Where it began, I can’t begin to knowing,
But then I know it’s growing strong.
Was in the spring, then spring became the summer,
Who’d believed you come along. Sweet Caroline. By Neil Diamond.
|I know, another yawner…|
This song! This verse! It explains everything I need to say. How does Neil continue to fulfill my blogging needs? Taking you back to June 2014. I was full of discord. Retired, bored, twitchy, frustrated. I hesitantly embarked on an experiment. Under the tutelage from my long-lost childhood friend, Marlys Kempema Keatley, and after copious instructions from her concerning starting a simple blog. I had just purchased a new mini-iPad with the most memory, most storage, packed in this cute little red leather Michael Kors case (love Michael Kors, but the iPad case was a huge disappointment, leather cracked within a month). Marlys helped me pick out the blog background, layout, and decide on a name for it, Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town. Basically, this was a short trial run on blogging. I thought by the end of 2014, I’d be out of words and stories. Nothing more to say.
But once I got over the jitters and started telling my story, my head filled up faster than it was emptying. Every time my brain got near the one quarter full mark, and I’d think my blog had run it’s course, weird stuff would happen. Or an old memory would pop in my head out of nowhere. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine after 3 years, there would still be stuff I wanted to say. Maybe not worthwhile stuff, but that’s never stopped me before has it?
I remember how fast & furious the words were in the beginning. Like I couldn’t get the stories out of my head fast enough. Now more than 160 stories later, they’ve slowed down some, but I’m not ready to call it quits. Been pondering when to make a book out of my stories since I finished writing the first few posts. Just gonna be one copy for me. Gotta have my life (the good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between) in print to lug around for my stint in the nursing home in a 20 years. First I thought certainly after 50 posts, then 100. Now I’m kinda afraid when I finally decide to publish, I’ll post an amazing story, AND IT WON’T BE IN THE BOOK! Probably what keeps me writing. Waiting for that one great story. Ha. Foolish little Iowa girl.
I wanted to acknowledge what I consider an accomplishment for this ne’er-do-well. Do I regret any of my stories? Not really, though there’s probably a dozen I’m not very proud of. Most should have been left unwritten and stuck in my head for as long as I continue to breathe. There are a few stories I’m satisfied with, maybe even a little proud of. The rest, just a mish-mash of the mundane life of Neese. But I’m still glad they’re written down. When I was visiting Josh a couple of weeks ago, he mentioned something from a recent post. I was surprised he had read it.
OK, I’m done tooting-my-own-little-out-of-tune-horn-with-the-ill-fitting-and-inappropriate-mouth-piece. First a couple of short subjects that need to be aired but are not worthy of their own full story. You remember my friend Rosemary? She passed away at age 46 from breast cancer in 2010. She had a great job, terrific boyfriend, and had just finished building a fabulous new home near Lake Michigan. I’ve blogged about her a couple of times. We were quite close. I was like a mother figure to her. Rosemary was quite a bit younger than me and had lost her own mom when she was in her mid-20’s. Her mom was in her mid-40’s when she too passed away from breast cancer. Tough. Anyway, Rosemary’s brother Brian gave me quite a few of Rosemary’s possesions after she passed away, which I cherish. Probably none more than her coffee mug. I’ve used it and her little Fiesta sugar bowl every day for almost 7 years. I’m so careful with it. Never put it in the sink, but leave it on the counter until I’m ready to wash it for tomorrow’s cup of joe. One day this week as I picked it up from my soapy sink, I noticed a big chip on the rim. I’m just sick about it. Still using it, but my days with Rosemary’s beautiful coffee mug are numbered. Sorry Rosemary.
|Only word that sums it up: shit…|
This one has bothered me since we bought our first VCR in the mid 1980’s. We were totally smitten with the thing. Joined a club at a movie rental store, think we got a discount after a certain number of rentals. Maybe 2 billion. Which we hit after the first month. Everytime we started a movie and they got to the disclosure parts. It wasn’t the one stating, “copy this you could go to federal prison.” That’s pirating or something. Yikes. No the one that’s tormented me for over 30 years comes after that I think. “This movie has been modified from its original version. It has been formatted to fit your screen.” Do you know how many TV’s we’ve had since 1985? I would cautiously say at least 8. How the heck do they know all my TV sizes? Feels like Big Brother is watching me a little too close. Gives me the creeps. Stop spying on me in my house. Freak.
How about a little Jovi tale? Little peanut is 5 months old already. She absolutely cannot get any cuter. So last week was probably Hubs last regular day to watch his favorite great-granddaughter, although he and Shannon may share her on Friday’s this fall. Ari is out of school for the summer, and after Labor Day, Jovi will come to daycare 4 days a week. I was working that day and got home about 1:30. Jovi and grandpa had a splendid day so far, but she was delighted to see her great-grandma walk in. John hasn’t attempted to feed her solids yet and she was nearing her threshold of tolerance. I got her oatmeal ready and she yummed her way through that lickety-split. Then we made a tour of the house. She loves walking through each room, stopping, me swaying just a bit while she observes everything in her line of vision. Mirrors are right at the top of her favorites, and we have a ton of mirrors. It’s not that I enjoy seeing me, but most of our antique furniture have mirrors on top. Jovi does not mind that the mirrors are far less than perfect. They’re very old and she seems to appreciate that resilvering would take away from their value and charm. (She’s very bright). After completing the tour (yes, even the bathroom, big mirror and no distortions cause it’s brand new) Jovi is thinking a bottle is in order. We get comfy, she scarfs a gallon (slight exaggeration, only slight though), burps like sailor, and toots for 34 seconds. (She’s quite at ease in our house and does not put on airs-well except for all that air-tooting).
|Jovi, happy to spend the day at our house…|
Her head is under my chin, her butt on my belly when I notice a bright green stain on my fushia blouse. Goodness, that was no toot, that was the real deal. Do you know how many diapers I change at work everyday? I should wear a counter for a couple days to be sure, but I would guess between 8 and 12 on my shift. One third to half of them poopy. Doesn’t bother me at all and trust me I’ve uncovered some doozies. I yell at John to bring some paper towels to the spare bedroom. We keep a beach towel, wipes, diapers in there for Jovi. He lays the paper towels down on the towel and I ease Jovi down. My shirt is a mess. I wipe off as much as I can, take it off, put on my nearby trusty flannel and see about cleaning up the poopster.
Doesn’t look that bad, just oozing out of one side of her chubby leg. Grab a handful of wipes and a new diaper. With my left hand I secure her kicking legs by her little feet. She’s having a good time, throwing her arms around, squealing with delight. About what, I’m not sure. I start wiping away. It’s just SO green. One more wipey ought to do it, and I’m 99% done when out shoots a green geyser that covers my hand. Completely engulfs my whole hand. Gosh that’s warm. And gross. And yet such a pretty shade of green. I yell at Hubs, “more paper towels please. Now please!” John comes sprinting through the hallway, stops dead in his tracks when he sees my hand (looks like it belongs to the Hulk at this point). He tosses the towels, (better than his cookies I guess) says, “man I’d be so sick if you weren’t here right now.” Meanwhile the most beautiful baby is the world is still throwing her arms around and gurgling, something she does when she’s really happy. Like purring. John’s now gagging, I’m giggling and Jovi thinks our strange antics are still worth gurgling about. Had it not been the most beautiful, precious little girl in the world, last Thursday just might been described as shitty…
|Jovi on my lap wearing WHITE shorts, minus anything green…|