Most of them have been on the fringe. My fringe. Almost out of my peripheral vision, but still there. Definitely, still there. People I know, but not real well, or haven’t been very close to. Sometimes, barely an acquaintance, friend or family member of a friend. Now someone from my outer edge-not often thought about-fringe friends just sprang back to the forefront. Which flooded my head with another fringe friend from way back. Here’s the story on 2 of my peripheral vision friends.

One of my besties, Jeanne from Davenport, mid-80’s, at a state bowling tourney…

I always tended to be skeptical when a young couple joined our church. Terrible to even think like that or admit it, but I did. Often. Our congregation was ancient when we started attending in 2004, and we were considered fairly young members. I was in my early 50’s. But this stunning couple. Wow. Her name was Brittany. She was a beautiful blonde. His name was Brandon. He was tall, shy and fair-haired. They were engaged to be married at Central. Thus the skepticism. I believe if you wanted to get married at Central but were not members, the cost for having your wedding there was astronomical. A mere pittance if you belonged. A few times a year, a young couple would join our church right before they uttered their vows, never to be seen at Central again. My former church, built around 1930 has a breathtaking sanctuary. Young traditional couples sought to start their married life saying their vows at Central. Memorable.

You can easily see why wedding vow pictures would be awesome at Central…

But Brittany and Brandon proved me wrong. I’m surprised I ever crossed paths with them really. My job as Parish Visitor was tending to the needs of the elderly from our congregation. Mostly those who could no longer make it to weekly services. Their hunger for news from the church and conversations (about almost anything) was palpable whenever I knocked on their door, or walked into the care facility where they now lived. And that’s how our paths crossed. Brittany was studying to become an RN, and worked at a local nursing home while going to school. A couple of our congregation members now lived there so I visited every couple weeks. I’d run into Brittany every once in a while. After she and Brandon were married they continued to make Central their house of worship. A while later they had a baby girl followed by a boy (both with unusual names) a couple years later. Brittany got her RN degree and changed jobs.

If you’ve kept up with my blog, this is the approximate time I became disillusioned with organized religion in general and everything surrounding the Methodist Church. It wasn’t pretty. Still working on that little issue. Getting right with God. (Thanks for your patience God). Now, on with the story. It’s safe to say, I have not given Brittany, Brandon or their kids much thought since I retired from Parish Visiting in 2013.

Impressive house of worship…

Until recently. We moved 160 miles southeast of Muskegon in 2015. Our local newspaper is part of a conglomerate which allows me to keep tabs on Muskegon’s news, which I do a couple times a week. Scanning the Muskegon Chronicle, I started reading a story about a young couple. Oh, oh, don’t like where this is heading. Brittany had filed for divorce from Brandon earlier this year. She was out with a male hospital coworker on a Friday night when she was confronted by Brandon in a parking lot in downtown Muskegon. Brandon started shooting, killing Brittany instantly, then shooting the guy Brittany was with. Brandon drove off to a secluded spot near where he and Brittney lived and killed himself. A couple days later the other young man, Tommy died. Brittany was 28, Brandon, 34. Leaving 2 kids under 10 without parents. Although I have trouble bringing up many conversations with Brandon, this has not been the issue with Brittany. She has haunted my thoughts for 2 weeks. I feel so bad about her tragic death and for her kids. My hope is because she wasn’t even 30, Brittany’s mom is young enough to raise her kids. And I’m stunned, just stunned that I knew another fringe friend who was killed by another person. Never in my life did I imagine I would know people who were intentionally killed by someone else. Who would think of such a thing? Blows me away.

The other fringe friend happened while I was living in Davenport over 30 years ago. Remember while we lived there, 2 people were brutally murdered (separate and different cases) that I knew. It was my story called, Murder she Wrote. But this peripheral friend was not murdered. I honestly can’t remember her real name, which is beyond pitiful. But everyone called her Beanie.

I was on 3 bowling leagues at the time. Two were morning leagues, more to hone your bowling skills. There was no prize money. We only paid for our bowling, so the cost was minimal. But that third league was a serious group of women bowlers. This bowling alley was fantastic. It had 64 lanes-filled to the brim-every night. Our league started about 6, and there was no dinking around because the place had another 3 or 4 leagues starting around 8:30. I vaguely remember our league had about 12 teams with 5 gals on each team. Man were they competitive. I was a pretty good bowler, though certainly not the top bowler on my team, let alone the whole league. I was probably carrying an average in the low 160’s, but there were SEVERAL gals on our league who would be devastated if they ever bowled a game in that minuscule 160 range.

One of our yearly state bowling tourneys, Pat, Jeanne, Marilyn, me and Dee…

Beanie was on a team in our league. And to be truthful, I coveted absolutely everything about her. I was in my mid-30’s at the time and I think she was a little younger. Let me just put out there a few things about Beanie that I still think about. She was adorable. Petite with curly medium brown hair, I felt like an Amazon thug (or slug) next to her. I was insanely jealous of her team, which makes no sense. (I loved my team. Some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Mary Lou, Pat, Mary Ellen, Jeanne and me). But Beanie bowled with her mom. The relationship between my Mom and I was tenuous at best and it was almost painful to watch how easily and happy Beanie and her mom were bowling together every week. I think there might have been another sister on their team too. Geez. Beanie was an extraordinary bowler. That tiny gal could zip that dang 15 pound bowling ball down the lane with such precision. (Why couldn’t I throw a nice hook like that? No, my stinking straight ball looked like I belonged in a junior league). I was totally smitten, yet intimidated by everything-Beanie.

Beanie was married and had 2 kids, one of each, maybe 8 and 5. One spring day I opened the Quad City Times and there’s a picture of Beanie. First picture was when she was little and won the best Easter bonnet in the Easter parade at her elementary school. Twenty some years later, Beanie’s daughter won the same contest at the same school. So cute. Still, kinda envious. I remember being at Beanie’s house once. She had a Tupperware party for me. Her house was cute, kids were adorable, her pumpkin dessert, delicious. There was nothing in which Beanie didn’t excel.

It might have taken me a few Tuesday’s at bowling to realize Beanie was missing from her team. Their team had a sub every week. Soon, her mom wasn’t showing up either. News trickled our way that Beanie was sick. Very sick. I think it was leukemia. Within a matter of months, Beanie was gone. And I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought she had EVERYTHING. Where was I during this fog which lasted a few years? Being a normal, HEALTHY wife/mom/bowler/friend. Busy coveting what I thought I didn’t have. No wonder God personally wrote, ‘Denise, thou shalt not covet’ to clue me in. Finally. I had envied everything about Beanie.

Brittany and Brandon got married right here a few years ago…

For over 30 years, I still reminisce about the five year period when Beanie’s and my life intertwined. Sporadically and mostly from afar. Maybe, “coveted everything about her” might have been a tad over the top. Beanie’s young life, snuffed out just when her light was shining so bright you needed to wear shades in her presence. What is it about some people? That special ‘thing’ they possess? How can some people have such an enormous affect on someone they barely know? Thirty years after the fact. I don’t have a clue. But I’m glad Beanie and Brittany were in my life, at least for a little while. Fringe friends. So close to the edge peripherally, but still there. Hanging on. Forever in my mind. And heart…

I’ve had a pretty isolated life, having lived in only 2 of our 50 great states so far-Iowa and Michigan. It’s not as though we didn’t have chances for change during our decades of married life, though it seems we were never very willing to take a big risk either. We wanted to live South Dakota or Minnesota early on, but timing, job opportunities, or commitments were never quite right.

Joshua obviously loved winter a lot more than me, 1980…

I can’t ever remember liking winter, even as a kid. I didn’t like ice skating, wearing skirts to school when it was 30 below (actual temperature, not wind chill) or hiking to Benson’s Hill to sled. Why did I not suggest, insist or beg early in our marriage that we move on some place with a kinder climate than the Midwest? We always seriously looked right in our own neighborhood, or backyard, never thinking or daring to escape the evil clutches of winter.

Could have a lot to do with my parents. Ties that bind and all that. Seems like I tried to escape their sometimes suffocating grip on my life, only to remain relatively close for decades. Guilt? Perhaps. Queen of guilt, my title-worn proudly.

Iowa knows how to do snow! Dad on the plow, 1962….

And when we finally made a fairly big move, 750 miles east to Michigan, we thought it would be for 3 to 5 years. And what did we have planned after that? We assumed we’d move right back to Iowa. Maybe this mentality had more to do with my small closed mind than actually staying close to my folks. Don’t know.

What I do know is that after 67 years of life, I’m typing on my little iPad on a Sunday in my favorite chair. It’s late April and the furnace is running. My fingers are cold and my feet are freezing. Ugh.

We all know when March 20 came and went a month ago, there was a lack of noticeable change in the weather. Who’s the dipstick in charge of stating spring starts on 3-20-18? Clearly we were in for at least another month of winter’s nasty grasp? It’s not like this year is unusual. This is the way the Midwest’s weather works. I think I have a better understanding of when seasons change. Or really should.

Oh the incredible smell of these little flowers…

Let’s just start with spring. I think we all want the same thing with spring. Days with temperatures in the 60’s. Lots of sunshine with the promise of blooming flowers. Gentle rains, longer days, less darkness. (BTW, since I’m now in charge, that whole daylight savings crap is out the window. No one walks to school anymore. Kiddos are on the school bus or in mom’s BMW, waiting to be dropped off. Farmer’s don’t need that extra hour during our endless winter. I go to work in the dark, so should you).

So when exactly do we get this fabulous season called Spring? With a stretch it might be the month of May. Let me just call it. Spring will last the entire month of May, and have some near perfect weather.

How about our favorite season? Summer. When is summer-really? The months included (not nearly long enough, but I am trying to realistic) are June, July and August. No room for debate. It is what it is. We kindly and respectfully ask for low humidity (Mother Nature always gets a chuckle out of my yearly request) temps in the 70’s and 80’s, never reaching higher than 90-ever. Thanks. If you must, this temperature range can be encouraged to stay in use the entire month of September without complaints from anyone on earth. Promise.

Graham and Adam enjoying summer a couple years ago…

Fall. Autumn sounds better though, don’t you think? Spectacular colors through the season. But fall is in a definite spiral downward. Temperatures cool off, we get some wind so the leaves start tumbling down from trees and flying through the air. I like fall, though I’m not crazy when all the trees are bare and brown. I’m giving the months of September, October and November to the season called Fall.

Fall colors in all their splendor, but winter’s looming ever closer…

So far I’ve got one measly month for Spring, but a month of fantastic weather. Lots of blooming flowers, including 2 of my favorites, Lily’s of the Valley and Lilacs. Three gorgeous months of Summer with abundant sunshine, and just the right amount of rain during the cool of the night, maybe with some rolling thunder included. The perfect weather for the mighty Midwest to grow enough crops to feed the world. But free of tornadoes, floods, and drought. Fall, our cool down season to dry the crops and harvest them from the fields.

Breathtaking beauty of an Iowa field…

But that leaves 5 months unaccounted for. 5. Really. Five. I’m not unreasonable. OK we may need a bit of winter. But. December, January, February, March and April. How can 5 months possibly last this long every year? (Oh I would love, absolutely love to give the month of April to Spring. This might be a deal breaker). But back to the dead zone. Winter. Winter is a time for cleansing. Done with floaty stuff flying through the air for everyone with allergy issues. Let’s give folks a break with all their allergy medications. A time for plants, trees and animals to go dormant for a spell. (I’ve never thought of it before, but maybe I need a dormant time every year too). Not only is winter way too long, the severity it needs to thrive and be happy is just horrendous. Is it really necessary for the temperature to dip below zero? Ever? I should say, certainty not. We do need our quota of snow. I can do a little snow now and then. How about a couple inches, maybe let it hang around for a day or 2, but then the temps should spike up into the 40’s for a week with some sunshine to give everyone a renewed outlook on life again. Isn’t that why God made Canada and regions further north? They get the bulk of the snow, then during spring thaw it flows down to soak the ground, and fill our rivers for the rest of us. Sounds about right doesn’t it?

So how did I get so smart where our weather’s concerned? Well, my yearly life is divided up in segments which make my seasons. It’s Hubs fault really. He’s told me for half a century my internal thermostat is broken. My temperature gauge is faulty. Not nearly as off kilter as it used to be when we first got hitched. A dedicated Tareyton smoker, my fingernails were often tinged blue and my feet were just crunchy little icicles, begging for a thaw. He once told me in all seriousness, “if my feet get cold when I’m hunting, I just think about warming my toes up. The blood starts flowing and in a couple minutes, I can feel the difference. Nice and warm. How come you can’t do that?” Oh pleassssseeeee.

Yes, I’ve been covered in flannel most of my life, this one in 1979…

Through the years, I’ve grown adept with what my body lacks in natural heat resources. I learned to compensate for my shortcomings. At least this very small, insignificant, but terribly uncomfortable one. Two f-words. Get your mind out of the gutter. Nothing that bad. Flannel and fleece. See? There are about 45 days a year (last half of July, most of August) where you might not see me wearing an old flannel shirt. I literally live in them, because my arms are always cold. Always. Rotating my stockpile, mostly made up of ghastly plaids. But they get better, softer, more comfortable with every washing. After a couple years, the cuffs start fraying, and the elbows get transparent. If I ever live anywhere but the desert I can safely say, I’ll always be in a flannel shirt. Worn right on top of another shirt.

A lightweight fleece. Can’t be very cold or there’s a need for more layers…

Then there’s my several levels of fleece. I guess they’re really called throws. You ‘throw’ them on whatever’s chilly. For many years my ‘throws’ were hand knit afghans from Mom. Assorted patterns from granny squares to complicated patterns of cables in various colors. I’ve had ‘throws’ in wool, acrylic and cotton, even felt. Some were so thick, heavy and dense they resembled weighted blankets. Couldn’t move your toes at all when you plopped one on. And suddenly fleece was invented. Lightweight and fairly warm. Good for 3 seasons. But not 4. Not nearly warm enough for the dreaded 5 months of winter. Unless you had several. Trying to stay warm without the bulk and weight. The struggle is real. So the seasons of my life are determined by what throw I’m under on any given day.

I even have a fleece for summer. But it’s flannel. Rarely can I sit and watch TV or work on my blog when my bare limbs are exposed. I start shivering after a few minutes. Even if it’s quite hot. My solution was to make (who am I kidding, I mean had one sewn for me) a longish throw, made of flannel to use during the summer. The throw looks terribly out of place during the hot months because the flannel material has little snowmen all over it. It works for me.

Ha-ha, my summer weight flannel throw with snowmen all over it…

Getting back to the endless season of number 4. Shannon found the answer to my problem (and hers). It’s a fleece throw, but it’s really an electric blanket. I want to say the best gift she’s ever given me, but that girl has fabulous taste in gifts for me from Waterford, Llardo, and Baccarat. Still, the heated throw has been one of the best, most practical gifts she’s ever given me. You plug it in and it has a range from simmer to holy hot flash. Amazing. What’s not so great about this fabulous little throw is the fact I’m still using it every night. And it’s late April. Ugh. But inching ever closer to that magical date of May first. Spring. I’m so ready. My one and only month of Spring better be pretty close to stinking perfect….

My electric fleece. Perfect for Michigan (or Iowa) winter nights…

“I’ve been working on the railroad-all the live long day. I’ve been working in the railroad, just to pass the time away. Can’t you?” Wait, sorry bout that. That’s a song I sing to the babies. I’ve been working at Felician Children’s Center for 2 years now. It’s very fulfilling in a hectic, arm-filled, noisy, drool-dripping, fast-paced, soothing, rocking chair way.

Can’t you hear the whistle blowing?

I don’t really know how this came to be, but the staff (meaning the higher ups at work, though probably not as high as the Pope, but then again, maybe) are required to hold 2 hours of instructional staff meetings a month. Since we are open 11-1/2 hours a day, you can guess when this has to occur. On a precious weekend (heaven forbid), during the middle of the night, or right after the last kid leaves the building at 6 pm.

Most often these 2 hour monthly requirements are held on Tuesday nights from 6 to 8, (which can be tricky during Landon’s high school basketball season. I abhor missing any of his games). Though I try not to miss staff meetings either for several reasons. 1. I get paid when I show up. 2. Not surprising, I often learn something. 3. Since several people are just getting off work, there’s usually food involved, which I’m always up for. 4. Biggest incentive though is if you DON’T show up. Within a couple of days after you miss a staff meeting, you’ll be handed a piece of paper with your name in it. Listed on the sheet will be a choice of several online mini classes from some obscure college somewhere. You’re expected to take one of the classes, pass a test to prove you were paying attention, print out the certificate of authenticity (formally notarized-OK a slight exaggeration) and hand it in to Tracy, my boss within a week. Plus, I do not get paid for the time the class took me. Holy moly. I’d rather have a root canal. Thus I haven’t missed many staff meetings.

Usually we have guest speaker, raising our awareness on an issue or teaching different subjects ranging from being an advocate for any of our children, to report any kind of suspected abuse, to CPR, First Aid or what to do during recess with your class when the weather’s bad outside. It’s all good. But. There’s always a but involved. I would venture about 75% of our instructors and subject matter doesn’t really involve much about our babies in the infant room. Take the last class. Please. (Kidding) The focus was teaching young children to recall things they did during their school day or yesterday, and learning how to follow directions when more than one task is required. Our babies aren’t working on either of these just yet. The infant room is really a very small part of our daycare and school (though the best part, for sure), so I realize hiring a speaker for the night should involve as many kids in as many different rooms as possible.

During this class, it was 95 degrees with no air, and a baby had just spit up on me…

When I got an email from Tracy with the weekly schedule about a month ago, it included some upcoming events, it’s safe to say I wasn’t the only worker bee grumbling and crying in my beer (some alcohol humor, I’ve not had a beer since I was a teen-blech) about the mandatory staff meeting on a Saturday morning. Sacrilege. That’s my time. One of the best perks of this job. No nights, no weekends, no holidays. It didn’t help when I saw the subject matter, The Raging Child. Doesn’t sound much like being very helpful in the baby room does it? When our babies start having temper tantrums, they’re usually about to the move to the next room. Head ‘em up, move ‘em out. They normally transition to The Wonderful Ones between 13-17 months.

I had several issues with a weekend staff meeting. It’s also Landon’s first AAU tourney which happened to be about the closest one, mileage wise, this whole season. But Peyton’s spring dance recital is fast approaching, so she cannot miss any of her classes. Simple solution was to have Peyton stay with us, allowing me to attend the (mandatory) staff and have grandpa run Peyton to her class, letting Shannon travel with Tracey (son-in-law) and Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) for Friday night’s game. The rest of us would arrive in time for his mid-afternoon game on Saturday. Sigh. Just not in the cards. By the time I got back to the house around noon Saturday, Shannon was texting me. Grand Rapids (about 85 miles northwest) was having an ice storm and terrible wind gusts, while we continued to get rain, and more rain.

Peyton doing her thing…

We decided to just stay home. Damn. I did get a lot accomplished though. One word: blackberries. Meijer had them on super sale this week and my stash of seedless blackberry jelly is getting precariously low. I stopped at Meijer on the other side of town to buy some, only to find they were completely out. I could get a rain check, but the cashier informed me for 12 measley boxes. What? That’s like one batch of jelly. Geez, I’d be running through the checkout lane several times to get enough rain checks to make it worth my while. Instead, I stomped out of the store to mull over my next move. I know Meijer gets their produce truck about the time I get up, so I stopped at my east side Meijer at 5:15 a.m. the next morning before heading to work. They had just unloaded their truck with a fraction of the amount of berries they’d been expecting. The supplier was having trouble filling Meijer’s full order everyday, but the produce dude wholeheartedly approved my taking what I wanted while they were still on the pallet (less work for him). I grabbed my 50 boxes, smiling all the way to the Jeep.

Number 3 Landon, but we all know he’s really # 1…

In many ways, I hate making seedless anything. It’s the amount of fruit I waste. Still, seedless Blackberry is my second favorite (next to Apricot jam-where I use everything but the pit, so maybe it evens out). After washing and smashing the berries, I simmer them for a few minutes to vigorously encourage them to give up all their dang juice. Then dump this through double cheesecloth (it splashes everywhere, magenta polka dots decorate my kitchen walls) into a colander. And wait. My plan was to keep the juice in the fridge until after work Monday because we’d be out of town. Since I was stuck here anyway, might as well make the jelly. So 30 jars later, the jelly and canning equipment is ready to be hauled back downstairs. Now why was I even telling you this non-essential, boring information? I really wanted to tell you about Dr. Phil.

Yum, Seedless Blackberry Jelly…

I kid you not, his name is Phil. But not the TV Phil. He’s a children’s therapist from Grand Rapids, a few years older than me, semi-retired, who has a theory. Or several. He started his practice in the mid 70’s, then went to work at Headstart 25 years later. During that quarter century he noticed a marked difference in the issues he was treating of these troubled children and their behavior. Instead of children needing therapy because of a divorce, traumatic event or death of a parent or grandparent, Dr. Phil’s theory on this young generation of raging children stems from their lack of attachment. According to him, some parents and their young babies aren’t connecting with that deep bond of affection, trust and love right away. Which is bad for babies, especially as they grow.

Now I don’t agree with Dr. Phil on all of his notions but he was quite compelling, and I thoroughly enjoyed his shortened seminar. (He packed his 6 hour talk into 2-1/2 hours, so we missed some juicy stuff like the terrible 2’s temper tantrums. Dr. Phil apparently loves them, yet we know not why). He was folksy, humorous and kept us pretty much entertained with his stories. Worth every penny and I wish we could have heard more. On a different day. With heat. Our school’s gym furnace automatically turns down the heat after 5 and on weekends, so pretty much anytime we might be having a staff meeting there. I’m always froze by the time I walk out of there.

At our staff retreat last week. Brrr…

I should have bought Dr. Phil’s book that he brought along. (The ever hopeful author) But my PhD clinical psychologist daughter Shannon’s an expert on childhood behaviors, often testifying in court on their behalf or offering a diagnosis and treatment plan. Although Dr. P believes this attachment or lack of it is deeply rooted already by 3 months of age, as far as I can see, all our babies seem well adjusted, loved and cared for at home with mom and dad and in our care. Phil did however validate many things I do as a caregiver that I had never given any thought to before. Holding babies, looking into their eyes while I rock or give them a bottle. Touching their fingers, toes, heads, cheeks. Saying their name often, but not in a condescending way. I love singing that old 60’s song, The Name Game to them. Anyone remember it? “Shirley-Shirley-bo-burley, banana-fana-fo-furley. Fe-fi-mo-murley-Shirley.” The babies love it when I do a bunch of their names while pointing to each one of them. Or simply smiling at them, which makes them smile back, even from across the room, which is priceless. Talking to them while I’m lugging them around. While they know not what I’m saying, they do realize that I’m talking to THEM. Who knew I was doing a couple things right?

But there’s always room for improvement. Always. So until May’s staff meeting (hope it’s warmer in the gym, plus it should still be light out when we’re released on good behavior), I will ponder the theories of the lesser famous Dr. Phil, while striving to become a better caregiver. Making a positive difference in our babies lives. Each day I’m there. All I can hope and pray for…

Hubs was on his way out of our seldom used front door for the mail when he quipped, “want anything special?” Because it was a Saturday, I was instantly transported back to: pick a year, any year between 1970-1985. And it had to be early spring. Those were the days. Let me explain. From the beginning.

John’s senior prom, 1966. Three more years, we’d be married…

It all started the year we got hitched, 1969. John had bills up the wazoo and I wasn’t much better off. I brought to the marriage table a humongous car payment-80 bucks and change. Hubs had a car payment too, but get this, he couldn’t even drive because he had so many speeding/drag racing tickets, plus he couldn’t afford to carry the insurance. And he’d just taken a trip through Canada with his buddy Rod and racked up 300 plus dollars on his credit card. Probably equivalent to 4 or 5 thousand dollars in credit card debt today. On top of that he had a brand new color TV which was not paid for. Today I would venture these bill amounts totaling around 10-15. Thousand. Dollars. We were in a world of hurt. But in love, and happy eating tuna salad or casserole every night. When we weren’t worrying on how to pay all those outstanding bills.

The family of 3, 1973…

Think Hubs was taking home about 100 bucks a week, me a lot less than that working full time in a nursing home. The list of bills got longer and longer. And we got behinder and behinder. Robbing Peter to pay Paul was the name of the game. Whatever was on the verge of being repossessed, turned off, evicted from, got paid first. That month. Couldn’t worry about the future, we were literally living week to week. Or day to day.

As 1969 closed and 1970 was ushered in there would be new and exciting challenges for Johnny Wayne and Neese. Parenthood was the biggie at the end of 1970, but this mini-miracle/nightmare occurred in early spring. We were filing our first federal tax forms as husband and wife. If I remember right, back then we could write off any and all interest paid from our big stack of bills. Interest on car payments to the credit card. For us, this added up to a small fortune. Since we made squat, when H & R Block figured out our taxes, we would be getting a sizable refund from the government. They explained this was really our money. We let the government use our money throughout the year because we had too much taken out of our weekly pay checks. “Change your deductions, don’t let them use your money all year.” Blah, blah blah. Who could listen to such nonsense, we were gonna be rich. In 8 to 12 weeks. Which always turned out to take longer than all 3 of my pregnancies. Combined.

Adding Joshua, now about a year old in 1976 on the farm…

We’d fastidiously mark the calendar, counting down the days and the weeks, praying the refund (it’s our money, send it back please) would be sitting in the mailbox at the end of 8 weeks. As if. There was no turbo tax, no direct deposit, no e-filing, no swarmy businesses offering to give your refund early in exchange for grabbing your refund check when it arrived. Everything involving the IRS moved at the speed of sloth. All of the forms were written out by hand, and moved through snail mail. You could call an 800 toll free number after 8 weeks to see if your taxes were in the process of being completed. But not before that magical 8 week mark. All of our friends got their refunds in a reasonable amount of time. Why, oh why did it take a lifetime to get ours? We were good people, where’s our money? Remember, it’s really our money. We were politely asking the government to send our refund back to us. In a timely manner. Without grief.

Here’s Adam, age 5 in 1984…

For that first decade and a half of marriage, every single year it was something. Somehow our refund always got delayed instead of arriving early or on time. And there was no one on this earth who needed the money more than J & D. Gospel truth. One year we waited and waited for our refund to show. Again, it’s our money, not like we’re trying to commit a crime here. We’ve happily let you use the money all year, but it’s ours. “We’re broke, busted, agents can’t be trusted.” (a little IRS humor). So send it back. Pretty please. Zip after 8 weeks, nada after 10. We called the toll free number, waiting hours just to hear there was nothing for John and Denise coming our way. They had received no tax filing from us. So we called the tax man. I don’t know if it was H or R, but his last name was definitely Block. They’d look into it and find out what was going on.

After a sleepless week (multiple bill collectors were calling us daily). Some nights after supper I would not answer the phone. There was no such thing as caller ID, no answering machines. Just pissed off worker bees hired to harass people who owed their company money. Namely us. The pain was palpable and excruciating. It’s our freaking money, why have you got in it for us? We’re just a broke young family trying to pay off our stinking bills. Which we could do if you’d send us our own money back. Maybe we really should look at changing our deductions. But then there would never be this big boost to our economy every spring. To spare us from bankruptcy another year. Yes, it was a dilemma.

Newborn Joshua, New Vienna, Iowa, 1975…

Houston, we have a problem. One of the tax workers (neither H or R would take responsibility) who had the mundane chore of filling out our paperwork by hand, inadvertently put a Z instead of a V at the beginning of our last name. (Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows our sorrow). John had to fill out an affidavit proving his name was Van Berkum instead of Zan Berkum. It had to be notarized, mailed with exceeding speed because the IRS really cared what happened to us (ha-ha, I jest). While we waited. And waited. Took about 6 months to get our refund. Yikes, it was almost time to file again. Holy cripes. The only thing not repossessed during this lengthy timeframe was Shannon. This may be a slight exaggeration.

Through it all, we’ve made it work, 1977…

Although I’ve never felt the rush drug addicts claim come from a snort of coke, the euphoria experienced when that refund check was sitting in our mailbox has not often been duplicated. Oh good heavens, we were rich. Beyond our wildest dreams. Or to the tune of a couple hundred bucks. Just enough to keep the jackals at bay. For now.

It didn’t take us very long before we figured out the IRS sent out massive refund mailings on certain days back in the 1970’s when we lived in Iowa. If you did not get your federal refund on a Saturday or Monday, you were screwed for the whole week. The refund checks arrived only on those 2 days. Now state refunds were another matter. But Iowa’s refund never amounted to much for us, so there wasn’t a lot of excitement surrounding its arrival. Ho-hum.

Daddy and his boys in 1979…

I think our bank was Toy National in Sioux City back then. Giddy, like we were high on something, we’d drive to the bank to cash that whopper of a check. If the check arrived too late on a Saturday, the bank was already closed, then we had to wait until Monday to cash it. A whole weekend filled with dreams and schemes of what could be done with that money under different circumstances. When we finally made it to the bank and cashed that check, there might have been a couple twenty’s but mostly five and ten dollar bills. John would fold the stack in half and stuff them in one of his back pockets of his pants. For the time being, he was about 3 inches taller in the car seat on one side. What a feeling! Sitting in our expensive Mustang (the lemon). We’d just drive around downtown for awhile acting like crazy people. Talk and argue how much we could afford (zilch) to squander before heading back to the bank to deposit the rest, which was never, ever enough. But it was more than enough to pay off that dang Canadian trip, if it was the only outstanding bill we had. Ha. One of 20. So divide and conquer. Pay a little to this bad guy, and a little to that one.

The most decrepit house in Worthington Iowa, 1976…

I’d like to say every penny of every refund went to pay our long overdue bills. But that would be a lie. We always spent a portion on ourselves. Yup, just blew through a portion of the money. One year it was a trip to Omaha. Umm, that was maybe 90 miles away. We had supper at a fancy steak house called Ross’ then we bought a deep fat fryer. What? Like we really needed that. So began our love affair with real French fries cut from fresh potatoes. Needed to buy something for Shannon, who was about 14 months old. We got her a red corduroy one piece outfit. It had an enormous zipper down the front, and snaps along the inside of her legs so I could easily change her diaper. Now why on earth would I remember something like that? Because the first time I put the outfit on Shannon, while I was zipping it up, she put her head down to look at her pretty new clothes, and I got her tender skin caught in the zipper by her neckline. She cried so hard, but not as hard as I did. That’s why I remember that outfit in great detail. Total wad blown was about 30 bucks, more than 10% of our precious refund. We were so young and dumb.

Right before we moved to Michigan, 1986…

This yearly high and low of tax refunds and the length of time endured while we waited lasted half way through the 80’s. Until we moved to Michigan and started making better than decent money in the auto industry. Suddenly, we weren’t cursing when every interest statement, every W-2 form hadn’t arrived by mid January, so we could get filed and start that painful waiting game. Meh, it’s mid-March, time to file again.

So when John said, “want anything special,” as he sprinted (more Hubs humor, he no longer sprints) out for the mail, I said right back, “Yes, I’ll take 2 handwritten letters from dear old friends and our huge federal refund we’ve been anxiously waiting for,” because my mind immediately zoomed back to those early spring weekends during the ‘70’s (as we were wringing our hands and gnashing our teeth). Waiting for the mailman, who walked our route. Praying the Good Lord had encouraged the IRS to be mindful of how hurting this young couple was. Up to week 10 and still counting the days. We continued waiting and waiting…

A better life-Hubs & me in our hot tub, 1992…