It was in one of the last boxes from the storage unit Hubs found in the garage. We’re both still missing specific items, neither of which unfortunately, were in this box. Dang. I’ve long been fascinated with old toys ranging from pedal cars to rattles, and have had oodles of miscellaneous toys over the years. But as we’ve moved and downsized, I’ve have gotten rid of most of them. This little cutie was somehow over looked and sat forlornly on the bottom of the box. I was tickled pink to see it again.

To the babies, this is what nightmares are made of. When I sing…

The ‘pie’ was made by Mattel in 1953, so it’s pretty close to my age. When you wind the little crank, black birds pop up through the holes while it plays the tune to the song. You know when you hear a song from your past if you’re in the mall or your car? The melody or lyrics instantly bring you back to the people, times, feelings and emotions, even smells that single tune meant for you at one time. Sometimes a euphoric feeling, while another song may still cause pain after all these years. Well, Sing a Song of Six Pence did none of that. It did however, make me smile. I don’t even remember where or how long ago I bought this little toy. My guess would be a garage sale with my friend Mary Ellen when we lived in Davenport 30 years ago. Might have paid a buck or 2 for it.

Here I am in 1953 with my Dad. Same time as the pie was produced…

I found the Sing a Song of Six Pence pie in the box about 3 months ago. Since that day, the song tune has been popping in and out of my head. That’s 90 days and counting. One might think this is debilitating. Au contraire. The new tune merely plays havoc with the loud noises already in my head. 24/7. A chain saw on one side and a dentist drill on the other. The song has actually been a nice distraction. But I’m not the one who’s really feeling the pain of that monotonous little ditty so much.

I thought ‘my problem’ with said song had something to do with the dinky town of Dyersville, Iowa. I know that’s just weird, right? When John and I drove through Iowa in September, some of our stops were in the surrounding little towns near Dyersville. We lived amongst the Catholics during the mid-70’s. While I was feeling all nostalgic about some of our former residences, Hubs was determined to visit the movie set from Field of Dreams, which is right outside of Dyersville. If you’ve not seen the movie (what’s wrong with you 2 anyway?) it’s really endearing and worth a couple hours of your time. A magical baseball movie. Kevin Costner, Amy Madigan and one of my favorites, Ray Liotta.

Kevin makes the best baseball movies. Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, For Love of the Game…

The flick came out 25 years ago, yet the movie set remains intact and still visited frequently by passersby. The set looks exactly like it did in the movie. It helped that it was early September and the corn was still very tall and green. I could visualize the long line of cars waiting patiently in the dark to move forward during the movie. And I can hear one of the famous quotes from Shoeless Joe Jackson asking, “is this heaven?” Costner’s character, Ray answers, “no, it’s Iowa!” Wow. I bought a commemorative T-shirt after a few minutes of walking around the baseball diamond, and was ready to move on. But John was dinking around. Yak, yak yak with the clerk at the gift shop about the time we graced their fair city. And the crazy brothers Hubs worked for back in the day. Reflecting back, I think some kind of magical spell was cast over me. Heeby-jeebies. Didn’t think about The Field of Dreams or Sing a Song of Six Pence until we got back to Michigan.

The magic of Field of Dreams, 1989…

There are some problems when one is profoundly deaf, but I can’t really blame my singing ability. I don’t know how I ever made the choir in school or church when I was young. OK, the town was very small and being part of both were almost a requirement. There is that. But I’ve never really been been able to carry a tune or harmonize. Usually when one loses their hearing, most of their ability of carrying a tune leaves the building. I’ve heard folks who sang beautiful solos all their life, and have now lost most of their hearing. They can’t carry a tune anymore. I think they’re flat, but not positive. And I’m hearing impaired. Wonder how they sound to normal eared folks?

My Field of Dreams souvenir last month…

But that has not stopped me at work. Might be the reason everyone else is our room is now sporting ear plugs. Just kidding. I like to sing to the babies. A lot. While I’m giving them a bottle, rocking, or walking them to sleep. The trick is to sing quietly enough so the other caregivers can remain sane, yet the baby can hear me. Another problem is the material. We all know the Grimm brother’s fairy tales are usually just that. Pretty grim. So are the silly songs I sing. So now we have a deaf person, singing off tune, and changing the lyrics along the way so not to cause nightmares. (For the babies and my co-workers). Desperate times folks call for desperate measures.

I knew the first verse plus 2 lines of the second to Sing a Song of Six Pence.

“Sing a song of Six Pence, a pocket full of rye.

Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.” (That alone is chilling)

“When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing.” (they’re alive and still have their innards intact? Blech).

“Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?”

“The king was in the counting house, counting all his money.

The queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey.”

And this is where I got stuck. Could not remember the next 2 lines. So I looked it up. (My eyes, my eyes)

“The maid was in the garden, hanging up the clothes.

When down swooped a raven and bit off her nose!”

Well holy shit, I couldn’t sing it THAT way. So I just changed it to,

“When down swooped a raven and nipped her on the nose.”

My little off-kilter singing repertoire also includes: “You are my Sunshine,” “Jack & Jill went up a Hill,” “It’s me, it’s me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer!” “Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” “Twinkle, twinkle little star,” and the famous, “Yellow Bird, so high in banana tree.” But Sing a Song of Six Pence remains my favorite. (Much to everyone’s chagrin).

Rocking a baby to sleep while singing to them is my absolute favorite part of the day. Luckily for me this happens several times each day. The baby is on their side, sometimes patting me with their arm that’s underneath. (An unbelievable feeling, almost makes me weep). Or looking at me in disbelief and picking at my shirt or face. Probably trying to claw my face or at the very least, close my mouth. And wondering how it’s humanly possible for me to screech like that? (Plus pleading, “Lord, what did I do to deserve this? Seriously God, why me?”) Such babies.

I’ve been rocking babies for 45 years. Rocking Adam in 1979…

Well the little stinkers went rogue this week. Went in cahoots with each other on my day off (probably with the help of several coworkers) and appointed a spokesman who usually speaks total gibberish. Which, until our little talk, consisted of “ga.” He’s a real charmer alright. Dark brown eyes, a smile that lights up a room and a big dimple. Just in case his eyes weren’t enough to make you melt, he sports 6 inch long black eyelashes for good measure. No lie. Yup, I’m a goner. He told me in no uncertain terms, “you have no magical power, when it comes to putting me or my crew to sleep quickly. None of us want to hurt your feelings, but self preservation won over the masses. It’s your off tune voice!” He concluded, “we have adapted rather quickly and now are able to close our eyes, slow our breathing and limit all movement. Pretending to be asleep. For one very simple reason. SO YOU’LL STOP SINGING. FOR ALL THAT IS SACRED AND HOLY. PLEASE. STOP. SINGING. We love you but it’s just too much. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. But please-keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby, keep on rocking me baby. Chop, chop”…

It started before I hit 25. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. And I was a sap about it. Easily wooed, and didn’t realize 40 years later, I would still be unable to change my ways. A habit? An addiction? A sick obsession? How could I let this happen? Year after year, decade after decade? I’m a weakling. So easily swayed. I’m embarrassed by my lack of determination. I suck.

 

One of my first attempts at changing my boring hair color. Little did I realize how soon boring brown would become gag-worthy-gray, 1967…

At first I tried cheap imitation cover-ups. Sheesh. So lame. I thought I could break this silly habit anytime I wanted. Criminy, I had the gumption to stop smoking in 1990. Surely this couldn’t be as hard. But it has proven to me over and over that it’s nigh on to impossible for this nilly-willy loser. How difficult could this be? I guess I lack intestinal fortitude.

 

Me sporting a lot of gray at age 26 at Joshua’s 1st birthday, 1976…

 

I was about 26 when it really became noticeable. Shannon was in first grade. Joshua was a year old. I thought I looked pretty good. Finally lost all the baby weight for the second time. But something was different. Looking much older than I should. I was still smoking which didn’t help, and laying out in the sun any time it was between 55 and 70 degrees. I didn’t care if it was December. If it was sunny and over 55, but not hot enough to where I’d actually sweat, I was getting a tan. Yeah, my body. Not so much of a temple back then.

 

The only thing brown is my skin. Hair is really gray at age 33…

 

Seemed like overnight I noticed some gray hair. Actually a lot of gray hair. More than a fair amount on anyone under 30. What to do, what to do? They probably have some fancy name for this procedure these days, but back in the mid-70’s, it was called ‘frosting.’ A dye kit you bought at the store. It came with a rain cap thingy. You put the rain cap on your head, then placed your entire trust in a very good friend. My friend for the job was Jeanene. The rain cap had tiny holes all over it. Wasn’t flawed, it was supposed to have holes. Small holes. It was up to Jeanene to take the razor sharp edge of the accompanying crochet hook and poke my head through some or all of the holes. Give my hair a good twist and pull it through those itty-bitty openings. When Jeanene decided she had just the right amount of my hair painfully yanked through seemingly hundreds of these little hell-holes, the real fun began. She was gonna dye all those little tufts of hair. Yellow. Buttercup yellow. The logic behind this madness is that all my gray hair would no longer be noticeable because it was carefully, seamlessly swirled with my own medium, mundane, cruddy brown hair. Truthfully, Jeanene strayed off the reservation by a few thousand strands when pulling my hair through. Too much. Way too much. Must have been about 75% of my hair sticking through those holes.

 

Yup, just a little bit overboard with the lemon yellow. With the bed and on my hair, 1976…

 

Got to give a shout out to Hubs on this one. He never laughed, commented, or refused to walk beside me in the ensuing months. But it was my observant daughter Shannon who pulled no punches on my botched frosted hair job. She never said anything. Heck, she might have thought mommy looked nice. It was close to Mother’s Day and her class was given an assignment to draw a picture of mommy on their own homemade Mother’s Day card. Which she did with the precision of a brain surgeon. I guess there was no mud-puddle shade of brown in her box of crayons. Maybe because the school year was almost over. Whatever the reason, Shannon chose the darkest shade of black for my hair on my picture that year. She got the taxicab yellow spot on. I would sincerely give a hundred dollars to find that card with my picture on it. We have searched high and low, but I think it might have self-destructed after a few years. I’ll give my best description so you can visualize exactly what I looked like. Since Shannon was only 6, I sort of looked like a stick mom. But the hair said it all. Bangs, and 2 perfect (I do mean perfect) sides to my hair. The best checkerboard ever drawn. Black and bright canary yellow in perfect alternating squares. Just freaking awesome. Wish my hair had really looked that good. Sigh.

 

Hideous, but both kids still loved their mommy, 1976…

 

Since I’ve always worn my hair rather short, it really didn’t take many months before the botched frosted look was gone. But my gray hair was back with a vengeance. I blamed Adam for years. He hadn’t exactly been planned. Kind of a hard pregnancy and he was breech to boot. I had a tough time getting him here safely. I think we both were mighty close to not making it, period. And I didn’t bounce back in 6 weeks. Or 6 months. We’re forever grateful we both came through it ok. But it took a toll.

 

By the time I was 31 my hair was about 50-50, gray and brown. So I started having a rinse applied about every 6 weeks. It was expensive, at least to me. I think it was 11 dollars a pop. Yikes. The rinse looked great though. Covered the gray but kept my own natural blah brown. But my gray hair seemed to have a mind of its own. Strong willed. The more gray I got, the coarser my hair became. It was like a horsetail. After a couple years, my 6 week rinse lasted about a week. All my gray hair would be back, poking up every which way again. My hairdresser finally suggested I either let nature takes its course, or start using permanent hair color dye. And so it began. I decided to ditch the beauty shop and learn how to do this snow job myself every few weeks. An older gal named Jenny who I bowled with at the time suggested a medium brown in L’Oréal (as Cybil Shepherd convinced me, I was, after all, worth it). One would think with this much practice, I would become somewhat of an expert in my monthly ritual of hair dyeing. Over the years though, I can’t count how many times I’ve been in Dorothy’s chair getting my hair cut when she’d start cracking up. “Hey, you missed a spot back here about the size of Delaware!” She was my hairdresser for over 20 years and always a smart ass. Sill miss her since I’ve moved. Haven’t had a good cut either. Or a great reaction to my last dyeing attempt.

 

Pretty much salt and pepper by my early 30’s. with Mary Jane and Jeannie Lawrence at Mag’s in the mid-70’s…

 

That friends, was 30 years ago. I’ve experienced so many milestones since then. I thought, when I hit 40, I’m done dyeing my hair. Nope. OK, when I turn 45. Nada. Same came and went when I turned 50, 60 and the biggie last year, 65. Surely I’ll have a hankering to finally go gray. But I’m not ready. I wanna be ready, but I’m not. I admire gals who have beautiful gray hair. I want to emulate them. But I cannot. Not yet. Done blaming Adam. Now I blame me, the quantities buyer. I hardly ever run out of anything. If I feel like baking 40 dozen cookies, or a dozen pies on any given day, I can be semi-sure I have all the necessary ingredients to get the job done without a trip to the grocery store. I do likewise with toilet paper, paper towels, shampoo, eggs. Doesn’t matter, I just don’t run out of stuff. I was the same way when I smoked. I always bought smokes by the carton and would get twitchy when I was down to a couple of packs. Would if we lost power and I couldn’t get the garage door up? In 20 plus years of smoking, I don’t believe I ever ran out of Tareyton’s. John on the other hand, ran out daily. And then would try to mooch some of my smokes to get through the evening. Which he hated but was too lazy to go out or quantity buy like me. Loser.

 

Even worse. Quickly growing gray and my first and only adult perm accentuated the gray, 1978…

 

Over the years of at-home-dye-jobs, I’ve lightened up considerably. Experts say as you age, if you color your hair, you need ‘go lighter.’ Darker shades make you look harsh. Since I’m so up to date on this stuff, every decade or so I’ve gone a shade lighter. Thus I have enough #7 Dark Blonde L’Oréal to keep my gray away through 2017. Why can’t I just make up my mind, bite the bullet and let my hair grow out naturally? How many 65 year old women still have brown hair without help from a bottle? Part of me says it’s simply change. I don’t do well with change. I start hyperventilating just thinking about noticeably gray hair growing out on the crown of my head.

Yikes! Blond can be harsh too. With Josh in 1993…

 

I’m a lot of things. A sarcastic, selfish loner. But I’ve never really thought of myself as particularly vain. I don’t like to dress up or wear much makeup. Pretty sure I look my age and try to act accordingly. Most of the time. (Although I did just buy a pair of denim capris WITH A HOLE ALREADY IN THEM! For shame, I know I’m too old for that shit. But they are cute, fit nice and were on clearance for 5 bucks). I’ll probably only wear them around the house and if anyone should see me in them next summer will assume I got the hole the old fashioned way. Through years of wear and tear). So the problem remains. When will I ever be ready to stop this vicious cycle and let my hair grow out the way God intended?

 

I’ve been given the bird hundreds of times. This is a good one and the hair shade I’m still using, 2013…

 

I used to visit a gal who’s husband was declining. When she was young her hair had been jet black, and she just never changed the color. In her early 80’s, she was advised to let her hair grow out. She did. And looked simply stunning when she walked into church. But while she was in the growing out process, she was almost a recluse. Rarely went out and never without a hat. She did let me in the house to visit, but I don’t think very many people saw her those few winter months as her hair grew out. Hate to say, I can kind of see me doing that. When I decide it’s the right time to flaunt my 50 shades of gray…

Wow, she’s about the age when I started this madness!!

 

 

How is it possible this happened so long ago? Fifty-eight years to be exact. October 11, 1958. The day my brother died. Doesn’t seem possible. Larry was a happy-go-lucky kid whose death left a gaping hole in my life and my family’s. I was 7 and thought my memories of that tragic day were clear and concise. But 2 years ago when I started writing ‘Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town’ about my life, kids from Rock Valley who are a little older than me have offered their perspective of what happened that fateful day. I’m learning more stories about Larry. Although some new knowledge may be painful at times, ANY tidbits about Larry’s life or the day of his death are welcomed and truly appreciated.

 

Me & Larry in 1954…

 

I guess first were the ramifications of his death. Not just our immediate family, but the whole town of Rock Valley. A small rural, predominantly Dutch farming community of about 1,600 folks. No internet, Facebook or cellphones, but I imagine the gruesome news of his death traveled quickly. Twelve year old kid riding a bike, killed when struck by a car on Hiway 18 on a beautiful Saturday morning. I don’t know if Mom and Dad were trying to protect me, or it was too difficult to talk about, but I remember talking very little about the details of the actual accident. I had to get my version somewhere after it happened. Assume it was from my parents. Too late to ask them now. I was wrong about some things and clueless about others. Then again I was only 7, and remain rather clueless to this day.

 

Larry 6, by the playhouse Dad built when we lived on the west side of Rock Valley, 1952…

 

My first big misconception was about fault. Yes, it was an accident, but I was always led to believe it was the driver’s fault. That stretch of Hi Way 18 going through our little town had a lip (kind of like a small curb) on both sides. Larry was riding on the shoulder, and I was told the car’s tire caught that weird lip, causing the car to swerve up over that curb. Hitting Larry on his bike.

 

Larry 11, Denise 6 and Spitzy the dog, 1957…

 

I never knew until a few months ago that our family doctor was driving on Hi way 18 that day too. Stopped just a few cars behind Larry’s accident. Doc Hegg was returning from seeing patients in a nearby town because Rock Valley did not yet have a hospital. He jumped out of his car, ran to see what happened and if he could help. But there was nothing Doc could do but pronounce Larry dead. He had been killed instantly.

 

Larry 5-1/2, Mom 24, me 8 months, 1951…

 

Since Larry was 12 when he died, the kids who were closer to his age or a bit older heard more about the accident than I ever did. Recently, more than once I’ve been told it was Larry’s blue jean’s cuff that got caught in the bicycle chain, causing Larry to swerve in the path of the car. Throughout my life we always talked a lot about Larry, but some of the details I’ve heard in the last couple of years never came up with Mom or Dad. Did they assume I knew everything about the accident or that it really didn’t make a difference in the scheme of things? It was a horrific accident and Larry died as a result. Period.

 

Newborn Denise with big bro Larry 4-1/2 looking on, early 1951…

 

John and I just got back from a trip back to northwest Iowa. We meandered slowly once we crossed the mighty Mississippi heading west. Stopped at several spots we lived during our first 20 years of marriage. It was fun, and brought back many fond memories for both of us. Once we got to northwest Iowa there were lots of friends and relatives to visit whom we hadn’t seen in 2 years. The main reason for the trip, however was Hubs’ 50th Class reunion in Rock Valley. I can’t say I knew everyone in town when I was in high school. But I can say with certainty I knew everyone in high school. Freshman through seniors. During the mid to late 60’s the grades at Rock Valley Community were quite small. Maybe 50 kids in each class. Everybody knew everyone else. You might have your own little clique, but you knew every single person in high school. By name. Where they lived. Who was dating and who just broke up. Rumors about a new couple going steady. Who was getting to second base. Who was suspected of buying condoms at a gas station in Hudson, South Dakota. (Back in the Stone Age there were no handy vending machines or schools doling out free contraceptives or condoms for a quarter. You had to ask the pharmacist or a clerk in gas station. Yikes. Out of town so you wouldn’t be seen by someone you knew. Or so I’ve heard. Ok, back to my story. Don’t want my pristine reputation sullied after all these years. Stop laughing. Please). Thus, when it was time for the reunion, I was looking forward to seeing everyone too. These guys were three grades ahead of me and totally cool while I was a no name dork. Scratch that. I think everyone knew this dork’s name too.

 

Larry about 5, 1951…

 

Hubs reunion was celebrated on 2 nights. There were some folks who came Friday night but had commitments on Saturday or the other way around. Most folks traveling though went to both events like we did. The first night was hard for me because it was held in the basement of a local restaurant. Low ceilings, lots of bodies, loud conversations, laughter and guffaws. Made it very tough for me to hear much. There were several classmates attending for the first time in 50 years! I recognized and could name about 80% of them right off the bat, without glancing at their name tags. Quite a few didn’t recognize me at all. I refer you back to ‘no name dork’ who was 3 years younger. Or I look like an old hag. That’s probably it. Don’t know, didn’t ask. Since it wasn’t my class, I took a lot of pictures, kept my name tag on, and said hi to almost everyone.

 

Dad 34, me 8 mon. Larry 5, 1951…

 

So there’s this guy from John’s class named Jack. I hadn’t seen him in decades. He stopped to say hello, then mentioned cryptically, ‘I need to tell you a story when things settle down before you leave this weekend.’ Wondered what that was about, but didn’t think too much about it. Jack was busy making the rounds through 30 plus classmates, spouses and a couple of teachers. Some of whom we would not see again on Saturday.

 

Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954…

 

Saturday night was better for this deaf gal. Bigger room, higher ceilings, room to mill about. No one asked who I was (ok, I was wearing tag again, now including my maiden name). I teased them right back saying I would always be younger than any of them. Ha! Jack walked over to our table. I’m quite certain he was squatting in between us. Sure couldn’t tease him about that as I’ve been unable to perform that little feat of magic for the past decade. He said, “I gotta tell you a story about your brother Larry.” That was a surprise because Jack and John’s class were 2 years younger than Larry’s. Although in a small town, boys around Larry’s age of 12 at the time often played together. Jack continued, “this happened right before Larry died. I had a crummy bike. It was blue, had a basket and even worse, it was a girls bike. Larry had a cool Schwinn, and it was a boy’s bike. Larry asked if I wanted to trade bikes with him? For keeps. Larry wanted me to give him 10 dollars for his Schwinn, plus my old blue girl’s bike. Larry said he wanted my bike for his little sister Denise. I couldn’t believe my luck. An almost new Schwinn for my old bike and 10 bucks? Sweet. This was just a few days before the accident. I’ve always felt guilty about that trade. And I thought you should know.”

 

Larry Wayne, 1949…

 

 

I was thunderstruck. Why would Larry ever do that? I don’t remember getting the old blue girls bike, but since I was only 7, I was probably just learning how to ride. I don’t remember Mom or Dad ever wondering what happened to Larry’s bike after he died. Did they know about the trade? Doubt it. Think they would have been upset about it. What I do remember with clarity is the morning of the accident. I was watching Saturday morning cartoons when I noticed Larry riding down our driveway. On my bike. I ran outside as he was heading east on 15th Street. “Why are you taking my bike?” Still pedaling, he turned around and said, “I’m going to grandpa Gerritson’s. I’m borrowing your bike cause I need to use the basket. I’ll give you a dime when I get home and bring you a surprise from town, ok?” Last words Larry ever said to me. He never made it home that day. The first responders found ‘my surprise’ in the ditch by Larry and my crumpled bike that morning. A caramel apple. My payment from him for using my bike. Didn’t realize he didn’t have a bike of his own anymore when he used mine that morning. To this day, I still can’t eat caramel apples.

 

Dad, Larry & Mom in 1957…

 

Another little snippet about the last days of my brother’s life. Huge. Really. Huge. How can I ever thank Jack enough for telling me that story? And let him know he need NEVER feel guilty about that trade. Ever. It was God’s call for Larry to go to heaven that October morning. I want Jack to know much this story means to the little kid sister, nicknamed Neese. Whose big brother sacrificed so much on a lousy trade. What 12 year old boy with cool wheels would give that up? Well, he was my brother and his name was Larry…

 

Larry’s last school picture. Love and miss you still…