It’s a significant day. Realistically, when I started blogging in June of 2014, I had no idea there would still be words and stories in my head. Pretty secure in saying, I’m the only person who’s read every single one. And more than once. Ugh. Instead of celebrating this milestone, I decided to read the first 99 again. My eyes, my eyes. My head, my head. I tried to remain objective. Hoping to see them from the perspective of reader instead of inept writer. I was determined to find at least 10% worthy of reading more than once. This is going to be a hard sell. Some arm twisting and bribery may be involved.

 

Yay Neese…

While none of the 99 are hysterically-pee-in-your-pants funny, a couple are mildly amusing. One or 2, heart-breakingly sad. The rest are just snippets of my life, family and the Hubs. All of whom wish I would never mention them again. Or in the first place. But, it’s always been my story, and mine to tell.

For the love of God, put a cork in in…

 

To commensurate with my eyes-glazed-over-for-days from reading, muddling my way through these blog posts one more time, I thought it only fair. The crazy, loyal, commenting folks who read this drivel get to suffer right along with me. Yay. The mighty few. Unlucky. Ones.

 

Pretty sure of my counting skills here…

 

The first 3 months of blogging can be described as resembling rapid machine gun fire. I was posting every 3 or 4 days. The stories of my childhood (told quickly in case I forgot), losing my brother Larry in 1958 when I was 7. Our rather strange home life after that life shattering event. My Dad, who found the Lord, but had little time after for anything else in his life. My Mom, never recovering or able to move past losing Larry. Becoming over protective towards me. Stifling at times.

 

That’s the way I remember kindergarten…

 

Since those early months of rat-a-tat typing, I’ve found a comfortable rhythm with my writing. Every single time I think there’s not one thing left to write, type, share, a story pops out from nowhere. I just love those. A subject or story I never considered. A thought might smack me in the head hard enough to cause a goose egg. Holy cow, where did that come from? How come I never thought about that before? Do you think this happened now so I could write about it?

 

Luke, I am your father…

 

In my early days of blogging, right after I hit publish, I’d start writing my next story. Leave it alone for a day or 2, make some changes, and hit publish again. Not so much anymore. Now after I’m done with a new post, I mull for a couple days. Somewhere, somehow, (This part is unknown. Part scary, part exhilarating, part creepy) an idea forms. Not always worth writing, but usually. At least to me. And that’s why I write.

 

What will I come up with next???

 

One of the most unusual aspects of writing is the unknown part. I have a story in mind, but once my fingers start typing, the story seems to literally have a mind of it’s own. Weird and strange. I swear it’s not me. The story just tells itself. There have probably been 5 times I’ve started a story. One third through, the whole gist of the story has changed. Here’s a prime example. The story I remember writing was going to be about my best friend when I was growing up. Char. Started off with how boring my Sunday’s were. Gong to church on Sunday morning, changing clothes, big dinner, visiting my grandfather in Sioux Center. Holy mackerel, 1500 words in, I was still talking about Sunday’s in the life of Neese. Not one word about Char had been uttered, er typed. Ran with the Sunday theme since I was nearly done and saved my dear friend Char for another post. How in the world does that happen? I truly don’t know.

 

Ok, I’m sneezing…

 

Now this has droned on long enough. Sometimes I can’t stop the words. It’s like having your good moral compass on one shoulder, and the devil typist on the other. That little devil keeps tapping away. Be gone, devil!!

 

Little stinker works at his own pace to boot…

 

 

OK we’re talking about some of my favorite stories. Are any particularly well written? No. When the little devil is furiously typing away, the words sometimes just sort of appear. If I stop for 2 minutes, trying valiantly to come up with a clever phrase instead of, “he asked,” instead saying, “he cautiously inquired,” I might lose the next 3 sentences already on their way from small brain to small iPad. Can you feel my pain? My daily writing hope is that new, innovative, clever, different, unusual words and phrases will leap their way into my blog. Only to find after I hit publish, I said, “he asked?” A vast vocabulary has not been my strong suit. I’m really sorry. I keep thinking I will improve, then read yet another, “he asked?” Sigh.

 

Happy, happy 100th Neese…

 

 

I’m not quite sure how my blog looks on other devices. On mine, the story appears as my first written paragraph and my first picture. All of this surrounded by a green background with dandelions gone to seed. Along the top right side, there is a picture of me. Underneath, the small scoop about Neese. It will say, August, 2015 and the name of each blog post for this month. Listed under that are months dating back to January. Below that has 2014. So if I wanted to see a post from March of this year, I tap that month. Up pops all the posts from that month. If I want to go back farther, I tap 2014, the months from December to June show up. “Where it began,” bleats Mr. Diamond.

 

Thanks for all my blessings God…

 

These are some of my favorites. Was surprised that I initially jotted down about 20. Eh, some were not very good upon further inspection. So I wheedled it down some. They’re not in any particular order, but I’ll try to list the most recent favorite first, going back in time:

1. “Ariana.” May, 2015. The story on one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. My fabulous granddaughter. Thanks God.

2. “Becca.” May, 2015. A woman of God who tries to help and support a sinner like me. Plus take care of her flock. Hint. I’m the black sheep.

3. “Opposites.” February, 2015. After 45 plus years of marriage (to the same guy) it suddenly it me. Hubs and I are really very different. Who knew?

4. “Man on a Mission.” January, 2015. The dedication of my 91 year old Dad.

5. “The Jug.” January, 2015. Mom’s unusual saving methods. She was such a great saver. One of her best, most unique qualities.

6. “The Middle.” December, 2014. Joshua, my middle child. Best. Ever.

7. “Landon Andrew.” December, 2014. Although it put me in extremely hot water with his sister Peyton 11, (it was simply the word nipple) my smart, sports junkie grandson. “Drew” to the rest of the world. You’ll see.

8. “Bye Dad.” November, 2014. Tough one. Losing your last parent.

9. “Called.” October, 2014. I literally felt compelled (most of my life) to nurture and visit the elderly.

10. “Decade of Dangers.” How did I manage to rear children during the dangerous 1970’s? Still, all became amazing, hardworking adults. Beats me.

11. “Party of 5.” September, 2014. Adam, my unplanned, surprise breech baby. Very much needed and welcomed to complete our family.

12. “Preliminary Steps.” June, 2014. The quirky study of Dad’s odd construction projects over the years.

So here’s the deal. I don’t expect you to read all these stories. But I would like you to read a couple. Take your time. I’ll wait. An hour. Tops. Kidding. Just give it the good old college try here folks. Especially if one seems unfamiliar. Maybe a word or 2 about what you liked or hated. Though most of my tormented, spiteful ones did not make my favorite list either. That’s odd. Read a couple of paragraphs. Then kindly tell me, yeah, yeah, yeah, # 3. Neese, now for the love of God, write something original again. Please.

I thought I would have big problems finding 10 or 12 stories that I still liked. I can be quite critical when it comes to me. But more still tug at the strings of my heart. If you find you are bored, stop cleaning the lint out of your belly button now. Or you have absolutely nothing to accomplish this day or week, remove the fork from your hand pointing towards your eye, get comfy and peruse my honorable mentions: “Life Lessons,” “It’s a Sign,” “3 Amigos,” all from July, 2014. “The Bonus,” August, 2014. “The Farm,” and “Mildred & Charlie,” and “Charlie and Opal” from October, 2014. Last one, “Accumulating Losses,” February, 2015.

Almost done. I’ll leave you with an amazing quote I read this week. “I believe God opens doors. I believe He has my whole life. My job has always been to walk through them. So I did.”

 

Can’t take the credit, but thanks Ben Carson…

 

 

Sorry, not quite done yet. Quit groaning. I mean with stories. Still got plenty of words floating around my head. Thanks for letting me air out some of my favorites for my 100th post. Happy, painful, silly, uplifting, depressing, bored, never-ending-reading my pretties…

 

In a nutshell. From the bottom of my heart…

 

 

 

 

 

 

We’ve had a For Sale sign in our front yard for 3 years. Had you told me in 2012 the nicest home we’ve ever owned would take this long to sell, I would have had you committed. It’s lake property people. Certainly not a mansion compared to some in the neighborhood, but still a nice home. I’ve lived in this house longer than I lived in my childhood home town of Rock Valley, Iowa, although it doesn’t seem that long. Except for that stinking sign still out front.

 

The sign has truly worn out its welcome…

I don’t remember exactly when we decided that living in west Michigan wasn’t smart for us anymore. I was still doing my Parish Visiting gig, but now on my 4th boss. All of them preachers and not very good in the boss department. John’s thriving little manufacturing plant was suddenly struggling after the crash of 2008. He had just been handed the straw that broke the camel’s back. One of the Big 3 had reneged on a huge contract Hubs had been awarded. Now mired with the huge debt load of already having new equipment installed, and no parts to produce, his company closed.

 

A nice house with great views. Time to move on…

 

 

Our youngest grandchild Graham, was born in 2009. Sarah and Adam were both working, plus Sarah had enrolled in school to become an RN. Neither wanted outsiders taking care of him. Sarah’s mom Karen and I would take care of Graham when Adam and Sarah both worked. The nights we were needed was one weekend a month each. Karen took one, John and I took the other. We have been driving 175 miles one way, at least once a month to watch Graham for 5 years. We love doing this, and have loads of fun with G. Plus many trips to Jackson in those 5 years to visit Shannon and Tracey. Attending Landon’s baseball, football, basketball games, and Peyton’s dance recitals, school projects, programs etc. More trips to Detroit to visit Josh and Erica, and nearby, our oldest granddaughter, Ariana. We’re constantly driving back and forth for something. It’s what we want to do. We love seeing our family often. What we don’t enjoy as much is the 3 hour drive one way to watch 11 year old Peyton dance (she’s very talented) 4 minutes, then drive another 3 hours back home.

 

Little cutie Graham 1, 2010…

 

We started questioning why we were living 180 miles from our immediate family? I loved my work, but was getting burned out by the mounting deaths of the elderly folks I visited. The passing of another person on my list every few weeks was taking a huge toll. I retired in 2013.

 

A regular occurrence. 1000 foot tankers chug past the house…

 

After looking at the big picture, we concluded the only thing holding us to Muskegon was our house. Why stay here? It had been a good 18 years, but the decision was made to move at least 150 miles east. Not too close to any of the kids. But close enough to help out with the grandchildren by picking up, carting to dance class, the Y, babysitting in a pinch, bringing forgotten lunch money, excuse slips, and permission slips without too much hassle.

 

Peyton 11, Landon 14 in California 2014…

 

Our first phone call was to Bill, the realtor who had sold us this house in 1994. He’s consistently one of the top sellers in the area. When he and his partner showed up, I was even happier. Dave owned the apartment complex a block away where my Dad lived when he moved to Michigan on 2005. Dave was terrific with the senior tenants.

 

Hoping to spend a bit more time with this beauty, Ariana, 2015…

 

Bill was just as persuasive and persistent as he was almost 20 years go. He was positive he could get this place sold and we would move by Labor Day, 2012. In fact, he had a couple from Chicago who wanted a summer place on the lake. Might not even take him and Dave 90 days to get us out of here. We signed a 6 month agreement. A couple days later Bill called with more good news. A couple from Saugatuk wanted a lake home. Our lake home. They would be driving up shortly. He was convinced we would have an offer in a few days. Sixty days later, we had not seen the couple from Chicago or Saugatuk. Or Bill. Or Dave.

 

Shooting stars over Muskegon’s lighthouse, 2015…

 

What we didn’t know is Bill was in a tough spot of his own. The 2008 crash was hitting him hard too. He had bought a bunch of land on speculation. A future profitable housing development. Well, land and houses weren’t popping up around here. Economy was in the toilet. Bill was trying to avoid bankruptcy. Thus the quick sale of John and Denise’s lake home was not high on his priority list. He didn’t update, communicate or show the house. What a mistake on our part! I was disappointed, disgusted and had reached my limit of being civil. I zipped off a rather terse email. Questioning why there hadn’t been an open house? Why, when he had all these buyers lined up, panting for the place, hadn’t he shown it ONCE in 2 months? I was not very nice. Bill never answered me. He was too busy. That job fell to Dave. Who droned on for 8 paragraphs how un-sellable our house was, even though neither had shown it. Folks didn’t like the master suite on the second floor. Or that the master bath faced the lake. Dave thought it was high time to start dropping the price. After that, communication pretty much stopped. I did complain via email once more. I got reamed a new one. Yikes. I read the note to John, who then wrote Dave a testy reply. Dave answered, and addressed the email to Denise and “George.” OK, we’re done here.

 

Sometimes words just aren’t needed…

 

Enter Mary. She works at a local realtor office right here in North Muskegon. She had lots of suggestions to make the place more marketable, without dumping in thousands of dollars. Suggested some new paint, carpet and removal of most of the things that make this house all Neese-like. We don’t want to distract buyers from looking at the house when they’re too busy looking at all my stuff. We didn’t argue, and took her suggestions to heart. Hauled out loads of furniture and almost everything hanging on the walls.

 

Mary our extraordinary realtor…

 

Wasn’t long before we had an offer. But it had a twist. Buyers wanted to put on a huge addition, and insisted on including an architect and builder to see how much it would cost. Or if it was even feasible. The addition was much more than they thought, and the deal fell through. We were devastated. They had looked at our home 7 times. Yes 7.

 

Some pretty spectacular sunsets over Lake Michigan, 2015…

 

Decided we needed a little break. Took it off the market for a couple months during the winter. We were just so tired of always being ready for another showing. You want constant showings, but keeping the house that clean is hard. And irritating. While the house was off the market, Hubs and I burned the fireplace every night. I went days without having every square inch of the counters sparkling. Sometimes left some dishes in the sink. Or a pan on the stove. Oh yeah, we were rebels.

 

Stunning colors. Yes, I’m going to miss this…

 

For the past 3 years, whenever I was doing routine chores, these were my thoughts. Well this is the last time I’ll have to haul out the down comforter in this house. This will be the last time we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving here. This is the last time I have to change my closet from season to season. One of the dumbest was check blanks. I’d be running out of checks and think, sure don’t want to order 2 books of check blanks with a North Muskegon address, then move. I ordered one box of duplicate checks at least 3 times, waiting.

 

Captured August, 2015, a waterspout on Lake Michigan…

 

So about the time we re-listed with Mary, I went into my slump. Spring was right around the corner, but I had a bad case of the blahs. Just not in a happy place. It took a couple of months for me to realize what was going on in the world of Neese. So like the brave gal I am (not), I bared my soul in my blog and wrote a post called, The Hole. It was June 24, 2015. As God is my witness, we got an offer on the house on June 25. God’s timing was impeccable. Since we had been pretty vocal with our first offer by telling family and friends, this time around we were going in another direction.

 

The clump of birch that’s always visible. The water’s up and they’re drowning…

 

 

“John, we’re going to treat this offer differently. Instead of blabbing to the world we have an offer, let’s pretend it’s 30 years ago, and I’ve just found out I’m pregnant-again. Whoops, another surprise. We tell no one until the first trimester is over (a done deal-house wise). It will be our little secret, ok?” “Sure,” he said beaming. “But just so you know, the other 3 times you really were pregnant, I shared our news with everyone. On day one. With complete strangers. In line at Meijer.” (Maybe I really do have 4 children).

 

I took this, looking east. Birch trees on the left…

 

Our house passed inspection and the buyer wanted to close on July 31st. About 10 days before the 31st, Mary texted that the buyer was changing loan institutions. That didn’t sound good. He was pre-approved. Please not another deal going kaflooey. Mary texted again a couple days later. An addendum had come from the buyer. Changing financing from a conventional loan to cash. Buyer wants closing, on or before August 14th. “It’s looking good,” she wrote. “Keep packing.” I texted back, “Mary, this is fantastic news.” Also mentioned I was busy making Bread and Butter pickles that day. She texted back, “I said keep packing, not pickling!” Clever girl. However, getting all the cash together stalled a bit, waiting on some banker dude’s signature. Buyer was not going to have the money to close on the 14th. I was getting a little discouraged.

 

1000 footer headed thru channel to the big Lake…

 

Suddenly Monday, August 17th, everything fell into place. Buyer and the cash were ready. Closing at 9 am on August 21st. Took a half hour. A young single guy, he’s ecstatic about buying the house. I hope he enjoys it for 21 (ok, some of the love started fading at year 19) years.

 

Great whitecaps…

 

We have no regrets. Enjoyed it here, the views, as you can see are fantastic. But I’m so ready. I have yet to discover the reason God needed us in this house for an extra 3 years. His timing doesn’t always coincide with this impatient sinner. Now there’s only 14 days before we have to be out of this place. We’re house hunting this weekend. Probably end up renting something for a bit and store our stuff in pods.

 

Looking out to Lake Michigan…

 

I’ve dreamt, prayed and longed to write the post, Pending. Here’s the definition of pending, “the period before the conclusion about to take place.” We actually passed pending this morning when we closed. But I love that word. More distinct than just plain old sold. Mary said she doesn’t use pending signs. Too many deals fall through after that little word has been displayed. However, after she brought over the closing paper details, she added pending to the for sale sign. Just so I could take a picture for my blog. I thought she would have changed it to sold by now. Think she might be celebrating today. Getting rid of us. Finally.

 

Waiting to see the Pending sign for a very long time, 8-20-15…

 

I refuse to fret about the next chapter. I’ve prayed the house would sell for so long, moving is going to be small potatoes. Thousands of folks move everyday. The next few blog posts maybe scheduled a little crazy. Be patient with this odd writer. I’ll be packing Blue Delft in one hand, and tapping away with the other. But I’m thankful and excited for what comes next…

 

Thanks for your help God, 8-21-15…

 

 

 

 

Boy, it’s been some week. As my Dad used to say, “I want to share this with you.” I was knee deep trying to get my last blog posted. Remember, it was the one about all the letters I wrote my Mom and Dad? Spanning the years from 1974-1976. After we had moved to eastern Iowa, about 325 miles away. I had letters everywhere. Reading each one, copying down paragraphs from certain ones that I wanted to use. I probably had written down 35 snippets.

 

The letters from me to my Mom and Dad, 1974-1976..

Hubs was not here. He had to go to Jackson, so I was home alone. I had my usual August fare for lunch. A BLT. I really love fresh tomatoes. If there’s left over tomato slices, I eat them on a slice of bread, sprinkled with sugar. I call it dessert. But August tomatoes are way different than tomatoes in any other month. They’re juicy. And I’m a lazy slug. With my letters laying helter-skelter all over the family room floor, rather than sit at the table like a normal civilized woman, I chose to have my über juicy BLT sitting in my nest.

 

I know better than to eat here. What can I say? I’m lazy…

 

I didn’t want to mess up my clean jammies that I was guiltily wearing at 2 p.m. Besides my arms were cold, so I buttoned up my ever present flannel shirt and sloppily snacked on the best lunch ever. It dripped and dribbled everywhere. I thought I was careful, but still managed a big mess. Toast crumbs down my flannel. Tomato seeds and juice glopped from chin to knees. Heaven. Washed it all down with a screw lid bottle of Diet Pepsi. ‘Cuse me while I burp for awhile.

 

So good, but not attractive all over my clothes…

 

Friends who read my blog, or total strangers even, know I’m somewhat of a loner. Happy with my own company, I don’t socialize a whole lot. You know I adore my family, and 99% of anyone over the age of 75. But short of calling myself a recluse, which I don’t think I fit into that particular category, I am not comfortable in the limelight. Ever. This may seem odd, as I seem to have no problems baring my soul when I write. That’s different. You can’t see me. Part of this stems from my newly acquired (ok, it’s been a decade. Still taking some getting used to though) profound hearing loss. Don’t do well in crowds or restaurants. Can’t join in noisy conversations. I end up looking dumb and clueless. Might “get” the joke someone said a lot later than the rest of the group. Shit, they were done laughing 2 minutes ago. And that’s if I’m lucky. Usually don’t hear or properly understand it in the first place. Kind of bugs me. I actually used to have a quick wit. Believe me, nothing’s quick when you’re deaf. The point I’m valiantly trying to make. Although my hearing loss has compounded my loner aloofness, most of my adult life I’ve been like this. Just a more dramatic form of Neese.

I bowled on one or 2 leagues for about 20 years. Loved the camaraderie, and I was pretty good. In that span, I would venture to guess I had a minimum of 20 bowling shirts, and at least 8 different bowling balls. I don’t believe I ever put the name Denise on a shirt or ball. Always dvb. I really didn’t want people who didn’t know me to know my name. Or anything about me. Is that weird?

 

My cool dvb mini iPad case…

 

Forty years ago, Dad asked me to start going to the South Dakota prisons with him when he spoke. I firmly said no thanks. Wasn’t my cup of tea at all. He asked me numerous times after he moved to Michigan in 2005. That environment is SO not me. Never felt compelled to mingle with prisoners in general. (Dad, I’ve always loved old people). And speaking in front of a group was (is) torture. Absolute torture. It’s not that I don’t have things to say. Man, I can write a good script on a topic. But if the group was larger than 6, and not in a loosey-goosey informal couch setting, I was (am) totally incapable.

 

Back to my strange week. I’m alone in the house. Family room sliders and front door is open, with a cool cross breeze on a beautiful day. I’m a mess. Busy writing, checking my old letters for dates and content. Half my head is thinking of what pictures I’m going to use. Just as hard and time consuming as writing the blog. Love doing the pictures but it takes me forever. So I should have brushed my teeth after eating. Should have showered hours before. And now all the tomato seeds are dried on the front of my flannel shirt. Are you getting the whole picture here? I closely resembled Michael Keaton in Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice. We could have been twins. Ok, I never actually saw him with juicy tomato seeds stuck to the front of his movie costume.

 

Our likeness was uncanny one day last week…

 

The doorbell rings. (Please just kill me now). Hard NOT to answer the door since it’s wide open. Please, please let it be a kid collecting pop cans for North Muskegon School project. No, that would have been too simple and uncomplicated. It’s an adult. Of the male variety. Can I just slither in between one of the cracks of my wood floor?

“Hi, are you Denise?” (This was my out, and I blew it. Not a very good liar) Didn’t open the door, or get too close. No, I wasn’t afraid. But besides the glaring tomato seeds and drips all over my flannel shirt, covering my pajama top, I probably got seeds between my teeth to boot. A sigh here is not sufficient. A miserable, lamenting groan might however suffice. I hope you can feel my pain. It’s about to get much worse. I inwardly cringe, “Yes, I’m Denise.”

“Do you recognize this?” He thrusts a shadowy piece of paper (copy) in my direction. “Um, yes, I believe it was in my Dad’s apartment,” I cautiously answered. “Well Denise” (did he not get the memo about NO ONE KNOWING OR USING MY NAME?) he continued, “here’s the deal. A young woman from Spring Lake bought this painting at the Goodwill store in North Muskegon a few days ago. She was only interested in the frame. When she got to her car, she started taking the back off. That’s when she discovered a letter. Written to your dad, Rich Gerritson in 1984. The letter was written by a guy named Skip who painted the picture for your dad. The letter says that Skip was an inmate in a South Dakota prison. Is that possible?”

 

Skip’s 1984 painting for Dad. Minus the gorgeous frame…

 

“Sure sounds like my Dad.” (sorry, but I was dreading every sentence I was now verifying. This wasn’t going to end well for the loner). “He was actively involved with a prison ministry for decades. Preached at Sioux Falls, Springfield, held weekly Bible studies. He was instrumental in a group of volunteers who mentored inmates in a one-to-one basis called the M-2 Program” Gulp.

 

Dad trying to win inmate souls for Christ. In the late 1980’s…

 

Dude continues, “Michelle (the young woman from Spring Lake) put this on the station’s social media page. (Don’t bother with the gun, I’ll find one myself). “That’s when I got involved. We did a story on Michelle finding the letter. Would you believe, it’s gotten over 100,000 hits?” (Yet not one hitman for me) “A detective from Texas did some research and found obituaries on Skip in 1999, and your father in 2008. In your dad’s obituary, you are listed as his daughter. We didn’t have a phone number, but addresses are public knowledge.” (Lucky me) “So I drove over here today. Michelle would like to return the letter and painting to you. Is that ok?” “Sure,” I squeaked, “have her give me a call, and we’ll get together,” (I pleaded desperately with my eyes. For a news guy, he was kind of dense. Or in his defense, he might have been checking out my lunch leftovers. Can it get any worse? Yessiree)

You know it couldn’t possibly have ended that painlessly for me don’t you? Their original plan had been for them to give the follow up story line from Skip’s viewpoint. That was a dead end. (Sorry Skip). Since Rich’s daughter (of quivering voice and knocking knees) was alive and well (the well part still to be determined), this dude preferred to have the “rest of the story” documented on film. Have I mentioned that I do not like to have my name or any part of me out there anywhere? Honestly, I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. Standing there, agreeing to have him and Michelle come to my house. With a camera. I do believe at this point I did try and slink under the front porch. Tomato seeds and all.

 

What Michelle found under the frame backing…

 

Dude emailed, messaged, friended and phoned me during the next several uncomfortable hours. He had a somewhat bubbly disposition. Guess that’s a job requirement. The Big Story was going down the following morning at 10. I giddily hoped and fervently prayed, they’ll be here 5, ten minutes tops. Try an excruciating hour. I’m not wishing for a natural disaster, but can’t help but wonder how slow this news week must have been. (What are my chances)? All that and he got 90 seconds air time. Painful as they were, it could have been worse.

Dude did not show. (Thank you Jesus). But his replacement did. (Alas it was Dude’s regularly scheduled day off, which he failed to mention to this basket case). Dude #2 entered enthusiastically, bouncing up and down like Tigger on speed. Second dude was incredibly nice, trying hard to put me at ease. Asked me about Dad’s story. How and why he was compelled to work with inmates. Dad, giving his life to Christ after losing his only son Larry in 1958 at age 12 in a bike accident. My part in getting Dad re-connected after he moved here, 800 miles from his little Iowa home town. Before Dad moved, I had contacted the Chaplain at West Shoreline Correctional Facility. Asking if they had a spot for Dad’s gifts, though he was already 88 years old. Stopping in at Muskegon’s Rescue Mission and landing Dad a once a month gig with the less fortunate men staying at the shelter. Getting some heartfelt help at a local assisted living facility. Giving Dad a weekly Bible study spot. They adored having him come every week, and he loved going there.

 

Dad holding weekly Bible study in 2006. He’s sitting in the upper right…

 

Just getting semi-comfortable when dude # 2 hands me a MICROPHONE. I swear I’m going to collapse in a big heap. He notices then that Michelle has parked her car. Shoots out the door like a rocket, slaps a mic on her too. Comes back in the house. INSTRUCTS ME TO CASUALLY WALK OUT TO MEET AND GREET HER.

 

This is what I felt like. Calgon, take me away…

 

(If you’ve ever watched Sanford and Son, I’m here to tell you, my eyes went heavenward, and as Fred, I silently shouted, “Elizabeth, I’m coming!”). So we sit by the kitchen table (ha, take that TV camera. You can’t see my knees shaking. But my voice was hopelessly quivery when I was asked to read some of the sentiments from the inmates. They sent me, a virtual stranger, countless sympathy cards after Dad passed away. Telling me how much Dad, after 3 short years had meant to each of them) Hard. Though I try to minimize my self worth during my unbearable discomfort, Dad’s meaningful life was no joke.

 

My favorite pic of Dad. Newspaper interview about his sign ministry. He was kinda vain. I love that he’s still wearing his work clothes. 1978…

 

Imagine. Seven years after his death, Dad’s message is still getting through to others. He would be profoundly proud (and maybe a little envious). Wishing he were around to be interviewed and filmed. Instead of his hopeless, helpless, clueless daughter who couldn’t do him justice. But I tried. And didn’t collapse in a heap…

 

Skip’s letter to Dad in 1984…

 

Rich,

Knowing you the last several years has been a real pleasure, and one that I will keep stored in my minds memory for years to come. I had hoped to be here on Wednesday last, when you finished your Bible Study, and we could have visited one last time, but it didn’t work out that way. And since I’m going to Springfield on Tuesday morning, I won’t be seeing you this Wednesday either.

Over the last several years, I’ve enjoyed our various talks, and most especially though, had the opportunity to really get to know you, and know that you truly have the love of Jesus in your heart. Your impression left with me has been good, and I hope that I can continue to grow, and use some of the examples of your life, in my own.

This needn’t be good by. Maybe one of these days you’ll come to Springfield to visit Wayne (at Yankton), and we can see each other again. Otherwise, perhaps our paths will cross sometime in the future, when everything is different. Perhaps too, I’ll be lucky enough to go to the same place God has reserved for you, and we can meet again.

Thanks for everything Rich, and I really mean it.

From a friend,

Skip Teegardin

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been tripping. Not literally the fall down kind. The memory lane variety. It all started with our basement. Our house is about 120 feet from Muskegon Lake. The basement is only 30 inches deep. A royal pain. The only thing I really hate about this house. Want the dozen containers holding all our Christmas paraphernalia? Go crawl around the basement cement floor for an hour.

 

Just before we moved to eastern Iowa. John, Denise, Shannon, 1973…

Hubs decided to clean the basement. Brought up countless tubs, containers, boxes, old toys, and miscellaneous junk that has been stored down there for 20 years. Shoved it all in the garage. What? How does that help anything? His goal was to have the basement squeaky clean, and have nothing stored down there. He swept (crawling), painted the floor, (also crawling) until it sparkled and was naked as a jaybird. But now the garage is a holy mess. Except for my car. I refused to give up that space and park my Jeep outside. And all my canning equipment, extra fridge and freezer. The rest of the garage was awful and a constant reminder of what still needed to be done.

We’ve been saying since spring, “we gotta defrost the freezer, and go through every one of those containers and downsize.” The freezer was a snap. But most of the basement stuff was going to be emotional. Much of it stuffed down there 10 years ago when Mom passed away. After Dad moved to Michigan, Mom’s stuff slid right down the 4 steps and has been sitting there ever since. Doubling in mass after Dad passed away in 2008. Things from his apartment, too painful for me to part with. Handwritten sermons, neatly stored in a nifty business sized tub Shannon bought him to help organize her lay-preaching Poppa. Just lots of stuff.

 

Dad’s handwritten sermons he gave at the prison, 2006…

 

John encouraged, “just bring one or 2 containers in the house at a time. Go through all the Rock Valley stuff. Only keep what you truly cannot part with. Please.” And that’s what started the tripping. I was doing pretty well too. Decided to keep a dozen of Dad’s sermons rather than the hundred languishing in the box. Plus his handwritten, detailed, original copy of what he wanted said and done for his funeral. I brought in this olive green container. Marked “Rock Valley-Denise’s early school papers and pictures.” Now that was fun to go through. Immediately, I did a blog post on my 13th birthday bash, and scavenger hunt. Sharing the pictures of that special day.

 

The famous letters from me to Mom and Dad, 74-76…

 

 

Then I found this stack of letters. Just after we had moved from Sioux City to New Vienna, Iowa, about 325 miles away. It was 1974. Hubs was working for the Whack Brothers at a toy tractor company in Dyersville. Shannon had just turned 4 and I was pregnant with our second child, sex still unknown. Just as God intended. New Vienna was a very small, close knit, 99.9% Catholic community. Plus the Dutch, Protestant Van Berkum’s, numbering only 3, but soon to be 4. Make that 5. I’m claiming our German Shorthair Pointer Anja as Dutch. I’ve definitely heard her bark, “heh-tah.”

 

Probably writing letters. Worthington, 1975…

 

In this container of Neese Notes, school pictures, perfect attendance accolades, award winning elementary poetry, and odds and ends of my childhood was this cache of letters. About a 100 of them. Written by me to my Mom and Dad. Mostly to Mom though (who obviously saved everything). Surprisingly, I didn’t cry very much when I read them. They’re not sad, depressing or morose. Most are about the happy, yet mundane life of a young stay at home, broke on her ass mom of one, soon to be 2.

 

Perfect attendance in kindergarten, 1957…

 

Once in a while, I mention something Mom must have written, because I’m answering her or clarifying. After reading the letters, I decided I could not part with them. About a third contained the first letters from 4 year old Shannon to her grandparents. Words run together, s’s that are backwards for about 6 months. Truly priceless. I told Shannon she and Joshua have to read these after I’m gone. A couple of years in the day to day life with their mom. That was about a month ago. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about those old letters. They just sloshing around my head. So I went back to the green container, and pulled them all out again. A couple no longer have envelopes. A couple more I’m unable to read the postal stamp date. I put them in chronological order best I could before reading them a second time. It was easy to insert the others. I’m either pregnant or got a new baby. Pretty sure some of you will identify with some of the subject matter I’m writing about. We were in the middle of our first decade of marriage during the mid 1970’s. Here are a few of the snippets from the assortment of letters to my Mom and Dad.

1975: Mom, Shannon is now able to write most of the letters of the alphabet. I write a sentence or 2, then she copies it. She doesn’t understand separating the words though. She’s quite proud of herself and loves to write you letters when I’m writing.

 

One of Shannon’s first attempts at writing my Mom and Dad, March, 1975…

 

We have to do something about our 1965 IH truck. While we were driving in Dubuque last night, we turned a corner and the passenger door flew open. Scared us to death. Would if Shannon had been standing by the door instead of in between us? How are we supposed to feel safe when we have 2 kids in there? We must get some better means of transportation before the baby.

 

Doors flying open were the only parts moving fast on our 1965 IH, 1974…

 

I need socks for Shannon. I want cotton, not white nylon that gets gray the first time I wash them. Would you look at Bev’s for me? K-Mart carried Buster Brown for 38 cents a pair. Now they’re 69 cents and have no colors to match her summer outfits.

John went to J. C. Penney’s during their sale. Sports coats regularly $40.00 on sale for $19.88. He came home with one, spending his 8 dollars of birthday money. He’s going to Milwaukee for work next week, and needs to be dressed nice. He also bought a writing tablet that they use in school. Oh Mom, I’ve been teaching Shannon to write some of her letters wrong.

John’s been car shopping. He brought home a 1970 Chevy, gold Nova. Almost identical to your blue one except this one has 4 doors, which I don’t like. It has 70,000 miles and they’re asking $1,200.00. They first offered us 75 bucks for the pickup in trade-in. They finally went up to $290. which is just enough for the down payment. That means we drove the truck for one year for 150 dollars. But since we now have a loan on the Nova, we need to carry full coverage insurance which will cost 60 dollars for 6 months. Our car payment is $49.00 a month. I’m so anxious to get our $700. dollar tax refund.

 

1970 Chevy Nova. Huge improvement over the old truck…

 

I bought Shannon a new set of sheets for her bed. She wanted purple, but were out of the flat full size, so I got her pink checks. Each sheet was $2.94, and matching cases were $2.14. If you and Dad need some, they had loads of twin size. They are 50% cotton, 50% polyester. They feel cool and nice.

 

Hanging out those new sheets. Joshua 1, 1976…

 

Boy am I ever mad. I heard my favorite program, “Petrocelli” might be cancelled. I wrote the television station. Can you believe they wrote me back? First time I’ve ever been addressed as Ms. They assured me it’s not being cancelled, but will be on a new night. Now they are running it against Monday Night Football. We will be watching Petrocelli unless the Viking’s or Dolphins are playing on TV.

 

Barry Newman as Petrocelli, 1975…

 

Shannon wants to bring May baskets next week to a dozen neighborhood kids. Helen says no one around New Vienna does May baskets. Poor Shannon won’t be getting any baskets in return. John brought a new book home for me to read until I go into labor. It’s by Peter Benchley, called Jaws. About some big killer shark.

 

Me and Shannon. Wearing my “eternity clothes,” 1974, Rock Valley…

 

I’m so uncomfortable. I get charley horses almost every night, bad enough to make me cry. Dr. Mulay said the baby is pressing on my esophagus which is why I have to sit up and swallow 40 times a night. Makes my throat hurt so much. Haven’t been able to drink coffee for the last few weeks. Hope that goes away after I have the baby. We went to Dubuque last night to get the new crib off lay-away. Guess what? They wouldn’t give it to us. That model doesn’t meet the new government standards. Now each crib side has to have 15 slats. The one we picked out has 13. Get this. All the new models are 20 dollars higher. We don’t have the extra money. John argued with them for a long time. They finally agreed to give us the newer, safer model for 10 dollars more.

 

What a beautiful head of hair! Joshua in his government approved crib, 1975…

 

Our dryer has been on the fritz for a couple weeks. It’s still under warranty, but they haven’t been able to fix it yet. Now the washer is broke. John brought the new box of Tide down the basement and set it on the washer for me. He accidentally shoved the box against the on button, forcing it to run for a day before I noticed it. What next? Now it doesn’t work right and smells like burnt rubber. I have to literally run down and turn it off after every wash cycle. Just started what I hope is the last time I ever have to wash my “eternity slacks” again. I’m really very tired of wearing them. (I swear the last month of a pregnancy is equivalent to a year in solitary confinement)

 

Joshua 4 months and Daddy, 1975…

 

I’m bringing Joshua to Dr. Mulay for his first check up. Since he’s almost 4 weeks old, I’m sure the doctor will have me start feeding him cereal.

 

May, 1974. John 26, Shannon 4-1/2, Joshua 2 weeks, me 24…

 

We’ve been going to a small Presbyterian church in Cascade, a few miles away. Joshua sleeps during the service. I don’t want to feed him a bottle because when he burps, he sounds like an uncouth grown man. (Honest, I wrote that. What a hoot). He’s still waking up for a bottle at 3 am too. In his book, Dr. Spock says a 9 pound, 1 month old baby does not need that feeding. This mom thinks otherwise. (Go mom!)

 

Going to church in Cascade, 1976. Shannon 5, John 27, Joshua 1…

 

Just about everyone gave us 5 dollars as a baby gift. I can usually find a one piece Health Tex outfit for that. While I was in the hospital, one of the nurses remarked about my frosted hair. Mom, I’m getting so gray. (I was 24-1/2 when I had Josh) Well, I’m not going to start dyeing it because I’d be doing that for 20 years. (Try 35 years Neese! But that’s a blog for another day).

 

New Vienna, May 1975. Mommy and her newborn Joshua…

 

I’ve been trying to find Baby-that-away for Shannon. One store has it for $17. but in the Sears catalog it’s only $10.66. Quite a savings, so I ordered it.

 

Shannon thought Baby-that-away could teach Joshua how to crawl, 1976…

 

Shannon always seems to get sick around the holidays. Now I think Joshua is following in her footsteps. He woke up with a very high temperature. I called Dr. Mulay, who is out of town. The doctor covering for him now practices in Dubuque. The visit cost 10 dollars and the medicine was $9.44. Can you believe it? I wonder how people with 6 kids do it? We’re only having 2. Every time we get ahead, something comes up.

 

Joshua, sick for another holiday, continuing the tradition, 1980 chickenpox…

 

Shannon’s Christmas program was something else. Shannon was with 7 other children, and during their part you could only hear one of them. Wanna guess? Right, your granddaughter. I was so embarrassed. John kept telling her, nice and loud when she was practicing. Naturally she went a little overboard. She had everyone in church in stitches. Boy, she likes to be the center of attention.

Have you ever heard of Fran Tarkenton? He’s the quarterback for the Minnesota Viking’s. Yesterday they lost in the playoffs so they won’t be going to the Super Bowl as they did for the last 3 years-and lost all 3 times. Well, Fran’s dad was watching the game from Savannah, Georgia and had a fatal heart attack during the game. I feel so bad. Poor Franny.

 

Minnesota Viking’s QB Fran Tarkenton, 1976..,

 

1976: Joshua won’t drink his bottle anymore. Mom, he’s only 8 months old. He likes drinking out of a cup and loves sucking his thumb. I guess I’ll just stop trying to give him the bottle.

 

Don’t worry about me. I got my thumb. Joshua, 1976…

 

The Eagle’s store in Dubuque is having a meat sale this week. Rib steak is $1.19, sirloin $1.29, and pork chops .99 cents. I’m getting extra steaks because we’re bringing some to Ankeny when we visit Barry and Jeanene Kuiper next weekend.

I’ve been saving green stamps for a new toaster. The cheapest one is 5-3/4 books. I need 3/4’s of a book yet. Now I have to go to the National store, which I don’t like to get some more stamps.

 

Joshua happily eating, 1976…

 

Shannon’s teaching herself to blow bubbles with bubblegum and whistle. She’s also been drawing faces on paper bags, coloring and cutting out parts. Then she wears the paper bag on her head all day. Joshua giggles when she walks past. We had some new snow, so Shannon went outside to build a snowman. She came in all excited. I looked out the window and just laughed myself sick. She made a “busty” snow-woman. I wanted a picture of it but she sort of melted and fell over. Boy does that girl have an imagination.

 

Shannon and Joshua, 1976…

 

I’ve been making homemade bread. I only have one loaf pan, so I make half into cinnamon rolls. I think I’m getting better every time I make them. I got a new book I want to read before the mini series comes on TV. It’s called, Rich Man, Poor Man.

 

Shannon 5, Poppa 58, Joshua 6 months, 1975…

 

I’ve had the worst toothache. (This letter was funny in a painful sort of way. I can hardly read my writing due to the pain pills I was on). How am I supposed to care for these kids all afternoon feeling so dizzy and giddy? The pills only help for about an hour, but the goofy affects last a long time. Dr. Mulay found a dentist for me in Cascade. Only way to save the tooth is with a root canal which I can’t afford, so he pulled it. Instant relief. The wonderful dentist only charged me 10 dollars and said I was very brave. Now we are trying to save 20 dollars a month so John can get his teeth fixed.

 

I was in pretty bad shape taking pain meds for a toothache, 1976…

 

We’ve been watching the Winter Olympics. It’s not fair that Russia sends their professional hockey players. I don’t think we should even play them. They showed some comparison food prices to the United States. How can people afford to live there? Gas is $1.47 a gallon and 72 cents for a quart of milk. We sure couldn’t.

Probably more than you wanted or needed to know about this small thriving family. Makes me remember and appreciate some of the tough times we went through. Yet there was never talk about throwing in the towel. We were committed (or should have been committed somewhere) to each other and our great kids. All part of my continuing journey. And so it goes…

 

Me and the Hubs, 1976, Worthington, Iowa…

 

 

It wasn’t exactly awkward, but still rather unusual. John and I started dating in the mid-60’s. His only sister Elly, had already been married for several years with 4 children! Wow. Jim and Mag were champions when it came to spacing children! Meaning, Elly got married when John was about 2. She became a mother for the first time a couple years after I was born. I didn’t see them very often. They lived in Sioux Falls at the time and were busy raising their family. A few years later they moved to Spencer. John and I were too busy making out to be real involved with Elly and her family. Oh how things would change.

Holidays with Elly and Dewey, mid-1970’s…

It was 1977. We were still renting the farm house in Cascade. John was driving 40 miles to work, one way to Cedar Rapids. Leaving me virtually stranded out in the boondocks. With several hundred hogs. And 2 small children. On the plus side, at my disposal were the best apple trees in the world. Made some great apple pies out there.

 

My favorite picture of Elly, always limber, mid-1980’s…

 

John had a job offer from Eaton Corp, located in Spencer, Iowa. We would be about 60 miles from both sets of parents who were in in Rock Valley. For the first time since Hubs was 2 years old, he would be living in the same town as his oldest sibling, Elly. Some of our best years were about to start. In 45 years of marriage, of all the many places we have lived, 2 hold a special place in our hearts. Complete opposites as far as size. Small town versus big city. Spencer and Davenport. You’ve heard a lot about Davenport. This is my story about Spencer. And Elly.

We weren’t used to being so close to family. For a short time in Hinton, 1970-1972, John’s brother Arly, his wife Vicky, and baby Wendy lived there. Otherwise we had never lived this close to any family members.

 

Young Elly with her mom Mag. In front great grandma Lena, and grandma Carrie, 1934…

 

Elly and Dewey welcomed us (more like enveloped us) with open arms. Both were working full time, but they included us in their family plans often. By then, 3 of their kids were out on their own, though I think Kerrie was still in high school or living at home.

Think of it. Elly was born 4 years after my mom. Although our kids would soon think of them as another set of grandparents, (something neither Elly or Dewey ever discouraged) John and I did not. Elly doled out her own brand of wisdom on child rearing and marriage, but I never saw her as a mother figure. She became one of my dearest, best friends and sister-in-law.

 

Elly, Jimmy and Leslie. About 1945…

 

Dewey was a sports nut. Not spectator. Two sports come to mind. He loved basketball. Playing in a senior league past the age of 80! And bowling. He was good. Very, very good. Soon after we moved, he asked us to join a couple’s league. Bowling every Sunday night. John and I had bowled on a couple’s league as newlyweds with Phil and Mitzi in Sioux City. But neither of us had thrown a strike or a gutter ball I n the 5 years since.

 

Aunt Elly and Adam, 1985…

 

 

It was a wonderful chance to get to know Elly and Dewey better. Often we would have supper together at their house or ours. Dewey would require the patience of Job to bowl with the rest of us misfits. (Actually talking mostly about Hubs here). John assumed to become a better bowler, one needed to throw the ball harder. Aim was secondary. Concentration, not mandatory. He’d heave that 16 pound sucker down the alley with the strength of Atlas. It might stay in the assigned lane and catch a couple of corner pins. Occasionally smash the living snot out of them with a zinging strike. Then he’d trot up to the 19″ color TV, hanging on the wall by the counter. Watching the last of whatever football game was still on. Sigh. Amble back and give the ball a second toss, aiming for the brick and mortar way beyond the lanes. Drink some beer and talk football. Elly threw her ball at about 10% of John’s speed, but got down as many or more pins.

 

I give up. Done arguing with Arly and Jim behind her, 1975…

 

Dewey and I concentrated hard on the finite world of bowling. I was pretty good, but threw a straight ball down the center. Dewey threw a magnificent hook. Encouraging me to invest in a fingertip ball, and try rolling a hook. We were there the night Dewey was in “the zone.” He seemed to have found a literal groove in both lanes. Bowled the series of a lifetime. It was almost 40 years ago, but it was something like a 725 series. Unbelievable. We were farting around with 450 series. Dewey was almost double that.

 

Shannon, Elly, Adam, Dewey and Josh, 1980…

 

Elly, Dewey and I would stick with bowling for several more years. Actually, I got pretty good and consistent. Best average I would maintain was in the mid 160’s. John gave it up to be an armchair football coach. Dewey and his 700 series. That was some night. Towards the end of the night, all eyes were on Dewey every time he let the ball go. Quiet, because no one wanted to jinx him. No one came over to joke or high 5 him about his 5 or 7 string of strikes in a row. The bowling alley made him a commemorative bowling pin. Sawed one in half with his series total painted on it.

 

Elly with her dad, mid-70’s…

 

Elly was really into collecting. John and I had a few pieces of antique oak furniture. But it was Elly who would soon infect us with the life long bug of antiquing. We were at an auction together. Elly outbid her competitor for a box of antique dishes. She was going through her treasures and she handed me 2 pieces. One was a green rectangular, 2-piece butter dish. The kind that holds a pound of butter. The other was a piece of depression glass, also green. Called Cameo. She thought this would give me something to collect besides furniture. And it was cheap. Oh, Elly what a shove you gave me down that slippery slope. A love of old glassware. Which I never had looked at before. Even when it wasn’t cheap anymore.

 

Elly recently in Le Mars, Iowa, 2012…

 

We would antique with them for years. Even after we moved away from Spencer. Hire a babysitter for the day, and leisurely go on the hunt. Back then, almost every little town in Iowa had at least one antique store. Lately it’s antique malls that have gained popularity. But a day of antiquing with Elly was gaining knowledge. She knew a little bit about everything when it came to antiques. Kitchenware, furniture, glassware. What was real or a “repo.”

 

Elly and Dewey…

 

Our closeness with this amazing couple (relatives to boot, who knew?) did not require a sitter or a day away though. Most of our best times were spent at each other’s house. Sharing a meal. Yes, I was finally a fairly good cook and baker by then. Playing cards, watching the kids play or TV. One miserable weekend during the winter (Spencer winters lasted about as long as northern Alaska’s) we invited them over. We were going to play Penuchle and make homemade ice cream. We had a crank type we had to churn. You surround the mixer (full of milk, cream, sugar) with rock salt and ice, and turned the crank until your arm fell off. Ta-da. Homemade ice cream. You can’t believe how much colder it tastes than store bought. We were doing something special with this batch that snowy Saturday. Making the whole works into “Grasshoppers!” Adding a healthy dose of Cream de Menthe and Cream de Coaco. First we took out a big portion, plunked in a few drops of green food coloring for Shannon and Joshua’s share. They wanted grasshoppers too. We were half lit playing cards. I don’t think I was capable of cooking anything too complicated that night. A good time together.

 

Dewey me Josh just starting on Grasshopper ice cream, 1981…

 

Elly wanted me to take ceramic classes with her. I did and made a few things for the house and a couple gifts. Not long after I started though, the place we took classes was making me sick. One night I had to leave early. Light headed and queasy, I needed to get out of there. Driving home, wise Elly wondered what was wrong. “It’s their heat Elly. Who has heat blowing down from the ceiling? Blows on my face and it’s making me sick,” I lamented. “Well, I think you’re going to have a baby,” she said quietly. ‘Twas true. We just hadn’t told anyone yet about our news. Little Adam was about to make our world a better place. Elly continued classes, but I didn’t. She surprised me with a fantastic nativity set she made for Christmas. Blew me away.

 

The nativity set Elly made for me, 1979…

 

The fall of 1979, the 4 of us had Minnesota Viking’s tickets. We would slowly antique all the way up to Minneapolis, go to the game on Sunday and head back home on Monday. We dropped Shannon and Josh at my Mom and Dad’s. Adam, a month old and a nursing babe would make the trip with us. A memorable trip to say the least. Only thing I remember buying was an antique oak board. It was off a fancy dresser or sideboard. One end was chewed off by mice after laying in a barn somewhere for 30 years. We spent a couple of bucks for it. When we got home, John used his saw to make it fit the top of our china closet we had just bought, but was missing the top.

Dewey helping Adam at Christmas in Rock Valley, 1980…

 

Two other moments stick out about that trip. Let’s just say Dewey was frugal. Very frugal. He would often drive several extra miles, looking for gas. Cheap gas. A penny a gallon cheaper than he saw it at the last station. We wandered around Minneapolis, looking for gas. I still don’t know how we didn’t run out. Then the brakes started squeaking. A couple of days of driving in a big city, and the noise was driving us crazy. John said, mildly exasperated, “I thought you were going to have new brake pads put on before we left, Dewey.” “Well I was John, but I thought I could get one more trip out of them,” Dewey answers slowly. (He was an easy going guy). Doesn’t do any good to point out after we screeched our way back to Iowa, John not only had to replace the pads of Dew’s wagon, but the rotors too.

Elly at Adam’s 1st birthday party. September 1980…

 

The last big memory of that trip was the game itself. I had one of those baby carriers. Nestled that little newborn right out in front like he was still in the womb. Game day was a spectacular fall day in Minnesota. High about 70, sunny skies. There were thousands of fans at the old Metropolitan Field. Adam was fed, dry, content, quiet and comfy. The Vikes were about to take the field. Holy moly. You wouldn’t think 57,124 fans, seeing 50 players run onto the field would be such a big deal. Big deal folks. 57,122 fans jumped out of their seats, screaming bloody murder. When they finally quieted down, only 1 small fan remained screaming. That uproar sent Adam over the edge. And I couldn’t retrieve him. He screamed for about 10 minutes before I screamed, “I’m done.” It took more pushing and shoving than giving birth, but I managed to free myself and the still screaming tiny fan out of our row. The great motel we were staying at was right across the parking lot. Wound our way through thousands of cars, to our quiet, air-conditioned room. We watched the game on the queen size bed. No more screaming from either of us. The trip as a whole, a wonderful memory both John and I hold dear.

 

John and Elly not too long ago…

 

Besides an avid antiquer, Elly had a “thing” for Christmas. She must have got it from her family. All the Van Berkum’s made a big deal about Christmas. Elly had a large picture window in her dining room. Every Advent, she painted a Christmas scene on that window. Decades later, folks from town would ride down East 8th Street to witness she had chosen to paint.

 

Don’t look at me. See the decorated window behind me that Elly painted, 1979…

 

The other “thing” that takes hours (and dollars) was her tree. She has an ornament collection that’s unrivaled. She bought unique, one of a kind ornaments wherever she went. Everyone who knows and loves her bought her unusual ornaments. One made from the ash of Mount St. Helen’s after it erupted. Many homemade ones from her grandkids. And our kids, of course, who thought of them as grandparents.

 

Elly’s magnificently decorated Christmas tree…

 

 

Elly would happily “do” Shannon’s hair for me. I was pretty hopeless in the styling of complicated hair. Shannon has a head of hair that unbelievably thick and coarse. Elly could do the most amazing French braids. Kids at school doubted Shannon’s Dutch heritage after Elly did her hair in braids. Shannon looked Asian for days because the braids were pulled so tight. Shannon’s little Asian eyes squirting tears while Elly’s fingers flew through that mass of hair.

 

Shannon aka, Bo Derek. Styled by Elly’s daughter, Kerrie, 1980…

 

The year after she made me the nativity set, Elly surprised me with a Christmas tree skirt. It’s about 35 years old now, and lovingly used every year. But not without a few expletives at first. Elly didn’t cut through the skirt. She cut a big X through the center. Her reasoning was then I could use it as a table cloth or center piece if I just covered the slit X with something. All well and good. But when I’m setting up the tree, if I don’t remember to slide the skirt over the stand before the tree is plopped in, I have to undo everything to that point. It’s not often anymore that I forget. But I did several times the first few years.

 

Joshua and Aunt Elly. Christmas, 1980…

 

We moved to Davenport in 1981, about 325 miles from Spencer. We still often traveled to northwest Iowa. Making a point to visit Elly and Dewey. They came to visit us eastern Iowa, later to Michigan. Lots of new antique stores for her to check out.

 

Hot tubbing with Dewey at our house in Jackson, 1990…

 

 

Dewey passed away a couple of years ago. Elly sold her big 2 story house and moved closer to a couple of her kids, and several of her grandkids and great-grands. Just had her 85th birthday and still enjoying her circle of life. I thank God that He put us in Spencer for a few years. Wish we could have been there longer. Grateful for the good years we had together. Love you so much Elly…

 

Elly with her newest great-granddaughter, 2015…

 

 

 

Since my kids were evenly spaced, you’d think they wouldn’t have much in common. And that was true as they got older. None of them were ever even in high school together. However their mother remained sane. Which was the whole purpose of having them spaced to begin with. But when I looked at some old pictures, I see the kids, mostly the boys played together quite a bit. At least for the first several years.

 

Absolutely priceless. Adam and Joshua, 1983…

We were living in Spencer, Iowa. A fabulous (freaking cold) town of less than 10,000 folks. Renting a cement block house. Let me tell you, when those blocks got cold, it was almost impossible to warm up that huge house. One of my most dramatic memories occurred in that house. It was September 22, 1979. John and I were celebrating our 10th anniversary. How could I possibly be married for a decade already? I was laying on our queen size bed upstairs. Sans John. Nothing much about this special anniversary would be very romantic.

 

Christmas card, 1979…

 

Laying next to me was Adam. Hmmm. He was a big surprise. A true gift from God, though unexpected. We’d been home from the hospital about a week. A traumatic birth, to say the least. If you haven’t read my blog post about him, it’s called Party of 5, posted in September of 2014. Ten days old and the first baby that I am nursing. Probably because he’s my last baby. I had some good friends, Shari, Pam and Diane. All recently becoming new moms, extolling the virtues of nursing versus formula babies. It took some convincing on my part, and Hubs never did join that happy bandwagon. He was too set in his bottle ways. He had happily helped raise 2 formula babies. This was foreign to him. And I really didn’t know yet what I was doing. Had I to do it over, I would have handled the whole nursing experience differently.

 

Shannon 10 in the (blank) house, 1981…

 

There was this group of DEDICATED ZEALOT MOMS called Le Leche League, trying to help. They were against pacifiers, bottles, formula of any kind. They also had some issues when was the best and right time to stop nursing. I swear a couple moms in the group were still nursing tweens. Icky. Most of them could tell I wasn’t on board with what they generally stood for. But since Adam was my last baby, I did want to try. And it was a wonderful experience. The best. For 5 months. I took the end of nursing much harder than Adam did.

Underoos rule! Josh 6, Adam 2, 1981…

 

John had always gotten up during the night with Shannon and Joshua. Heated a bottle, changed their diaper, fed and burped them. Letting me sleep through one nightly feeding until they slept through the night. Never happened with Adam. Newbie Adam wasn’t about to get cozy and nuzzle daddy’s neck or beard. He didn’t smell right for mommy milk. Period. So John felt left out in the early days with Adam. Had I nursed the other 2, Daddy would have never known the difference. And I should have been firmer about starting Adam off with a bottle or 2 a day to get him used to the other kind of nipple. For Daddy’s sake. And mine.

 

I swear they told me wine helped stimulate milk production, 1979…

 

Getting back to my ah-ha moment. Adam and I were resting. Four year old Joshua wanders in and out of his bedroom and ours. Playing, checking on me and his new baby brother. John and 9 year old Shannon are downstairs fixing supper. I simply cannot fathom I’ve been married for a decade already. With 3 children. I can distinctly remember the sounds and smells of that night. Joshua, making revving engine noises for the hot wheels he’s racing across the wood floor. My tiny newborn nestled next to me. I am in awe of my blessings and want desperately to stop time. Just for a bit. I swear I snoozed for 10 minutes. When I woke I was at Adam’s high school graduation. That’s how fast time slipped past me.

 

Adam and Josh, 1980…

 

So Josh was 4, Shannon 9, when Adam joined our merry band of misfits. Both of them doted on their baby brother. Josh had quite a bit of freedom in Spencer. Several buddies down the block to play with. Shannon practically had a run of the town. But that would change soon.

 

No words. Cutest. Picture. Ever. 1980…

 

John got laid off the day before Thanksgiving 1980. Sucked. Big time. He soon found an engineering job in the Quad-Cities, about 325 miles away. A factory called French and Hecht. Horrible place. We moved early in 1981. The only house we could rent was about 1000 square feet. After our extra large, ice cold house in Spencer. Now we were packed like a can of sardines. Shannon’s room was a small sun porch (ok, I’m gonna stop saying small. Trust me, everything in and about this house was small) off the (blank) dining room. I don’t think there was room for a crib and twin bed in the boy’s (blank) bedroom. So I ditched the crib, which was unusual for this mom. I clung to the crib for each kid. Explained to each of them, they could have a big bed when they were dry all night. That proved to be about 2-1/2 for Shannon and Joshua. But I had to change Adam’s timeline because the house was so dang (blank). We bought bunk beds for the boys. I think the master bedroom held our queen sized bed and one of our 3 dressers.

 

Shannon 13, on Kirkwood Blvd, 1983…

 

Davenport was huge by our standards of all Iowa living so far. A city of 100,000. Which butted up against 3 more cities. (That’s why Duh-Neese, it was called the QUAD-Cities). Davenport and Bettendorf on the west side of the mighty Mississippi. Rock Island and Moline just east of the river. Totaling almost a half of million people. Making the Van Berkum parents leery of letting the 2 older kids very far out of our sight. Boy, were we wrong. One of the best places we ever lived. I had more close friends in that large metropolis than I’ve ever had before or since. Sigh. Anyway, right after we moved, we kept the kids pretty close to home. It would be Josh teaching toddler Adam how to peddle his new little Big Wheel.

 

Joshua 6, Adam 2. On 38th St. 1981…

 

Soon Shannon found friends living nearby that were in her class at school as did Josh. It was also the first time in their young lives they would learn about loss. Joshua’s best buddy was named Craig. He lived about a half a block away. They were the same age and played together often. Both had to cross Sturdevant Street to get to each other’s house, but were careful and capable, being 6. We would fulfill our year’s lease on 38th Street before buying our big old stucco house on Kirkwood Blvd. Josh and Shannon would then be attending new schools, Washington Elementary and Sudlow Junior High. Adam was still home with Mommy.

 

Story time. Adam, Mommy, Joshua, 1981…

 

Craig spent a great deal of time at our house. Ate with us often. Wasn’t that hard to squeeze in another sardine. He was eating supper with us in our (blank) dining room in our (blank) house. To say our dining quarters were crowded with 6 around the table was an understatement. Adam was still using the high chair, which was in the next county, but only 2 feet away. Craig was trying to add salsa to his taco. Turning the jar upside down, it glopped out everywhere. John quickly stood up, leaned over to keep it from spilling on the floor, which was carpeted. Craig suddenly cowered, winced and covered his head with his arms. Forgot that he was not home, getting ready to be smacked. We all sat there dumbstruck. Feeling the pain for a little boy who knew no different. But our kids knew no different either. Just the total opposite of what Craig’s life was like. Too sad. Just wait. It gets worse.

 

Josh 10, Adam 6, Davenport, 1985…

 

Not long after moving to our house on Kirkwood, we were returning from northwest Iowa, after visiting our parents. It was a Sunday afternoon. We were listening to a Minnesota Viking’s game on the radio, which was carried on a Quad-Cities affiliate. During half time, local news reported that a 7 year old boy had been killed when a garbage truck backed over him in an alley. While he was riding his bike. The street was 38th and Sturdevant. The little boys name was being withheld. No doubt in our minds. It was our little battle worn friend Craig. Gone. His parents accepted the city’s check for compensation a few weeks later. And were completely broke in a year. Pitiful part of my story. We should have called social services. We wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. That time would come just a couple years later. Ugh. Death is awful. Sometimes life is too.

Superman 7, Woody 3, 1982…

 

The 5 years on Kirkwood Blvd (plus 1 on 38th) were pretty good ones for this family. The new neighborhood was full of kids. Shannon would be diagnosed with allergies, and asthma. And come pretty close to having a ruptured appendix. She started working for a neighbor lady who did in home day care. By the time she hit her teens, Shannon was raking in 50 bucks a week. Maybe this doesn’t sound like a lot, but it was 1983. Probably close to 400 dollars a week now. She was buying Calvin Klein Jeans, Nike Air Jordan’s (in baby blue), plus saving. I was jealous of her wardrobe. And her money.

 

Shannon had a better stereo system too, 1984…

 

Josh remained accident free until we moved to Michigan. But he was sick a lot. He had so many tonsil infections. Just get finished with antibiotics and go back to school. I could tell he had another infection as soon I walked into their (blank) bedroom. There was the distinct smell of sour bread dough. Joshua’s tonsils would be so swollen, they would touch each other. Causing that strange smell for a boys bedroom. As if the constant infections weren’t bad enough, he got Mononucleosis. Causing his spleen to swell for a couple weeks. Ever try getting a rambunctious 7 year old to lay on the couch for 2 weeks? Yikes. Lucky Adam was home to keep him quietly occupied. Finally, we had Joshua’s tonsils and adenoids removed. He was rarely sick after that. Went into a growth spurt and ate like there was no tomorrow.

When Adam was 5, Shannon was giving him a ride on her bike. His foot got caught in between the wheel spokes and the frame. Scraped the skin off his ankle down to the bone. That nasty wound would take months to heal. And he still carries a scar. But it was Hubs who usually got hurt the worst or the sickest. Sigh. (Sometimes it felt like I indeed had 4 children)

 

House in Davenport, Iowa, 1982-1987…

 

Here’s the best of the worst. It’s Christmas vacation for the kids. Plus John, now happily working for JI Case, which has it’s annual holiday shut down for 2 weeks. Lord, spare me. Love everyone of them to the moon and back, but this wife, mother, chief cook and bottle washer was so ready for all of them to head back to work and school.

 

Christmas 1985. Josh 10, Adam 6, Shannon 15…

 

John and our good buddy Ron (single coworker, engineering friend who loved us and we loved him) decided on Saturday (2 lousy days, a mere 48 hours and I was home free. Before everyone went back to their assigned places early Monday morning) to take the kids sledding. Yay. Not too far from our house was an old military school which was no longer used as such. The grounds were terraced on 2 sides where the cannons had once been placed. In between was quite a steep slope, leading to the parade grounds. Great place for sledding. Everyone was having a ball. Little stinker Adam started whining. Oh no, not to come home. He was feeling especially adventurous. He wanted to go down the terraces on the toboggan. Dad thought it looked too dangerous. So did Ron. But Adam was not deterred. The men caved. No surprise there. As a precaution Hubs and Ron said they would go first to ensure none of the kids would get hurt. Right. John was in front, Ron behind him. FOUR TERRACES. Before the bottom. After hitting the first terrace, they were off the ground a foot and picked up a little speed. By terrace number 4, they were airborne about 15 feet high, heading nose first into the parade grounds. Neither moved when they finally landed. Adam ran up to them yelling, “my turn, my turn!”

 

Ron, all healed up, 1984…

 

A mom (nurse) saw these 2 insane yahoos hit the ground. She ran to them yelling she was calling 911. John croaked out a “no!” After a few minutes of not feeling either of his legs, both guys finally got their wind back. They managed to get up and started limping back to the truck. All the while, Adam still complaining that daddy and Ron always got to have all the fun. By the time they got back to our house, they were in pretty sad shape. The hospital was just a few blocks away. I said I’d drive the nut jobs. Shannon could watch the boys. “Nah, we’ll be fine,” says wise John, pouring himself and Ron a pretty stiff drink. Ron soon limped to his car and drove home.

Well by Sunday, we almost had to call an ambulance. John could barely move. (I could point out, had John given birth to our first child, and me to our second, there would have never been a third child in our family. Or anyone else’s. But I won’t. This is not the time) I hauled him to the ER. John had a bump on the kaup, (head) a sprained wrist, sore feet from ramming them in the front of the toboggan. Plus a broken tailbone. Sigh. Ron ended up in the ER too. He had a couple of broken fingers, more than a couple broken toes from ramming John in the back with his feet.

The kids went back to school on Monday. Thank you God. John spent a few days at home, moaning and healing. When my engineering manager Hubs went back to work at Case, he brought along a nifty treat daily for the next 3 months. A donut. Not his favorite kind with sprinkles though. This one of the foam variety. To ease the pain of his sore hiney…

 

Adam 21, Joshua 25. Black Hills, 2000…