But this was not the time to push this private woman. “Denise, the reason the kids came over tonight was to break the news to me that my 10 month old great-grandchild had a terrible accident tonight. Taking a tub bath and slipped under the water. Still alive but brain dead. They are going to keep him alive for a couple days to find recipients for his organs.” Well, what can be said at this point? Told her I was on my way over to spend the night with her. “No, I’m alright, but would you come over tomorrow?” “Of course Jean. Do you want me to bring the minister along?” “No that’s not necessary,” she went on, “I don’t even know him. But I would really appreciate you coming over in the morning.”

A week or 2 after the baby’s memorial service, I asked my boss, via email, to stop and visit Jean. He never responded. (Red Fish story. Interested? Blog post, Red Fish, Blue Fish, April, 2015. He was the third in line of 4 lousy bosses. Ministers all). And our discussion that followed. It wasn’t pretty.

Jean’s children were about the most devoted family I’ve ever encountered. As her health declined, they stepped up to the plate in a major way. It was easy to see how much their mom meant to each one of them. They took turns staying staying with Jean at her house. Not just a few hours at a time, but for days and weeks at a time. Making Jean’s house their home. Cooking, cleaning, welcoming guests and old friends. And not just her own children either. Jean’s in-laws and grandchildren took turns too. Not out of obligation, but out of love and sincere devotion to a woman they all clearly adored.

I last saw Jean a few weeks before she passed away. She still recognized me. Sitting up in bed, gazing out the window at her beautiful back yard. Watching the birds. Clutching my hand tight. God welcomed a truly amazing woman into His fold when she left us. I was one lucky gal who knew and loved her while she walked among us. Thanks for lending her to me God…

 

Reminds me of my dear friend, Jean…

 

 

Had I known how disillusioned and disgusted we would be about the public education system in Michigan after living here a couple years, I never would have consented to move at all. Adam was attending a small elementary, consisting of kindergarten through second grade. So before he started 3rd grade, he moved to a much larger school building. He was now in the same facility where big brother Josh had been going since we moved to Jackson.

Joshua 11, Adam 7. Around the time we moved to Michigan, 1987…

This elementary housed several 3rd through 6th grades. It wasn’t until Adam started 4th grade that we discovered a disturbing cover-up of sorts. Adam had been put in a trial program during third grade. But we were unaware of it at the time. Funded by a nearby college for an accelerated classroom. We were not informed, included in any discussions, or asked permission. The trial program ended after one year, so our 4th grader was now knowledgeable in doing 6th grade work, mostly math. But that was no longer an option, because he was doing regular 4th grade work, and bored spitless. When we voiced our concerns about the lack of parental input before the experimental trial, the superintendent of Jackson Public Schools gave me this quote, “you don’t realize in the state of Michigan, I have much more say in the decisions about educating your child than you do.” Wow. We immediately asked Jackson Public Schools to release Adam and Josh. There was a much smaller school district closer to our house where we wanted to send the boys. This was several years before Michigan adopted schools of choice. Well, we needed to prove that Western offered classes that were not available at Jackson. Jackson did not want to lose their state stipend from our boys. It really had nothing to do with the best education for our kids. Or what was important as parents. It was always about the money. And control.

We thought long and hard about selling our house. Seriously. We were about a block from the border that put us in another school district. It just didn’t seem right. We honestly didn’t have much say in our kid’s education choices. How could they possibly have more say over our children than John and I? We were already struggling with Jackson and Michigan’s education system with Shannon.

Living in Jackson wasn’t all bad. Heading to the hot tub, 1990…

Shannon was a very good student. She always had the best study habits. When she got home from school, she immediately went to her room and did homework. She taught herself to read when she was 4 and never stopped. If she were sitting somewhere, she was reading something. Whatever was within reach. A book, cereal package, Kotex box, bible. Didn’t matter. She’s been a voracious reader since she latched onto my Dick and Jane books. She was a sophomore when we moved to Michigan. From the get-go, Jackson didn’t have much to offer her in the way of classes. She was quite far ahead. Not that she was extraordinarily brilliant, just very smart. She ended up doing independent studies by herself most of her last 2 years of high school. And taking some college classes from the Jackson Community College, which were free to high school students at the time. This actually helped Shannon (and us) tremendously once she was accepted at Michigan State. She didn’t have to take several of the usual freshman and sophomore required classes. But that wasn’t the point. Jackson Public Schools had no idea what to do with Shannon once she enrolled. Guess that should have been a big red flag. But what were we going to do about Josh and Adam’s education? No way they were staying in Jackson until they graduated.

 

Summer fun. Shannon reading, but wet, cool feet. With Josh, 1979…

 

Someone told us there was another way to get our boys released from JPS without moving. You could petition the State Board of Education. Since our house was so close to another school district’s boundary line, we could petition our neighborhood be moved from one school district to the other. Wow, sounded like a great idea. However, this idea/option would now play a major roll in our lives for several years. (Had we realized this, we probably would have opted to just sell the house and move a couple blocks away). We needed to get the vast majority of neighbors to sign a petition saying they had no objection to becoming part of Western School District instead of Jackson. This included a lot of houses here folks. About 100. We had our work cut out for us.

 

Outskirts in Jackson. The start of the homes we were petitioning, 1989…

 

 

There were other neighborhood families just as unhappy with Jackson Public Schools as we were. Several parents were sending their kids to private schools. So we formed a group of ticked off parents. Just kidding, but we did seek some allies who wanted to help. We had petitions typed up and started knocking on doors. We knew this was going to take awhile. There was no way Josh and Adam were going to continue at JPS. We yanked them out of Jackson and enrolled them in Western. Which was illegal. Our address was in Jackson’s school district. So we rented an apartment a couple miles away in Western schools. We claimed John and I had separated.

In Michigan, public schools have Intermediate School Districts (ISD) throughout the state. A building full of employees, covering several local school districts. They oversee all aspects of these individual school districts. Lots of overhead. The local ISD would have first dibs on approving or denying our petition. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going to happen before our petition was even submitted. There was no way they were going to approve this. It would mean taking thousands of tax dollars away from JPS (already hurting financially) by losing all of our homes from their district. Not a surprise when it was a quick no from the ISD. They decided to set an example with us and play hard ball. Using the Van Berkum’s. But they didn’t realize who they were dealing with either. Semi-smart Iowa parents, used to having a voice in their children’s education decisions.

The ISD hired a former retired employee as a consultant. His job was to make the lives of the Van Berkum’s as miserable as possible. His name was Jerry. And he was very good at his job. We now claimed to be separated and the boys were attending Western. Every afternoon Jerry parked his car on Pioneer Road, which was our side street. Sitting in his car, watching our house and back yard to see if Josh and Adam got off the bus at “my” house. Instead of their newly established address of the apartment, where they were supposed to be living. Taking notes if they were in the house or went outside to play. I started getting numerous phone calls daily, starting about 4, ending around 9 pm. All were hang ups right after we answered. It was the ISD. Speculating the boys just might answer the phone after school. How could I prove this since the caller never said a word? We were one of the first people to fork out an extra 7 bucks a month to have caller ID installed on our phone. The calls all originated from the ISD office. Ruthless, miserable, despicable people.

 

Josh and grandma Mag. Near where Jerry watched our house, 1989…

 

We rented the apartment for a year. Decided to take it a step further while we waited for our petition to be heard and ruled on by an Administrative Law Judge. A woman who had been assigned to our case by the State Board of Education in Lansing. The second year we bought a used mobile home in a huge trailer park in Western’s School District. We got cable TV, and their own phone number. I still can’t believe we went through all this. I really was kind of living by myself in that big, old rambling ranch. It was almost impossible not to fight what the superintendent said about our lack of rights as parents. Once we got past 4th Friday count though, the ISD usually let up some what. Fourth Friday count determined how many kids were in the school district and how much money they were getting from the state for the year. The boys were now legally enrolled in Western and state dollars from owning the trailer supported that. But the tax base from our home on McCain Road was still going to Jackson Public Schools. Which we were trying to change.

Well, the Administrative Law Judge agreed fully with our petition. Our whole neighborhood consisting of about 100 homes would now be included in Western School district instead of JPS. Yay, we won. Ugh, if only it had been that simple. Jackson appealed of course, not wanting to lose the tax dollars from 100 homes. We appealed our petition claim to a state judge, who threw it back to the Administrative Law Judge, who advised (“to get it right this time.” Meaning, figure out a way to change the decision in JPS’s favor. BTW, the ALJ, who had supported our petition of the neighborhood moving into Western School District had been fired). Stinking-wimpy-state-judge. The only time in my life I’ve been called as a witness in court. Jackson’s superintendent had called me a racist during a speech he had given. A couple of acquaintances of John called him after hearing say it at a public meeting. Claimed I didn’t want my kids enrolled in Jackson schools because they had a much higher ratio of black students than Western School District. In court, our lawyer held up a picture of a strikingly beautiful baby for all to see. “Who is this child,” Rick asked? I smiled, “Why that’s my granddaughter, Ariana. She is perfect. And I would not change one hair on her head.” Well that didn’t matter or the ruling come as any big surprise. This time the ruling was in Jackson’s favor. We lost. All this took over 3 years.

 

Ariana, 18 mo, 1992…

We spent years and thousands of dollars trying to get Joshua and Adam legally in Western, while remaining in our home. Which was one short block from where it needed to be. Josh did graduate from Western in ’93. Adam was a freshman when John was offered a job 150 miles west of Jackson. I should have seen this coming much sooner. We moved to Michigan when Shannon was a sophomore. We started this whole petition fiasco when Josh was in 9th grade, so he changed school districts when he was a sophomore. Only fitting that poor Adam would have to switch schools when he was a 10th grader. I will say we thoroughly researched the local school districts in west Michigan before we bought our house. None of the nearby schools seemed sub-par (well besides being much lower on the education totem pole, state wise, compared to Iowa). But some of the districts were huge. It would seem more likely for Adam to get lost in the shuffle or easier for him to get in with the wrong crowd. So we decided on North Muskegon Schools. One of the smallest districts in the state. But with some very good creds and high graduation ratios. There were only about 50 kids in his class. We were satisfied that we made the right choice when we bought our house. But what a painful learning experience and a wake up call. Determining what was in the best interest for our children’s education. A concerned mom and dad who insisted on having a say…

 

 

Like most families, our kids had their fair share of pets over the years. For a few years, they tried to one up each other in the variety department. Iguana, hamsters, gerbils and a parakeet named Don that lived for about a decade in Joshua’s room. Most with success and love. Others, not so much. We tried a gorgeous Quaker parrot. Horrible little snot. That dude could fling his poop about 10 feet across the room. And he did it on purpose. Our dog Chico was petrified of him. I was too. And a bird was my idea. I should have known better. I am the least pet person in our family.

 

Barely visible Max and Adam. Camouflage among the leaves, 1985…

At different times when the kids were young, each one asked for a snake. I didn’t have to be the bad guy when this occurred. John has a pretty irrational fear of snakes. He got this fear from his dad. So it was always a fast no concerning snake ownership. John and Josh were fishing one day when Josh scooped up an inch long bullhead. At the time, we had a really nice fresh water tank set up. Josh named the bullhead Barney, and plopped him in the tank. Where Barney grew and thrived for years. When it was moving day, Josh didn’t think it was safe to use a plastic bag. He stowed Barney in a glass peanut butter jar for safe keeping/moving. We should given Barney a heads up and written instructions to remain upright in the jar. Call Barney the slacker. He holed up on the bottom of that PB jar for about a day before we could set the tank up and get Barney in his new home. Poor little bottom feeder. He was so stiff and crooked when Josh got him out of the jar, he swam in tight little circles for about 6 months. Might have given him a complex. He was bull-headed.

 

Not Barney’s tank. This one was saltwater, 1980…

 

Our first dog was the cutest little thing. A Maltese named Tina. Shannon was a toddler at the time. It was the early 1970’s. Shannon had been sick. At the time I don’t think they had safety caps on medicine bottles. I walked into the kitchen to find Shannon sitting by Tina’s food and water bowls. Both Tina and Shannon’s mugs were covered with pink antibiotic goo. What medicine wasn’t smeared on their little smiling faces was in Tina’s water dish. Though most of that was gone too. In a full blown panic, I called our pediatrician. Dr. Stauch calmed my fears. “Have John stop after work and pick up a box of Pampers. You’re going to need them. My suggestion for Tina would be that she remains outdoors for a day or 2.” A few months later Shannon, a typical toddler (not prone to sharing) sacrificed much by sharing a piece of her chewed gum with Tina. Which Tina thoroughly enjoyed until it slipped out of her mouth and promptly lodged in the fur on the side of her mouth. Tina walked around for a couple months, a buzz-cut on one side, normal and cute on the other.

 

Tina’s gum incident hair cut still visible. With Shannon, 1972…

 

This is about the time we got our German Shorthair Pointer, Anja. Such a smart, well-behaved little hunter. She would live to hunt with John for over a decade. She never was the family dog though. She lived in a kennel outside. Only came in the house occasionally at night when the Iowa winters were so brutal it was dangerous for her to stay outside. Soon after we’d bring her in the house, she’d start panting. Wasn’t used to all that warmth. Anja’s mom was from Denmark. The Shorthairs in Denmark are bred to kill cats. It’s actually on their papers how many cats their parents have eliminated.

 

Vigilant Anja watching Max just out of reach, 1985…

 

 

Well, you guessed it. A few years later we got a cat. Probably should never have let Shannon have one. She has pretty severe asthma. Cat fur and dander were hard on her. But she loved that cat. It was a tom named Maximilian, Azrial, Lucia, Machia, Van Berkum. Or Max. He spent a lot of time outdoors hunting. Always sharing with us the fruits of his labor. Squirrels, voles, shrew. Placed neatly on the porch by the front door. He’d be a little worse for wear after he stayed out for any length of time. Wild, little bits of ears or his tail missing. He was scrappy. He’d always come back to Shannon. Soon he’d calm down. But he always got restless again. Just could not stay home or in the house very long. He was crafty too. It was a constant battle to keep Anja and Max separated so they didn’t kill each other. Yes, Anja outweighed Max by 40 pounds. That wasn’t an issue for Max. Max intentionally teased Anja to the brink of insanity. The bottom 5 feet of our house in Davenport was brick. Above the brick was a small cement shelf all the way around the house. The top part was stucco. Max’s favorite pastime was scampering easily on that shelf. Staying about a foot out of range from how high Anja could jump with her mouth open wide. Ever ready. Anja stalked Max. Max would just let Anja get close enough to give her a friendly swipe of his paw across her snout. Anja had constant claw cuts on her face, which never seem to faze her. She wanted that darn cat in the worst way.

 

Max and Anja tormenting each other, 1983…

 

This is about the same time I earned “worst mom award.” It was about 30 years ago, and I still feel really bad. I am a horrible, horrible person. Ugh. All part of the uglier side of Neese. It started in the mid-80’s. As a surprise Christmas gift to the 3 kids we bought a miniature Schnauzer. The kids were so excited. Took us awhile to settle on a name. I think we threw about a hundred names in a jar. Don’t know how we decided on the name Bix. Bix Beiderbecke was a famous composer, musician, coronet player, born around 1930. There was an annual week long festival, culminating with a race, celebrating and honoring Beiderbecke. Don’t want to really go into the whole Beiderbecke thing. That might fodder for another day with the blog. Anyway we got this awesome pup. We trained him not to go in the rooms with carpeting.

 

Christmas Bix, 1983…

 

When Bix was about 2, the Quad Cities suffered a severe downturn. John was one of several hundred engineers laid off during this dismal period. We were so bummed. We all loved living in Davenport. Our fabulous house sunk way below in value compared to what we still owed. Shannon was a sophomore, Joshua was a 6th grader, Adam was in second grade. Most of Iowa was in slump. John finally accepted a position in Jackson, Michigan. It was about 350 miles away. For about 6 months, the kids and I traveled to Jackson almost every other weekend. Looking for housing, staying at a hotel with John. Every time we were gone, a lady from our church kept Bix. She was going through a tough time too. She was a single mom and had leukemia. When she was nauseated from treatments, Bix would lay outside her bathroom door, whining quietly. Waiting for her to feel better and sit on her lap. I didn’t think we were going to be able buy a home when we moved. Market was not good in Jackson either. I was a mess. I hated being a part-time single mom of 3 after John started his new job in Michigan. Shannon all but refused to move with us. She was most unhappy. The boys weren’t much better. All I could think of was a family of 5 miserably scrunched in an apartment for months. A few weeks before we moved, I made the decision to let the lady keep Bix. She just sobbed while thanking me over and over. Skinny, frail, and so sick. Her son stood by crying too. But so did our kids after I told them. It was a terrible thing. Even worse because at the last minute, we sagged a house in Jackson that was a steal and affordable. Not one of my better mom moments.

 

Josh 8, Shannon 13 w/Bix, and Adam 4, 1983…

 

Not long after we got settled in Jackson, getting another dog was frequently discussed in our house. I stayed out of those discussions. I wasn’t going to say anything if they wanted to buy a whole litter! I think Shannon might have started researching dogs and decided maybe adopting one from the Humane Society might be the way to go. They did this a different way in Michigan. Connected you to a family that was getting rid of their pet. The Humane Society didn’t have a facility for keeping animals. John, Shannon, Josh and Adam drove to Mason, about 30 miles away to meet an elderly couple who were no longer able to care for their dog. His name was Chico and he was about 2. A cockapoo. Well of course all 3 kids fell in love with him. An hour later they arrived home with this rather homely, chubby, white dog. Fighting all the way home who Chico would sleep with that first night. Adam or Josh. He might not have been much to look at, but he was unbelievably smart. He knew so many tricks. He fit into our family perfectly. And you’ll never guess who his favorite person in the family was? Yup, me. Sigh. But I was with him most of the time. By time time he lived with us for a month, Chico could determine from inside our house, which one of about 8 busses zipping down McCain Road or Pioneer Drive after school held his 2 beloved boys on board.

 

Chico searching for that one elusive morsel of dog food, 1988…

 

A couple months later I got a phone call from the couple who had us adopt Chico. She and her husband were kind of lonely without him. Would it be possible to get him back? Sorry lady, not in my lifetime. This little dog was staying in our house. Forever. The boys soon taught Chico to play a new game. They had me hide somewhere in the house. Behind a curtain or door, while they were playing with him. All of a sudden one of them would say, “Chico, where’s Mommy?” Chico would eagerly look around for me. And the search was on. He resolutely, carefully went through each room of the house. Slowly at first, but going faster and faster. He was beside himself with joy when he found me. What a goof. My best hiding spot was in the shower. He might have to check the bathroom a couple times before he squeal with joy after spotting me. His mommy was found at last, safe and sound. Oh Chico.

We thought the move to Muskegon might be hard on him, but it wasn’t. If we went away for any length of time (to and from Iowa) we’d first haul him back to Jackson. My former neighbor, Mildred adored him and he liked her too. She took wonderful care of him. And it wasn’t very stressful for him.

 

Spitzy, Larry, 11, Neese 6, 1957…

 

Chico liked living here on the water. Even went fishing with John and the boys on the boat a few times. He went berserk when he’d spot ducks swimming on the lake. By the time he was about 17 he was slowing down. Hearing was gone, eyesight was poor. He still lived for a couple of things. Loved it when either of the boys or Shannon and Ari came to visit. Second, John started doing something special for Chico when he came home from work. I would buy a package of cheap hotdogs. Like clockwork after arriving home, John would go to the fridge and get a half hotdog. Break it into bite size pieces and feed Chico. Chico could sit up and beg for hours. On weekends, Chico knew within a few minutes when John should be arriving from work. It was of no consequence that John had been home all day because it was Saturday or Sunday. Chico still required that hunk of hotdog. Didn’t matter if John and I had urgent matters to discuss. Impossible to carry on a conversation until Chico got his hotdog. He had to have it first. Everyday.

 

Chico loved his bed, 1992…

 

At the time there were only 5 houses in our little private drive. All of the neighbors knew and loved Chico. There were several dogs among the 5 houses. But Chico was kind of the elder statesmen of the group. And generally left alone by the rest of neighborhood pets. He’d spend part of the day just putzing through his little kingdom. The human neighbors also knew he was failing. Often Chico would stand smack dab in the middle of the private drive for all 5 homes. He didn’t hear or see a car coming. Eventually he would turn around and notice the car, UPS, or mail truck behind him. Chico seemed almost embarrassed and apologetic when this happened. “Whoops, sorry bout that. Didn’t see ‘ya there. Let me mosey (slowly) out of your way.” He’d meander to the side of the road. One day he was standing in the road when the mailman was trying to deliver the mail with his truck. He stopped and waited for Chico to notice him. And move. Finally Chico did notice and slowly walked up the neighbor’s driveway. The mail truck started moving, Chico turned right around and walked right under his back wheel. A very bad day. We would have had to make a decision about him in the near future. His quality of life was decreasing, but all in all seemed happy, and not in pain yet. What an awesome pet. Still loved and missed by the whole family. Especially me…

 

 

Chico, a wonderful family pet for over 15 yrs…

 

 

One year ago. A whole year since I published my first blog post. It’s been immensely satisfying, therapeutic, and scary. Painful much of the time. But I’m hooked. At least until the words and stories in my head empty out. Since I’ve been leaning to one side lately when I walk, my head is probably sitting below half a tank. I will run out of stuff to write one day. Fair warning. Yeah, I know, you’re all devastated. For my first story there was no doubt what I would write about. Someone very important who I loved with all my heart. My brother Larry, killed in 1958 when he was 12 and I was 7. It seemed only fitting that after a year of evading, avoidance, sticking my head in the sand, and generally beating around the bush, I finally tell the story about my sister Mona. And me. So here goes.

 

Larry 4, Mona 7, 1950…

Mom, Dad, Mona and me since Larry died. Only four people left in our small family, and we couldn’t get along. Four people. Pitiful. I accept much of the blame. I was clearly favored and spoiled rotten. That must have hurt Mona a lot to watch year after year. But I was a little kid. I followed along in Mom and Dad’s footsteps, accepting their rationale. Being led and manipulated most of my life. Complicated. Pathetic. Regrettable. Disturbing. Antagonistic. Pick one or all. Every one of these adjectives applied in our family’s dynamic.

 

Mona 5, 1948…

 

Mona’s almost 8 years older than me, so we never had a lot in common. She has a very different version on growing up in the Gerritson house than I do. Her recollections of what happened. I never heard her descriptions until a few years ago. Mona said Dad hit her. Beat the living snot out of her. Often. Something I never witnessed or remember. Dad never laid a hand on me. Maybe he wanted to at times, and sometimes deservedly so. But had he, Mom would have knocked him into next week. Mona’s stories and views of growing up came as shocking news to me. I assume if it’s true, it was before Larry died. Before Dad accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior and his life (and ours forever) changed.

 

Larry 3, Mona, 6, 1949…

 

First and foremost, as far back as I can remember, having any kind of relationship with Mona was never encouraged. Not by Mom or Dad. In fact it was discouraged. Who does that? Not any normal families I know. Mona got married soon after Larry died. I think she was happy to be out of our house. And I don’t think Mom and Dad were sorry she was gone either.

 

Larry 2, Mona 5, Dad 41, 1948…

 

I remember going to Mona and Ed’s house in Canton quite often. Not as much after they moved to Orange City, or later to his family’s farm. Mom seemed captivated by her first three grandsons. Although their ratings dropped significantly once I had Shannon. First and only granddaughter. I don’t recall any of my nephews ever staying overnight at our house. I don’t think Mom took care of them very often.

 

Mom and grandson Brian, 1962…

 

This might have been Ed’s doing. He and Mom got along like oil and water. (Mom was an equal opportunity hater when it came to son-in-law’s though. She hated John as much as Ed after I got married. One Christmas Dad was handing out presents to my family. When he got to John, he looked at him and said, “we ran out of money.”) Ed made a colossal error in judgement by making light of the fact how hard Mom worked to buy something very special for herself. This was about the mid-60’s. Mom scrimped and saved enough to buy a beautiful grandmother’s clock (slightly smaller than a grandfather clock) from Vander Ploeg’s Furniture in Sioux Center. All with her own money. She was extremely proud. The clock was hard rock maple, matching her dining room furniture.

 

Mona 11, Dad in the background. 1954…

 

Our house was one of the oldest in Rock Valley. None of the walls were straight, not one level floor in the place. The clock’s new home was in our dining room. On Mom’s beautiful shiny, dusted-on-hands-and-knees-daily oak floor. Much easier to level the clock in there than on the carpet. Still the clock guy had to make several trips from Sioux Center (15 miles) to get the clock started and keep it running. Mona, Ed, and the boys came over to visit. Mom went ballistic every time one of my nephews got within 6 feet of that darn clock. She was “this close” to installing an electric fence around it to zap them back a few feet from the danger zone. She went on and on how expensive it was. And how hard it was to get perfectly level on our crooked floors so it would take a licking and keep on ticking. Ed jokingly quipped, “I think it would look real good in my hog barn.” Gulp. Honest, the daggers Mom shot him caused his male-pattern baldness. And he shrunk a good foot. Nope, not feeling the love.

 

Mom’s beloved clock…

 

It’s now the mid-90’s. Mona and I have seen each other sporadically during the last 20 years. We weren’t living very close, first having moved to eastern Iowa, then another 350 miles farther east to Michigan. Just a few months after a healthy Mayo Clinic physical, Mom was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins’s Lymphoma. A fast growing, but highly treatable cancer. I went home for her first chemo treatment in Sioux Falls. She was in bad shape. The cancer was obstructing her ability to breathe. She was sleeping all the time, and her respiration was very slow before and after the first chemo dose. But this cancer responds well to treatment very quickly. Literally, in a matter of hours, she was breathing better, and resting comfortably. Mona and I were sitting in Mom’s room. I said I was going to get some lunch. Mona asked where I was going? “I’m going to ride around until I find a Chinese restaurant. I need to get out of here for an hour.” To which she replied, “I know a great place not far from here. I love Chinese.” Pretty much the first time we ever did anything together. I was in my 40’s, Mona in her ’50’s.

 

Neese 10, Mona 18, 1961…

 

Thus began a decade long, pretty decent friendship between sisters. Why Mom and Dad objected so vehemently was not only a mystery, it was just plain crazy. It was their constant-on-again-mostly-off-again-relationship with their eldest daughter. If they were going through a period when they were on the “outs” with each other, Mona was not welcome in their home. Nor did she want to be there. Sometimes this occurred while I happened to be Iowa visiting. When Mona and I made plans, she’d just pull up front of Mom and Dad’s house. I’d yell bye to the folks and scamper out to her car. (Mom always preferred when I flew to Iowa. Without my own car, I was literally stuck there the whole time. Neither of them wanted me traipsing off to do other things. I was there to cook, bake, visit and help them. Period). After running out to Mona’s car a couple times, Mom and Dad put the kabosh on that. No, they couldn’t stop me from going away for a few hours with her. But they would not tolerate me running outside like a teenager 50 years ago. Trying to date someone on their long disapproval list. Heavens sake, it would appear as though we weren’t an upstanding Christian family if their daughter wouldn’t step in the house to pay her respects for a minute. Holy moly, sometimes they were so unbelievably hypocritical. So that’s exactly what Mona did. Got out of her car, stepped inside the front porch, where I’d meet her and away we’d go. Strange and pathetic. Mona and I’d go to Le Mars, Sioux Center or Sioux Falls. She didn’t really care for shopping at a mall, so we’d hit a couple Goodwill or antique stores, and eat some lunch. Always Chinese. Then she’d drop me off again AT OUR PARENT’S HOUSE.

 

Mona 13, Larry 11, Mom 31 and me 6. 1957…

 

This tormented, angst filled relationship was not all Mom and Dad’s fault though. Mona knew just how to push their buttons. With glee and wild abandon. And in a way I could never master. And you’ve read how good I was. Knowing exactly where and what buttons to push. I thought I was the resident expert, but alas I was just a rookie compared to Mona. Many times I think she pushed their buttons just to get a rise out of Mom and Dad. Force their hand to show SOME kind, ANY kind of emotion towards her. To be truthful, they often acted like they hated her. Looked at her with such disgust, it actually embarrassed me. Man, that’s hard to even type. Harsh, but that’s the way I saw it. And if I noticed it, Mona certainly did too. I’ve often wondered if maybe Mona wasn’t Dad’s kid. Then I could kinda understand why Dad seemed to dislike her so. But she was still Mom’s kid either way. So why didn’t Mom love and protect Mona? Actually I didn’t dwell on this much. Mom, Dad and I had so many issues of our own, it was hard to be concerned about their life long battle with Mona.

 

Mona, me and Larry, 1953…

 

Mona had to solidify her feelings. On paper. About 3 or 4 years before Mom’s death, Mona wrote them a very bad, scathing letter. I didn’t read it or know what precipitated it. It could have very well been in retaliation from something Mom said or did to Mona in the first place. I would bet Mom memorized Mona’s letter verbatim after she got it. Although there was somewhat of a reconciliation between them the last year or so of Mom’s life, I don’t think either of them ever forgave Mona for that letter. Mom and Dad both made their wishes known explicitly when the will was read. And Mona had not been invited to that event with Dad and me. Their “will” is not something I’m going to talk about. Ever. And yet, here I sit, putting words on paper. Vicious cycle with those Gerritson girls.

 

Mom, Dad, Mona 6, Larry 3, 1949..

 

As Mom’s health declined, especially after she went into the nursing home, I came home more often, and started staying at Mona’s house. Things were pretty good. Ed and I were like 2 peas in a pod. He loved it when I brought my grandkids to visit the farm. Ari and Landon holding newborn, squealing piglets.

 

Landon with Ari, Ed and baby piglet at their farm, 2003…

 

Until Mom died. I knew Mona would never want to take care of Dad and he certainly wouldn’t be comfortable with her in that role either. Dad had been rudely uninvited from Mona’s house for Thanksgiving Day with a pitifully lame excuse. Since I was in Michigan, rather than spending the day alone, he decided to eat at his favorite restaurant, The Royal Fork. At least have a good meal, though by himself. On his way to Sioux Falls, he purposely drove past Mona’s house. There in the driveway were about 8 cars. Celebrating the holiday with family. But not including Dad.

 

Ed and Mona’s wedding, 1960…

 

Dad was adamant about selling the house after Mom died. Tired of being a homeowner. So I encouraged him to move to Michigan. Near me. I stayed about a week after Mom passed away, then went back to Michigan. A few days Dad called, in a panic. “Denise, you’ve got to come back home. Mona’s taking stuff from the house. And she won’t listen to me.” I called her, told her I was coming back. She said she’d pick me up from the airport and I was welcome to stay with her. Once we got to Dad’s, there were a lot of items missing. That had been willed to other people. We had a pretty bad argument. I insisted that she bring back all the things she took. When I got up the next morning, Mona said Ed didn’t want me to stay at their house anymore. I needed to leave, and not come back. Later Dad and I talked it over, we decided to invite Mona back. Divided up all the household goods. Besides the specifics in the will, and what he was keeping for himself. He was beside himself with fear that Mona would talk about him behind his back. Ah, his perceptions again. What other people might think of him. My Mom would be unbelievably upset with Dad for caving.

 

Not a happy family, 1961…

 

After Dad moved to Michigan, Mona and Ed stopped to see him on their way to Niagara Falls. We had a very awkward lunch. Mona and I rarely talked anymore. I did call her a few times when Dad’s health declined. This was about the time of my blog post, “The Bonus.” Neat story from last August, 2014. When Dad passed away, Mona and I met at Porter Funeral Home. Together we picked out a casket, bulletin cover and food for the reception. We were civil, but not much more. As all of my immediate Michigan family and I were walking into Dad’s visitation, I spotted Ed with their 3 sons, and grandchildren standing in a loose circle. When our eyes met, as God is my witness, he turned around. Literally. With his back to me. Stood there, facing the outside wall! I guess it was a self-induced time out, since he was acting like a 2 year old. Even though my kids have joked about that incident for years, I was really hurt.

 

Happier days. Ed, Mona, me and John, around 2003…

 

Dad was buried in Rock Valley on March 18, 2008. It was the last time I talked to my remaining sib…

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can justify my opinion on how I feel about something. At least to myself and in my head. Usually. However, when that certain subject pops up in my mind, if this immediately brings a small frown to my face, it probably means my way of thinking on that topic is slightly off kilter. And I somehow know it, but don’t want to dredge up why I feel (and still believe) the way I do. Now don’t go thinking this is some deep matter of life importance. Remember who’s doing the typing here. I’m still pretty firm in my belief on how I dealt with this situation when I was young. Maybe I wish I would have felt differently though.

 

Shannon 9, Adam 3 mo., Joshua 4-1/2, 1979…

These earth shattering views are something I’ve touched on a little in a couple of blog posts. “Party of 5” for sure, (great story on our family and my youngest Adam. Posted 9-12-14, on his 35th birthday). Mentioned it maybe another time or 2. It’s about my resolute decision after getting married (eloping at the ripe old age of 18) and declaring to John, “any children this union might produce will be evenly spaced. And that spacing will have to be kinda far apart!” At the time I knew this rather strong-willed, prejudiced opinion and decision came from my Mom. She had a major influence (not always a positive thing either) on me since I was born. If you look at the Gerrtison family, my sister Mona is 7-1/2 years older than me, and 3 years older than Larry, who was 4-1/2 years older than me. This is how Mom felt on spacing, so I felt that way too. Sigh. Strong, grounded, independent thinker I was not.

 

Mona 14, Neese 6, Spitzy, Larry 11, 1957…

 

 

Once Shannon was born though, I really didn’t want another child for quite awhile. I had a baby. Why on earth would I want another baby when I already had one? It would take at least 3 years of alone-time-with-Shannon before babies were appealing to me again. I still strongly adhere to this theory that until my toddler was talking, out of the crib, running, potty trained, voting and writing their thesis, I was doing them no favors by shoving a newborn into their little world. But did I really do a disservice to my 3 kids by having them all in different centuries? I jest. I managed to have three births in our first decade of marriage. My birthing years were 1970, 1975 and 1979. That Adam. If he was going to be a surprise (he was) at least it should have been in the year of our Lord, 1980. Timing (and spacing) is everything Adam.

 

Joshua 1, Shannon 5-1/2 on the farm, 1976…

 

I’ve heard mom’s talk about their bigger families of 3 or more children. How close and tight knit they are. Each maybe born a year apart, or less. “They’re just inseparable” a mom would gush. And I’d get hit with a big stab of guilt. That’s when the little frown would appear. I wonder? Would my 3 kids be super close if I’d popped them out bang, bang, bang? Maybe. And was I supposed to have a lot more than 3? I don’t think so, huh God? You knew that just wasn’t me. Besides that would have meant my kids doing much of their upbringing by themselves. For at least part of that stretch. I believe I would have suffered a nervous breakdown.

 

Joshua 6, Adam 2, Spencer, Ia. 1981…

 

 

Gospel truth. It was not in my DNA, genes, personality, desire, or abilities to try raising a family under those conditions. I simply was not capable of doing the best job possible (and trust me, I failed in so many other areas) with 2 or 3 kids in diapers at the same time. That idea never appealed to me. Distasteful even. Could that really be appealing to others? Having a mess of kids, super close together? A lot of families do it, so maybe it does appeal to them. I admire women who can do that. Nothing seems to faze or rattle those moms. They can simultaneously nurse a newborn, push a toddler in a swing, kiss and bandage their 3 year old’s boo-boo, while teaching the 4 year old to hang upside down on the monkey bars for a picture on her iPhone. All the while, carrying on a very adult conversation, convincing other mothers on the playground the benefits of homemade, organic baby food, raw milk, and bamboo infused diapers are the environmental friendly route we should all be embracing. Ugh.

 

Adam 1, Joshua 5, 1980…

 

 

Most of the above scenario was never in my personal thoughts or beliefs involving the joys of motherhood. My best efforts of multitasking include eating, blinking, and breathing at the same time. The very idea of trying to change the diaper of a 14 month old Olympic gymnast, while a 6 week old squawks in a baby swing 2 rooms away, plus wondering why the 2-1/2 year old has suddenly gone silent in the kitchen makes me hyperventilate. This would be more than enough to set my teeth on edge. My take: God made some women highly capable of doing this whole super-mom of 6 rugrats under the age of 7 gig. Some women are put on earth and choose not to have children. I’m really ok with that too. The rest of us plug along, semi-raising merely one baby at a time until they are a somewhat coherent, little talking person who can scream loudly from the bathroom, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! MOMMY! I’m done. Come wipe!”

 

Adam 8 mo, Joshua almost 5, 1980…

 

Shannon was 4-1/2 when Joshua was born. Old enough to play outside with neighborhood kids making mud pies, or run down the hall for a bib or diaper for me. She loved her baby brother. She could also be quite helpful. Once when 6 week old Joshua was voicing his strong objections at the pace I was getting his bottle ready, he suddenly went totally quiet. That silence will get your attention, every time. I rushed into the living room to find Shannon with her grimy little finger stuck in his mouth. While she coaxed him into smiling and breaking that strong sucking action. She was so proud of herself for helping soothe him while they waited patiently for this mom to show up.

 

Shannon 5-1/2 wearing John’s specs. Josh 8 mo. does not know his daddy. 1976…

 

Even though my kids were spaced quite far apart, they seemed to get along fairly well. Oh, there was still plenty of tattling and fights. But Joshua and Adam played together a lot in Spencer and Davenport. Joshua, teaching Adam how to ruin Big Wheel tires in under 3 months. Playing catch, swimming, Hot Wheels, riding trikes and bikes. Then their world changed. Sometime during the mid-80’s. We were living in Davenport. Boys were about 10 and 6. We bought an Atari system. Space Invaders. I don’t actually remember them fighting much over the unit. But they spent a good share of time playing it together. After school and rainy days. But it didn’t consume them. They still both preferred playing outdoors. Moved on to a Nintendo a few years later.

 

Joshua 5, Shannon 9, 1980…

 

 

One of our smarter investments were 2 Game Boy units. Small hand held game devices. Almost all of our vacations consisted of driving back and forth to northwest Iowa. Visiting our parents. As the kids got older, none of them wanted to be in the car. At all. Apart. Or together. Or sit close enough that they might have to touch each other. Or breathe the same air in the car. We had a van with 2 long bench seats. Shannon claimed the back bench for the trip’s duration. No if’s, ands or “butts” about it. So the boys had to share a seat. But with the acquisition of their own Game Boys, the most noise we heard in the van was coming out of Shannon’s headphones.

 

Shannon 6, Joshua 1, 1976…

 

 

The biggest change I noticed in their actual playing together dynamics was after we’d been in Jackson for a couple years. Shannon then 18, Joshua 14, and little squirt Adam was 10. (Ha! My Dad always called me “Squirt” when I was young) These 4 plus year gaps in their ages were now producing almost nothing in common with each other. Except maybe hostility. They each kind of went their own way with friends. It would take a few years of adulthood before they started talking to each other as grown ups. No one was more surprised or pleased than me. The first few times one, two or all 3 planned something together on their own, it totally caught me off guard. In a good way. One of them casually mentioned eating out with their sib! Without my knowledge or planning. Well, to me that was just one of the best feelings in the world. They enjoyed each other’s company (somewhat) as adults.

 

Joshua 10, Adam 6, Davenport 1985…

 

 

I’ve always been a second guesser. Wondering if I could have or should have done things differently? I know it’s not something we’re supposed to dwell on. Life is hard enough day to day without bringing up insignificant matters (that can never be changed anyway) from over 40 years ago. I was a very young mom. Had Shannon 2 days after I turned 20. Four and a half years later when I had Joshua, I remember feeling so much calmer. More mature. Enjoyed his infancy a lot more. That’s the first time I wondered, maybe I should have planned to have Shannon when I was 24, then have Joshua when I was 28. In reality, I gave birth to number 3, Adam at 28. Plus I had also loudly declared, “no more kids after I’m 30!” There would have been no Adam. How incomplete my life would be without Adam! Well that’s just inconceivable. Now that’s a funny play on words. Doctor told me when I was 27 I’d never conceive again! A year and a couple months later, Adam joined our family. God knew what He was doing with this little Van Berkum family.

 

Shannon 5, Joshua 1, 1976. Eating his cone upside down…

 

 

Yup, I could have had a dozen kids. Could have done it in a decade too. Though the thought of that just makes me want to pull out every hair on my head. But my 3 fantastic, amazing, well-adjusted adult children prove that God knew what He was doing for my life. Better than I did. No surprises there. Going to stop stewing about the number of kids, or having them closer together all those years ago. Some of my life’s path decisions were of my own doing. Many were nudged by God. Good job God, thanks…

 

John 52, Adam 21, Shannon 30 w/Landon, Josh 25, me 49, 2000…