I’m guilty of not giving Mom a fair shake at times. Until I was 10 or 12, I thought the sun rose and set on her. To be fair, her life was not easy from the get-go. She and her twin brother Floyd lost their mom when they were 2 weeks old. Although they had 2 sets of doting grandparents who raised and adored them, Mom always felt her dad blamed her and Floyd for their mother’s death. Her dad left the child rearing to his parents and in-laws. And never was a very involved father. She learned rejection at a very young age.

 

Maternal grandma Berghuis with Florence and Floyd, 1927…

Mom professed her devotion for both sets of grandparents, yet she seemed awfully eager to be away from them. She was smart and got good grades in school, but married Dad who was 10 years older than her before her 16th birthday. Wow. And she would never, ever admit to that. I had to figure it out on my fingers. It wasn’t like they had my sister 6 months later either. They were married 9 months before Mona was born. I’ve counted it out. Several times. On my fingers. I wasn’t added to the family mix until past their 8th anniversary, and was always lead to believe I was not planned. But they both seemed happy to have me.

 

Paternal grands, Wanningen’s raising Florence and Floyd, 1931…

 

I wish I remembered more of the family dynamics before we lost Larry in 1958, but I hadn’t yet reached my 8th birthday when he died. The family pictures I have suggest a pretty normal, happy, well adjusted family of 5. After losing Larry, I don’t remember any of us being very happy. Dad seemed to drift away from family things, Mom grew over zealous in her need to protect me from harm and manipulate my life. Mona was either ignored or picked on. Mom seemed secretive. And so alone.

Mona, Mom and Larry. About 1948…

Not once during her life do I remember Mom going out for lunch with a friend. Ever. I know the neighborhood women had coffee together in the mornings, but I think that was before Larry died. I don’t think it was after we moved to 15th street. She didn’t belong to a circle at church, but for many years either entertained folks from church on Sunday nights or accepted invitations from other church families. This seemed to be the extent of their social life. Sunday night coffee hour.

Mom did have some great friendships with co-workers at different places she worked. Valley Manor and G & H Hatchery. She talked about her co-workers, (usually positive) or cute stories about the residents. She was friendly with many of the neighbor’s to a point. But to this young girl’s memory, Mom usually seemed sad, alone and aloof.

I hit the rebellious stage hard and head on about the age of 12. Mom was pretty domineering and manipulative. Dad was gone most nights, involved with church activities like visiting the sick. Mom loved that I had friends, but didn’t like it when I wanted to go anywhere, especially at night. There was only so much quiet a young teen could take. Most of my friends had noise, brothers and sisters, family chaos in their homes. It was just so quiet in our house. All the time.

The house that held many secrets….

I remember the first time I smoked. I was 8 or 9. Staying at some friends from church overnight. My friend, whose name is just beyond the fringe of my memory and I were playing by the farm house. Her dad was conversing with another guy and as a joke one of them offered each of us a puff from his cigar. My no name friend coughed, sputtered and turned a hideous shade of green. I loved the taste and feeling and wanted more. I’m convinced those 2 measly puffs would lead me to a life of smoking that lasted until I hit 39. Twenty-six years since I stopped and I still get cravings once in a while. Without a doubt, if I took one little puff, I’d be hooked like I never quit. Much like a recovering alcoholic falling off the wagon. I never really cared for the taste of beer or booze, but I certainly was addicted to smoking for 3 plus decades (and 30 lbs, guess that works out to 10 a decade, since I stopped).

1961, pretty close to getting sneaky and rebellious…

After those first couple cigar puffs, I don’t really remember how I started smoking in earnest during my spunky rebellious stage. No one to blame, it was all me. I swear I was already hooked on smoking, emotionally at least. Smoking involved several of my friends and a cousin. Helen, Loie, Patsy, Peggy and a boy named Herm. Many times there would be a several day gap between smokes (yes, I counted the days or hours) but I always knew I’d have another one. Sometime. Dad had quit smoking and drinking (not heavy in either category) after Larry died.

Mom w/ Joshua. She loved and kept her orange kitchen for years…

 

In our small, narrow orange kitchen was our gas stove. Two burners on each side, a pilot light with a tiny blue flame in the middle, which burned all the time. When one of the burners was turned on (flirty slut) the pilot light was responsible for sending gas to the burner. Sometimes this worked, other times with older stoves, you needed a match to encourage the burner to ignite. (Does this remind anyone else of the 2 bath tub couple commercial?)

Diane, me, Kay and Faye. Think I was the only smoker, 1966…

One day I was home alone, I wandered in the kitchen and noticed a burned up match near the pilot light on the stove. Not unusual if Mom had turned on a burner but it failed to ignite. A second glance spotted something that looked familiar but should not be on our stove top. A tiny pile of ash. A small round cylinder of ash. Like from a cigarette. Close to the pilot light opening on the black section of our stove. Almost unnoticeable. Odd. The only sporadic, infrequent smoker in our house was me! And I was not yet sneaking smokes in my house (though I would be soon enough). And it certainly wasn’t mine, but not a bad idea. Using the pilot to light your smoke. But I never had cigarettes on or with me. Yet. That task went to other kid’s parents who smoked. If there was a pack lying around, their parents wouldn’t notice when a couple disappeared. This was not the only risky part that accompanied smoking as a young teen in a small town. You could safely bet, no matter where you were or what you were doing, someone was watching. Waiting to rat you out to your parents. And this was decades before cell phones with cameras. Can’t tell you how many times, someone (grown ups) saw me sneaking into the theater (movies were forbidden in our house, sigh) or spotted me puffing on a cig. Small Dutch town living.

1963 with my nephew. Hope I didn’t smell like smoke…

But let me get back to that little pile of ash on our gas stove in our smokeless house (except for me). My interest was piqued and I was determined to figure out why it was there, without asking Mom or Dad. I searched the house. Went through the cupboards and drawers. Nada, zip. But I was a sneaky teen, so I delved deeper. I hit pay dirt in the basement. I never went down there. The steps were treacherous and a hazard to anyone’s health. The only things down there was the fuel oil tank for our furnace and a now abandoned wringer washer since the laundromat opened a half block away. Plus a half carton of L & M cigarettes hidden behind some junk. WTH? I was dumbfounded. Further nosing around would reveal matches in Mom’s house dress, single cigarettes in the bottom of her knitting basket, and almost every jacket and coat pocket. Mom was a closet smoker? And nobody knew? What about Dad? I often wondered why she went down the basement so often? Mom and her secrets.

Mom and Dad about 1961…

I think the answers were all about Dad. Mom had slumped to new lows in grief and depression after Larry’s death. Dad had accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior, and was full of fervor. So full of fervor. But quite condescending. He clearly saw how awful Mom was doing, but forbade her from doing any kind of therapy to talk and work through her grief. He told her if she were a stronger Christian, she wouldn’t be depressed. Ugh. I believe after he easily quit smoking and drinking, he asked Mom to stop smoking, but she wouldn’t or couldn’t. So she smoked alone, in secret. Sad really. More rejection.

Larry, Mom and me, 1951…

I might have told the whole world, bratty teen that I was, but I don’t think so or remember blabbing that little secret of Mom’s. It would be years before we admitted to each other that we both smoked. And smoked in front of each other. I then became her enabler.

For years she was in a tough spot. Since no one in town knew or realized Florence smoked, she couldn’t just zip to Koster’s Market for a carton. Mom’s elaborate cigarette buying techniques still make me feel bad. She would go to such great lengths to purchase a carton without anyone she knew spotting her. No, she was not into disguises, but would drive to Sioux Falls, Sioux City, Rock Rapids, Canton, Le Mars or Worthington. Just to buy a carton of L & M’s without being seen by someone from Rock Valley. She would stop at a huge grocery store in Sioux Falls, grab a cart, wander over to the cartons of cigarettes, grab her brand and high tail it to the checkouts. Eyes darting back and forth, heart pounding, convinced that a member from church was nearby and would see an otherwise empty cart but for that damn carton sitting neatly at the bottom. I told her so often after we both ‘came out’ to each other. Put the carton on the bottom and pile 25 dollars (a cart full back then) worth of groceries on top. No one will ever see the smokes. But she was too nervous to do that. She preferred slinking in, grabbing a carton and high-tailing it out.

This would soon be the room where I’d blow smoke out the window…

I might be mistaken, but as far as I know and remember, only one other person in Rock Valley knew Mom’s secret. Iowa winters are brutal. We had blizzards that lasted for days. Yay, no school. But that put Mom in a tough spot. If she’d run out of cigarettes during a hellacious storm, she was just screwed. Sure Dad could have bought some for her in Sheldon or Canton when he was driving the snowplow, but I think he was unwilling to do that for her. Or she didn’t dare ask him, for fear of being shamed or belittled. I never asked her how this arrangement happened the first time. How in the world she dared to ask someone in town if she could buy some cigarettes from them until the weather cleared? Then she could again drive 50 miles to keep her little secret intact. Mom did what was almost impossible for her personality. She confided and trusted another person to keep her secret. She called our neighbor across the street, asking to buy a pack or 2 to tide her over. Elaine Beumer. I believe Elaine and Paul both smoked. Maybe Elaine told other Rock Valley folks the details of Mom’s little secret, but I doubt that very much. Elaine would not hurt my Mom on purpose. After I was married, living in Sioux City, and heading to Rock Valley, I’d often buy Mom a carton or 2. Yeah, the enabling part. When and if I had money. Geez, sometimes we were so broke I didn’t have the cash, even though Mom always paid me right back. Or I’d get them for her while I was staying at their house. But she’d never let me buy them in town. Never. Somehow she was convinced the clerks would figure out the cigarettes were for her. Florence Gerritson. And why not? My brand was Tareyton…

How well I remember that little white stripe around the filter…

 

 

 

We were just getting used to living in a big city. It was vastly different than the charming town of Spencer, Iowa, population about 10,000. Have to admit though, we all liked it. Miles wise, we had zipped about 300 miles east to the opposite side of the state. Davenport sat on the Mississippi River, a large sprawling city of about 100,000 people. But closely attached (except for that massive body of water) to 3 more cities. In Iowa, Bettendorf, on the Illinois side, Moline and Rock Island. Altogether, aptly named the Quad Cities. Those Iowa-Illinois folks are clever like that.

 

From left, me, Josh, Shannon with Adam in front. Davenport, 1985…

After living in a rental for a year that was far to small for our growing family, which now boasted 5, we bought a house in an older section of Davenport, much closer to the Mississippi. The year was 1982 I believe, so Hubs was 34, I was 31, Shannon was 11, Joshua 7, and Adam 3. A large brick and stucco 2 story, located on a rather famous boulevard. Although the fame part was still on the rise. The fame of Kirkwood Blvd. deserves its own story, so that will come at another time. A couple of blocks from the junior high and elementary schools Shannon and Josh would be attending. Close to a small business section of hardware and drug stores with a Dairy Queen in the same block. Also included was a great hospital, St. Luke’s. Handy with growing kids which included 2 dare devil boys and one clutzy girl. No joke, she could trip over air.

 

The house on Kirkwood Blvd. To the right of the shrubs lived crazy Renee…

 

Initially, I was reluctant to give the kids much freedom. This was the biggest city we had ever lived in, and my hovering, mothering worry mode was in overdrive. But both neighborhoods proved to be quite safe. The crime rate wasn’t very high (except the the 2 murders I wrote about a few months ago which occurred while we lived there. And we were acquainted with both victims). Yikes. Glad that sadistic little oddity never followed us around every time we moved! Since Shannon was in junior high, she kind of sprouted wings, and was allowed to do more and go different places. Josh had a couple of neighbor playmates, and Adam was just too young to be very far from my sight yet. Our back yard was fenced, they kept busy with bikes, hot wheels, and an above ground pool.

 

Halloween on Kirkwood, 1984. Josh 9, Adam 5, Shannon 13…

 

Our next door neighbors moved to Colorado soon after we moved in. The couple who bought their house were young and had 2 small boys, Nicholas and Zachary, about Josh and Adam’s age. The marriage lasted just long enough to get their furniture arranged. It wasn’t a happy divorce. One morning, I’m talking crack of dawn, I was looking out my gorgeous, massive oak, beveled glass front door when I spotted Ken, the ex-hubby driving down Kirkwood Boulevard at a snails pace. He stopped a couple houses away in the middle of the street, and rolled down the passenger window. Ever so slowly he cruised by his former house, tossing 4 or 5 eggs at Renee’s (his ex) car. With the precision of a Jake Arrrieta no hitter, I might add. Truth be told, they were both nuts. To this day, I am sorry we didn’t adopt and raise their 2 boys. Honest, it would be a miracle if they both grew up to be decent, normal adults. They had SO much going against them.

 

Christmas on Kirkwood, Shannon, Josh and Adam, 1983…

 

After their uncivil divorce, Renee needed money, but paying a sitter, would barely bring home 2 nickels, so she decided to stay home and open a day care. Within weeks she was caring for way more kids that was allowed by the state. This didn’t stop her. She hired 13 year old Shannon to help everyday. Shannon was making big bucks. Nike and Calvin Klein were just becoming popular in the fashion world. With one income and 3 kids I could afford neither brand, but Shannon could. I was envious of her wardrobe. Sad. She worked very hard for her money, taking much better care of the kids than Renee. When Shannon started relaying what was going on in the house next door as she worked, my disbelief and concern grew. To keep parents duped, Renee started hiding kids. She knew which parents would be arriving to pick up their kid. Renee would have Shannon take a half dozen or more kids down the basement while Renee gathered up the belongings of those upstairs, and would send one after another home with their parents. That wasn’t the last straw though. Two things happened that I could no longer live with. Shannon babysat on the weekends for Renee. Party time for the new divorcee. Shannon would watch Nick and Zach and 2 or 3 kids whose parents worked weekends. While Renee was partying hard, Shannon was stuck in a house with several small children. And no food. She’d come over and get our leftovers or a couple of boxes of Mac and cheese. And milk, there was never and milk in their house. Such a pitiful shame. I still feel so bad that I didn’t do something months earlier.

 

Me, Shannon, Josh, John and Adam on Kirkwood, 1982…

 

There’s always 1. One little stinker who is part Houdini, part Nic Wallenda. Manages to scale the highest piece of furniture, literally climb the walls to the ceiling, or slip outside unnoticed. With far too many kids to watch, this almost 2 year old needed his own personal caregiver. That couldn’t happen because Shannon was trying to care for a dozen kids by herself. Renee was going through the motions, yakking on the phone, planning her next night out. Shannon came home and told me what Renee was doing to this little guy. I went next door, slipped upstairs, walked into one of several bedrooms housing napping children. There he was. In an old fashioned play pen. Sound asleep, but his arms were tied to the slats so he couldn’t escape. Walked out the door, back to our house and called the Iowa state department of welfare. Shannon lost her job, Renee was shut down (for the moment), all the kids shuffled out. If you can believe it, several parents stood by Renee and continued to leave their children in her care.

 

Graham 2, explaining the world of dinosaurs, 2011…

 

Without most of her income though, Renee lost the house and had to move. And I lost track of her little boys. Shannon heard after we moved to Michigan that Nick and Zach were in foster care. From that adorable family of 4 who were so excited to move into that house, to a nasty divorce, the fast decline of a seemingly normal mom into a drinking, drug using party girl, who cared nothing for her own children anymore. Beyond pitiful and sad.

 

About the time Shannon started earning big bucks at Renee’s, 1984…

 

Sorry, I got sidetracked with my ever growing list of crazy neighbors during our frequent moves over the years. Anyway, while Shannon was making boo-koo bucks before the crazy gravy train was shut down by me, Shannon was oozing money. One of her favorite places to go (and spend) was the Village of East Davenport. A few blocks of quaint shops and eateries overlooking the mighty Mississippi. Between a 5 and 10 minute bike ride from our house. She and her friends would eat at Rudy’s Tacos, then peruse the expensive shops (Shannon was the only one who could really afford to buy clothes at these places). Many times when they were in the Village, they just had to go visit Isabel Bloom’s studio.

Kids got me this when I retired from Central in 2013…

 

Isabel was born in 1908. She studied under Grant Wood (of American Gothic painting fame). Isabel’s talent would lie in sculptures. Starting with clay, adding concrete made from mud found under the Mississippi River. She’d sponge it off, adding color and resin. All of Isabel’s inspirations were children or animals. But simple, without much detail. I had never heard of her before we moved to the Quad-Cities. But her iconic colored indoor and outdoor sculptures were gaining popularity. If you remember from stories I’ve already told (Fred), living in this big city awarded me some of my dearest friends I’ve ever had. There were about a dozen of us. We bowled together, played double-deck Euchre, had luncheons, and secret sisters. Of these 12, I was really close to 4 of them. All of these gals, Mary Ellen (Fred) Jeanne, Betty and Pat collected Isabel Bloom sculptures. I, however did not. Though not terribly expensive, I was into collecting antique oak furniture. With fervor. But I did buy Isabel’s as gifts quite often. It wasn’t until we moved to Michigan that I discovered the errors of my ways and started a small collection of my own Isabel’s.

 

I bought Mary Ellen’s old woman mopping at the auction 3 years ago…

 

I started by buying a half dozen Isabel Christmas ornaments. Isabel had passed away in 1999, well into her 90’s and the studio had been sold. One of Isabel’s proteges, Donna Young, continued on as head designer, rarely swaying from Isabel’s vision. During one trip to Iowa, I was smitten (more like sucker-punched) when I visited the studio. (There were now about 5 Isabel Bloom stores, most in or near the Quad-Cities, plus one in Des Moines). It was a large angel, quite expensive and I had to have her.

 

My guardian angel. She’s doing a great job protecting me…

 

I was still buying sculptures as gifts, slowly teaching the state of Michigan about the iconic artist from Iowa. My friend Rosemary was so taken with Isabel, she went through the catalog before I headed to Iowa. Picked out the pieces she wanted for herself plus 20 or so gifts she instructed me to buy. On that trip I bought a lovely piece for my friend Pat, who was battling cancer along with Rosemary. The sculpture, 2 friends laughing and reminiscing. Just like Pat and I did many times before she passed away. One short month after Rosemary passed away at the young age of 47. Tough, tough losses.

 

I gave this to my friend Pat a few years before she passed away…

 

I’m not going through the whole loss of Mary Ellen. Three years have passed and it’s still pretty fresh. After she died, I contacted her family because I wanted some things to remind me how much she meant to me. The family decided they were going to have an auction. So John and I drove to Iowa in February (do not attempt this unless you learned to drive in Iowa during the winter while growing up). If they had not been claimed by family, I wanted 3 or 4 things. An antique oak chalkboard, a very old black and white depiction of a river boat on the Mississippi near Davenport. And a couple Mary Ellen’s Isabel Bloom’s, which were from the 70’s. There was no chalkboard at the auction, the pencil drawing of Davwnport was 3 or 4 hours away from being auctioned, and the weather conditions were deteriorating. But the Isabel Bloom’s were on an old flatbed near the auctioneer.

 

This piece was Mary Ellen’s for 35 years…

 

I was too scared and nervous to bid. Told Hubs, no matter the cost, I must have 3 of them. (I wanted a half dozen). Rest assured, I got all 3. The Isabel’s that sat in Mary Ellen’s house for decades, now proudly and prominently displayed in my house. For decades, I hope. I believe Mary Ellen liked Hilda the best. Massive and unbelievably heavy, a girl feeding the birds. But I like the little boy best. On his knees, wearing a winter coat, hat and scarf, he’s busy making snow balls. Don’t know what his real name is, but I call him Freddy, my nickname for Mary Ellen since 1982. The other piece is small, I believe it was either Mary Ellen’s mom’s or her aunts. An old woman, mopping her floors on hands and knees. Always sat behind Fred’s small kitchen TV where we watched the Cubs together. And it kind of reminds me of my Mom. She always did her floors on hands and knees.

 

My favorite piece which belonged to Mary Ellen, aka Fred…

 

I haven’t kept up with the latest Isabel creations. I always stop at one of the stores when I zip through Iowa. Usually pick up a couple of catalogs to look at and share. Shannon, as you can imagine has several statues and vases. This happened about 4 years ago. Our youngest grandson Graham now 6, was 2-1/2. Give me a bible, as God is my witness, Graham was the most amazing toddler. He knew every species of dinosaur that roamed the earth, and could say each name correctly. What they ate, how big their babies were, carnivore or plant eater. He knew it all. At age 2-1/2.

 

Rosemary loved to feed the birds and bought this piece. Her brother gave it to me after she passed away in 2010…

 

I was walking through Isabel Bloom in Northpark Mall in Davenport. I stopped suddenly, the air went out of my lungs, and I just stared. On the floor was a new Isabel. A small boy, sitting cross legged, looking at a page of a book with dinosaurs. Underneath his right arm was a purple dinosaur (Stegosaurus). In his left arm was a green dinosaur (Brachiosaurus. Thanks for spelling them Graham) leaning against the boy’s (who am I trying to kid? It’s Graham as sure as if they used him as the original model) tummy. Like a fool, I started to cry. For heaven’s sake, this was my grandson. I didn’t lose my cool though. I drove to a couple of the closest Isabel stores to get the perfect ‘Graham’ sculpture I liked the best. Most of Isabel’s pieces are green with a whitewash. Some are moss colored, others might have painted colored highlights. Like a black and gold scarf on a snowman for an Iowa Hawkeye fan. The finish I prefer is called Weathered Bronze. Underneath the green/whitewash is a faint but very noticeable bronze, sporadic coloring. I had to have Graham with just the right amount of weathered bronze, cause I’m fussy like that when spending big bucks.

 

This will always be ‘Graham’ to this gram…

 

Graham is kinda obsessed with all my collections. Some time ago, he asked me what makes a collection? Not really sure how to answer, I said any collection should have 10 to 12 pieces to get the distinction of a collection. Since he accepts this as gospel truth, he now runs around the house, counting my Lladro’s, Isabels’s, Blue Delft and Waterford. Making sure I have enough before he declares it an un-collection. Pluto, I feel your pain.

 

This matching princess (Peyton) was introduced a couple years after Graham’s statue…

 

Maybe a month after I got back from the Iowa trip with the little doppelgänger of G, he and Adam came to Muskegon for a couple days. Sarah was in school to become an RN and couldn’t miss during the week. Adam had days off during the week because he worked every weekend. Graham, always quick to spot any changes we might have made since his last visit, immediately noticed the new sculpture in the living room. He plopped down, legs crossed in front of it. Turned to me and asked, “what’s this, grandma?” “Hmmm,” I ventured, “what do you think it is Graham? What does it look like to you”? Shyly he looked up at me and said quietly, “that’s me!” …

 

Isabel Bloom, still working into her 80’s…

 

 

 

 

 

 

After almost 2 decades of visiting the elderly under the tutelage of 4 subpar bosses, (ministers, et al) I retired in 2013. Except for a 5 month daily stint, helping a wonderful friend named Lois who was recovering before after surgery for compression fractures, I have found retirement quite satisfying.

My dear friend Lois, who lives about an hour away now…

Our move from Muskegon to Jackson took a great deal of work and time. Downsizing a considerable amount of square feet, moving 175 miles east, plus so much work on the house we bought. Gallons of paint, new floors, appliances, knocking out walls, new sidewalk, driveway, light fixtures, garage roof. The list seemed endless. More to do on the outside, but almost done with the inside. Our bathroom is being remodeled as I type. Two plus weeks in, our contractor, Duke has completed the tearing down part to the studs. New window is in, drywall and cement board up, and he’s about done with the tile work. I have a cabinet setting next to my recliner (which is setting askew) that goes above the toilet, and I’m staring at the humongous box which holds our new shower doors. All in my living room. Sigh. Since Duke has some more sanding to do, I keep averting my eyes from my adorable antique oak highchair, which now sports an eighth inch of white dust.

See the fingerprint? What a dusty mess, but almost done and ready to put the house back in order…

While the move has been an incredible amount of work (and not something I hope to repeat ever again) I’ve not been sorry for 1 minute since we moved. No, not even 1 second. Actually ecstatic when I think we’re actually here. Only wish it could have been a couple years sooner, but thanks God, at least we’re here now.

Part of the new driveway and sidewalk, March, 2016…

I started getting twitchy after we settled in for the long Michigan winter. I don’t know very many people and when there’s a foot of snow on the ground, you just don’t stop and chit-chat with the neighbors. Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) basketball games filled a lot of nights, but the days were kind of long. I knew I wanted to work somewhere part time, but I not only was particular on where to seek work, but what kind of hours too. I didn’t want nights, weekends, or holidays, so retail was out. Any type of assisted living work would involve weekends too. Then my good friend suggested a new daycare/preschool/early elementary school which was growing by leaps and bounds and needed help. Are you kidding? Neese, the old people whisperer caring for children who don’t belong to her gene pool?

Landon # 3 freshman, varsity basketball season was superb, 2015-2016…

I applied and passed the background check. For heaven’s sake, don’t act so surprised. Told the director I would feel most comfortable with infants. I have a lot of trouble hearing and understanding little people. On occasion, I pick up my 6 year old grandson, Graham from school. Outside, there’s parents with babies, and toddlers picking up students, all milling around. We walk to the car holding hands because there’s a lot of cars trying to leave the parking lot. I ask G about his day, but he doesn’t talk very loud and his adorable mug is not facing me, so until we get into my Jeep, I miss most of what he says. Dang hearing loss is just the pits. Hearing and responding appropriately to toddlers would be dicey at best. But when a 2, 5 or 8 month old wants your attention, they let you know loud and clear. It may take me a couple seconds to determine where the cry is coming from, but believe me, I hear them all just fine.

Graham 6, with a craft project we did this winter…

I started working in February, so by now I recognize who is crying by their own unique sound. It’s really fascinating how different each baby sounds. One little guy has what I call a hiccup cry. While he’s gearing up to let us know he needs someone’s undivided attention, his little belly kind of hiccups until he really gets his motor running. A sweet blonde 8 month old prefers to make more baby babble while she begs for attention. Yi-yi-yi she cries with her little mouth making perfect circles. A dark haired, dimpled baby boy prefers to kind of meow cry like a kitten. One tiny auburn haired lass is surprisingly loud and boisterous, but often when she’s demanding attention, has a little pout in her lower lip for extra cuteness. Then we have a quality control baby/dude. He’s very helpful keeping our building up to code, safe and in tip-top shape. If any window glass in the whole building is of lower quality, his ear shattering, chalkboard scratching, howling screech will shatter any inferior window glass. I kid you not. He’s adorable, even more so when he’s not working so hard on the job though.

Wouldn’t you know, I’m drawn to every high maintenance baby lugged through the door by their parents. We are up to our limit of 12 babies. The state code is 1 worker for every 4 babies, but we have 4 workers for 12. We will be losing 4 babies very soon. Each has recently turned one and now much of our day is spent rescuing the wee ones from these busy miniature people. Who all seem to find the younger baby’s hair, eyes, ears, and mouths truly the most fascinating place to stick their little fingers. Or try and boink a rattle on their head to hear what sound that might make. The rowdy 4 will move to a room next to us that serves 1 to 2 year olds. And we have a waiting list that will soon bring us back up to a dozen babies again.

I’m surprised at how much I look forward to the days I work. Only working 20 hours a week, but as I’m getting ready, I have to smile because yesterday one of my HM (high maintenance) little dudes had learned to shake his head ‘no’ and pat-a-cake over the weekend. Hiccup dude transferred a toy from one hand to the other. Another little guy is getting up on all 4’s and rocking back and forth. Won’t be long until he’s all over our big room. You know I can’t take any pictures of these adorable little ones for privacy and confidentiality issues. Of course you guys understand. Trust me, everyone of our babies are smart, and cute as a bug.

Going back to work, even 3 days a week has not been without complications. Right after I started we were having an unusually, beautiful warm day. I’m done working at 1, (Neese, ever the early riser wanted early shifts) so I drove home, rested for a few minutes and decided since the snow was gone, it was time to start my daily walk again. Dressed in my walking duds, happily singing along with P!nk, Maroon 5, Kylie Minogue, Pitbull and that little hottie, Enrique Iglesias when I felt a sharp pain behind my left knee. Probably should have stopped walking, turned round and limped home. Of course I did not. Shortened my walk to 1-1/2 miles, but I have paid for that walk for 2 long months now. I did not call in sick, but honestly had trouble getting out of the rocker with a baby for about a week. The pain’s never gone. How about not being a total dumb ass and call the doctor? Well I didn’t have a doctor, but John did. Swallowed my pride trying to work my way through it and set up an appointment about a month after the pain started. Doc was fairly certain it was something called a Baker’s cyst. Usually prompted by some injury to your knee, the knee makes too much fluid and it collects in a cyst behind your knee. Ordered an x-ray and ultrasound, then sent me to an orthopedic specialist. Yup, same dude I took Landon to when he had his stress fracture in January.

Construction zone, formerly known as my living room…

The orthopedic doc is not convinced it’s a cyst. Although a Baker’s cyst can bulge, swell, then recede, he couldn’t feel it. When he asked about my chronic lower back issues for the last 25 years, the numbness and tingling in my leg that started a couple years ago, but comes and goes, he started nodding his head. After further determining a definite weakness and range of motion loss in my leg, he was more inclined to believe I have a pinched nerve. Signed me up for physical therapy. Which I’m about half done with now. Head therapy dude gave me a set of 5 exercises to do at home, 3 times a day. I considered myself gifted to remember 4 of the 5 until I went back to therapy for a second time. I’m using a treadmill (never walked on one before) a semi-recumbent bike, and some kind of electric zappers that attach (no, not my head) to each side of my knee and 2 spots on my butt. Then ice cold wraps under my butt and around my knee. Feels incredible, and from what I’ve experienced, PT usually hurts. A couple days since I’ve started have been completely pain free, other days I limp with every step. A couple more exercises on different machines will be added to gain the strength and mobility. I’m confident and hopeful that soon I’ll be walking pain free again. Even if it’s only a mile or 2, every other day.

But that wasn’t the extent of my complicated start back to the job force. Three weeks ago, a couple days before I left for Nashville with Shannon, Peyton and Landon, I got a tickle in my throat. The obnoxious kind that makes your eyes squirt water for 5 minutes and cough uncontrollably. Just a dry bark, but unfortunately did not disappear during the Nashville trip. Staying in one hotel room with 4 people trying to sleep through my nightly barking. I thought it would just go away, but instead it got worse. But I didn’t feel bad. No sneezing, fever, aches, or sinus headache. Just a cough that steadily got worse. Geez, half the babies have runny noses and are coughing. I can see I’m going to have to build up an immunity to everything those little farts catch. Soon. I tried to tough it out for 10 days after we got back. But after literally coughing 2 solid nights, I’d had enough. Not to mention how weary Hubs was of my constant hacking.

So I called my new primary care doc. I’ll admit I sounded pretty bad. But I still felt fine. It was pneumonia. Never had pneumonia or those accordion sounds coming loudly from my chest before. Sounded like Myron Floren on Lawrence Welk. Got a shot of antibiotics, a packet of decreasing dosage steroids, a prescription for antibiotics, and cough medicine with codeine. Hello, good nights sleep. Finally. Doc wanted to check me again last Friday to make sure I shouldn’t be in the hospital for the weekend. Oxygen level was still low, especially after I meandered slowly (but as quick as I could) down the crowded hallway, fast-as-accordion-chest-music-maker-grandma-with-a-bad-leg-butt-and-knee-issues-could-lumber-along. I’ll admit, I looked pretty hopeless, and sounded worse. She ordered a breathing treatment (also a first in my life) which took a few minutes, made me kind of shakey and cough like there was no tomorrow. But after a couple hours I did feel somewhat better, breathing wise.

Good grief, more pills than I’ve taken in a decade…

Construction guy Duke finally said the words we longed to hear but dreaded. “The toilet’s gotta go. Can’t start tiling the floor until it’s out.” Well we could go stay at Shannon’s since they were all going to gone for the weekend. They were headed to Fort Wayne, one of the biggest basketball tourney’s of the season. Almost 250 teams competing in different age brackets. We’ve gone several times when we lived in Muskegon, which was about 5 hours away. From Jackson, it’s only a hundred miles. We just decided to spend the weekend down there instead of driving back and forth. Loved the basketball, but weather, health, walking wise, was a huge mistake. It was rainy, cold, windy, we had no hotel room to start our fun weekend away from home. If you can imagine, 250 teams, say a dozen kids on each team, plus parents, coaches, and college scouts. No room at the inn-anywhere. We drove a few miles out of the city, found a dive. I’ve already sort of blocked out this little incident out of my mind. Like hard labor during a difficult birth. I was past the point of doing anything constructive besides coughing and limping. I slept intermittently on top of the covers in my sweats on while wondering why on earth the hotel’s interior decorator chose to paint a wall orange right next to the red and navy striped drapes that adorned the window. At least the window was covered so I didn’t have to tally which rooms rented by the hour. Kidding. Long night. Tracey went to bat for us, and found a room for Saturday night. What luxury. A small suite, king size bed, fireplace. Heaven. Made up for the hard bleachers, impossible parking, constant cold drizzle which wasn’t doing any of my sick and sore old parts much good.

Construction dude, Duke cutting tile. Not his favorite chore…

 

Landon’s team, King James (LeBron) Shooting Stars had a tough tourney. Their version of the twin towers, 2 tall, painfully thin guys, both got hurt. One pulled a calf muscle (Tracey questioned this, as the kid’s leg is so skinny, T said it was impossible to have a muscle there), the other either sprained or broke his ankle, yet both still tried to play. But neither could jump, run, or rebound after those injuries. Yet running, jumping and rebounding are still needed if you want to continue winning games. (Any Hawkeye fans remember Iowa’s twin towers, Greg Stokes and that hunk Michael Payne from the mid-to-late 80’s?). KJS Stars lost after winning the first 2 games of the tourney on the second day. Bummer. But Landon had some good games. He’s my fave, you know. FYI Iowa fans, I also watched Iowa’s coach, Fran McCaffrey’s 15 year old son, Patrick play. I believe he’s the young man who had a pretty serious bout with cancer a couple years ago. His older brother, Connor (who has already committed to Iowa) was also playing in the 17u division, but I never caught any of his games. There was actually quite a crowd from Iowa in Fort Wayne for the weekend. Iowa State girls softball team were in town. Don’t know if it ever got dry enough for them to play. You know those Iowans. They support their kid’s teams. Tons of cars with Iowa plates. All getting better parking places much closer than this gimpy gram.

 

King James SS. Landon sitting on the right…

 

Well, I’ve got some good news. Had to be rechecked for a third time on Monday. No, I did not tell her what I had been up to during the weekend. I’ve been up or down graded to bronchitis because my lungs sound great again. Yay. To be safe, one more round of antibiotics and some weird cough ‘pearls’ to use when my little coughing fits hits during the day. These pills won’t put me to sleep along with the babies. Just got back from PT and next week more strength and endurance exercises will be added. Think I might be on the right track on both fronts.

And lastly, the babies. I think every high school student (boys and girls) should be required to spend a couple hours, or days in my infant room. And maybe every young couple in love or lust too. For the middle to upper teens, there is no better form of birth control than to be in a room with 12 beautiful, cuddly babies. Which, at any given minute, at least 6, usually more are vying and crying for undivided attention. No holes barred. And will not be silenced until they are individually soothed. Or to the couple contemplating becoming parents. Once they gaze into our little auburn haired, blue eyed, petite fire ball, complete with her turquoise head band, bottom lip pouting just enough to be irresistible, plus her keen intelligence at all the things she observes, will hustle out of there, head for home and start a family immediately…