The Wigwam & Gordon Twin…

Until a few years ago, my fascination with movies (and celebrities) ran rampant. I just slowly lost interest for a variety of reasons. My hearing loss was a biggie. Many theaters offer headphones, which I’ve used for years. But even with the headphones, I struggle with dialogue. Anyone speaking with an accent, a soft or intimate conversation, or the most annoying, LOUD background music just drowns out and muddles all the voices for me.

Snuck out to a movie (horror flick) by myself. I’m still traumatized, 1962…

I’ve loved movies since I was a kid, but going to them was strongly discouraged. Ah, there’s part of the pull. Never been a fan of horror movies though. Got cured of that when I snuck into our local theater, The Orpheum when Dad was working overtime and I was 11. Didn’t realize what the movie was about (but strangely couldn’t make myself walk out either) and it haunts me to this day. When I got a little older and Mom and Dad couldn’t control my every move, much of my free time (and money) was spent going to movies.

There were some fabulous, fancy theaters in Sioux Falls and Sioux City in my heyday. Winding staircases about 12 feet wide (Hubs always preferred the balcony when we were on a date-no need for further explanation). But there was one more funky option for us when we wanted to go to the movies back in the day. The Drive In movie. What a concept! Probably not the best deterrent for an unwanted pregnancy however. Basically it just a cleared, fenced field of several acres, usually a few miles out of town. A gigantic white screen was the main focal point. Long rows of graveled, slightly elevated surface, evenly spaced with metal fence posts and a heavy alien like box hanging on each side of the post. You cozied your ginormous 1950’s-1970’s vehicle so this metal box was fairly close to the driver’s window. This was your modern day surround sound. Actually the sound was brutally shitty, but we loved it. Out in the middle of a field, pitch black, steamed up windows, what’s not to love if you’re a teen in lust, I mean love?

Might have been heading to The Wigwam after supper. John & I, 1965…

There was a small building in the middle of all these rows, with an office and space for running the film, restrooms, plus a good sized area selling concessions. Start times depended on the month. June and July it was still pretty light out until after 9 pm. The closest Drive In for kids living around Rock Valley was in Hawarden, about 30 miles away. It was called The Wigwam. I believe there was a midweek special (maybe Tuesday’s) where a carload of kids (or a whole family-but none of us were thinking about families just yet-at least not intentionally) could get in for a dollar. No, not a dollar a piece. A dollar a carload. I kid you not. What a cheap night of fun! We were young, carefree (and sometimes careless). This entertainment was a big part of my youth.

Hubs just told me about a night at The Wigwam (minus-me-his-long-standing-suffering-better-half). He had borrowed his brother Arlyn’s 1959 Thunderbird and had a couple of guys with him on the way to Hawarden. Another Rock Valley rabble rouser zipped past him doing about 100 mph. Gulp. And gave John and his buddies the finger. Instead of realizing they were telling him he was indeed number 1, Hubs took offense. Floored the T-bird and passed the dudes who had issued the errant finger. This was done on 2 lane hi-ways. There was some pushing and shoving when they all got parked, but it went no further. How did any of these yahoos survive their stupid youth decisions? Grace of God. Life wasn’t idyllic, but we had it pretty good.

A vivid memory from The Wigwam. John and I were on a double date. This was after he had worked for a farmer for about 10 hours that day, baling hay. Brutal work in Iowa’s 90 degree hot, humid summer days. His hands always fascinated me (and made me rather sick) after he was done working. From the tips of his fingers to almost his elbows were covered with slivers of hay. Some infected from his hard work. In the middle of the movie, John starts snoring. Instead of trying to get to second base, he was out like a light. I was mortified.

After Hubs got his whopper of a 90 cc Bridgestone motorcycle in 1965 (aww) we often rode it to the Wigwam. John would snap a blanket in back where I sat, and we’d park all the way in the back and lay on the blanket. As long as you were in the general vicinity of a noisy receptor, you could make out the dialogue. (I don’t remember complaining about the hard gravel surface either. Hmmm). By this time we were no longer really, truly interested in what was happening on the screen. One night another couple from Rock Valley begged us to change places with them. Their car for our blanket sprawled in the back 40. Nope.

So many changes were in store for us. Just a couple years later we were married. Yet the lowly Drive In movie would still play a part in our lives. The rules of entertainment would change however. Radically. No more spur of the moment, hop in the car, let’s eat out, and see a flick. We had no money. And now we were a family of 3. We made our own entertainment. If there was any discretionary money, we could buy a six pack (for the guys), make a dessert (for all of us), put on a pot of coffee and have another couple over for a rousing night of Pinochle. The kids were always included because none of us could afford a babysitter except for very special occasions.

Yup, Shannon was busy reviewing The Godfather with her friends, 1972…

We were living in Sioux City, the year was either fall of ‘72, or spring of ‘73. Our precocious daughter Shannon was about 2. Hubs and I were itching to see the latest movie catching all the Oscar buzz. We discussed it for days. Explaining in detail what was expected of our very bright little girl. We were going to a movie-together at the Gordon Twin Drive In. In our 1972 Chevy Vega, which was a hatchback. So we could lay down the back seat, spread blankets and pillows, bringing along enough stuffed animals we barely had room to squeeze in. But it was all for Shannon. So she could sleep comfortably while we watched a grownup movie. Shannon promised she would eat her snack and go right to sleep. She lied.

All was going pretty well, considering it was kind of loud in the car with the speaker hanging on the window. But it was very late, Shannon was quiet and we thought she was asleep. The movie we were watching? The Godfather. At one crucial point during the movie, the studio mogul had refused to give a small movie part to one of the mobster’s relatives. Movie boss’ decision was about to be swayed the other way as he woke up in bed screaming. When to our delight we hear this tiny voice from the backseat, “why is there a horsey in bed with that man?” Ok, we’re done here. Let’s go home.

When we moved to Michigan in 1987, Jackson still had a Drive In movie. It only stayed open a couple of years after that, but we took the kids several times. Still an inexpensive form of entertainment. I’d pop a couple of huge brown grocery bags full of popcorn at home. By the time we were ready to leave, there would be melted butter stains all over the bags. Yum. Take a cooler full of pop, and John would stop on his way home from work to pick up some candy. Now the movies at the Drive In were all about comfort. Off with the bra, on with the sweats and I was ready to go. The kids brought along sleeping bags, chairs and were in and out of the van a dozen times before they ever started showing the previews. Mind you, we were now in the eastern time zone, so the movie didn’t start until almost 10:30. Ugh. Any thoughts about smooching our way through the movie-not gonna happen with this brood.

Joshua & Adam ready to go to another movie, 1986…

After we moved to Muskegon in 1994, lo and behold, another Drive In movie complex. Four screens, all showing double features. Yikes, you didn’t get out until after 2 am. Not long after we moved there were some articles in the Chronicle saying the Getty Street Drive In was going to close and a sale was pending for the land. There was such an uproar from the people, the owner changed his mind. Twenty years later, it’s still open every summer. When the grands would visit during the summer, (each one always stayed separately), top of our ‘to do’ was a trip to the Drive In. (A day at Lake Michigan’s beach was right there too). It was the kid’s choice for the movies. Still made the popcorn and brought our own pop and treats too. And lost the bra before we left home. Good times.

I fell kind of bad for kids who don’t get to experience this simple form of entertainment. Family style. Snacks, pillows, mosquito spray, walking in their jammies and flip flops with a parent to go to the bathroom during intermission. No more obnoxious hanging box spewing forth tinny sound. Now when you pay admission, they hand you a small piece of paper. On it is 4 different FM radio stations, each corresponding with which your movie screen choice. I haven’t been to a Drive In movie since 2014. I think Peyton was the last grand visiting that year. I’m bummed. I can’t bear to think our great-granddaughter Jovi will not have fun watching a movie outside, at night. I believe we will have to head to Muskegon next summer and let her enjoy that experience too…

Jovi looks ready for her first Drive In movie experience…

happy mudder’s day…

I have strong feelings concerning Mother’s Day. My mother thought it was the most important holiday of the year. Mom’s yearly gauge of validating her life’s work surrounding motherhood. I always bought her something nice, including a box of Fanny May milk chocolate butter creams or Marsh Bars chocked full of pecans. But nothing was as important as getting Mom the right Mother’s Day card. The card had to be perfect. 

This little piggy went to market…

I like Mother’s Day, just not quite at the same level where Mom had it stashed. Does that make me somewhat lackadaisical about the joys of motherhood? I don’t think so and hope not. But as I age (slow down there little doggie) I find myself going to extremes about Mother’s Day-but not my own. Same thing goes about Christmas. I know not why.

I can’t remember trying to document these 2 holidays when my kids were very little. Making some kind of lasting memento to signify their age and size at that very second. But I find myself doing exactly that with the babies at daycare. 

Ho-Ho-Ho…

The past two Christmas’s I’ve taken on the same art project for the babies without really discussing it my coworkers. Any art project in the infant room should be made into a documentary. Or comedy. With a bit of tragedy spun in. It’s a hoot. The kind that makes you want to pull out your hair. Every hair. The thing is, babies aren’t generally very cooperative. Part of it is instinctual when doing anything concerning their hands. They tend to close their fist tight just as you need it open. They pull, push, tug, squeeze, squish, swat, smack, fling, spit, drool, while you’re valiantly trying to get them to just hold their tiny hand still for 3 seconds. That’s not 30 seconds which is a lifetime to them, merely 3. Usually cannot be done. Unless they are asleep. Which I’ve resorted to on several occasions. Sigh. I’m simply trying to get one of their handprint impressions on a slab of soft salt dough. 

I won’t even start this yearly project until December 1st. Oh, I’m itching to get going on it by mid-November since we have between 12 and 16 babies in our room. (A few are part time and come on different days). But for some odd reason I have to be able to say, in my own odd way, this is your baby’s handprint this Christmas. Only time in his life his little hand will be this size. When I type it, it does seem crazy. What’s wrong with me? 

Oh baby…

This is what happened last Christmas. I started our project promptly in early December. Made a big batch of salt dough, brought parchment paper, a straw, rolling pin and some old cookie sheets. Started by writing all their names on a sheet of paper and checking them off as (or if) I got a decent impression of one of their hands. Took the straw and made a hole on top where the ribbon would go to hang the ornament. Wrote their name below each little hand until it was baked. Then I could spray a coat of white on the back, jot their name with a permanent marker, and rest assured parents would get the hand that belonged to their baby. 

Such precious toes…

Even doing hand impressions takes a few days because some babies come on different days. I’d do as many as time allowed or stop in on my day off for an hour. That way there wasn’t as much guilt when one of them started crying. I just kept working on the task at hand. (Ha-ha, my lame impression of a hand joke). A few days into December I had all the little hands at home, baked, spray painted white, labeled and ready to morph into charming Santas. Some of the babies had been in our room most of the year and I worried when they were hung, if the tree would topple over from the weight. Others so tiny, they looked like it couldn’t be from a real hand.

The babies helped with rhyming…

While I was painting (and painting, what a lot of kanooey) I wrote a little poem about tiny hands to copy in their Christmas cards. I was completely done, everyone of them wrapped with a week to spare before they needed to be handed out. I’m kind of proud, they looked really cute. That same week a new exquisite baby girl started in our room. Every time I held her, walked past her or even looked at her, all I could think of was her tiny hand. THAT WAS NOT DOCUMENTED FOR MOM AND DAD ON HER FIRST CHRISTMAS. So much guilt for something so tiny. And I think that was part of the draw. Her hand. So little. Perfect in every way. There simply was not enough time to get it done before our short Christmas break. Or I didn’t make or take the time. But I did manage to get her hand impression. And it was still in the month of December. I brought it home, baked it, took it downstairs to spray paint it white. And there it sat. On top of our water heater. Four long months. More guilt. Just lay it on me baby. 

No one can create a mess quite like me, yeah it’s a gift…

Suddenly Mother’s Day was sneaking up on me. I found a clever art project idea and found enough cheap canvases at a ridiculously low price. I love salt dough, but it’s very time consuming trying to get whatever little baby parts (feet or hands) when one is trying to wrestle with a 20 pound adorable, writhing, snake-baby. The idea is to get a couple prints of their baby toes somewhere in the region of the lower third part of the canvas. The first baby I glopped way too much paint on her foot, blurring one set of toes. Michelle suggested using a foam brush to apply the paint to her toes and part of the pad of her foot. Better, except it must tickle thus there’s some major wiggling, writhing and giggles. Some of the bigger tootsies find 2 spots on the canvas, tiny toes I can plop 3 sets on. At least I can jot their name on the back of the canvas as I do each foot. I lug them all home and devise a plan of exactly how much work I wanna put into this project. 

The idea from a mom on Facebook…

The picture I’m using as a pattern has been done haphazardly. I think I can do better. I wonder where I get this confidence when I’m truthfully the least artsy-fartsy person on staff? In Michigan. Or the Midwest. But it’s my sheer will and determination to design a keepsake that makes me clumsily continue with the project. The idea is their toes will be flower buds, thus I must draw/paint the rest of the flower around their tiny toes. I envision wispy grass on the ground, soft clouds in the sky. Maybe a bird or 2, delightful lettering extolling how much they love their mommy. Oh please. The first couple stems are ramrod straight and resemble a straw. Now I put a slight curve in the stem, and grab a couple different bottles of green to add some shading, which is hilarious to even type because I know not how to shade. As I’m adding different shades of grass so I can let them all dry, I decide to add some leaves to the skinny flowers stems. Oh just stop. Now. All the while my heart is racing just thinking of writing, “Happy Mother’s Day” on each top. The first 2 are disastrous! My letters aren’t spaced well, there’s a definite slant and they look awful. Too late to start over. Apologies to those 2 mommies. 

So ashamed, pitiful. Sorry mommies…

A small lightbulb goes off. Why not just embrace the sorry fact that a perfectly written “Happy Mother’s Day” is not going to become a reality here? So I practice writing (pretty darn close to the way I actually write) letters backwards, not on a straight line and using no capitals. It looks better than the ones I really tried my best on. Sold. John wasn’t, but it was my decision, and the rest (a dozen) were sloppily written with a paint pen, which is a great idea the Hubs suggested. As I’m clicking off canvas after canvas my mind jets downstairs to the petite salt dough ornament waiting for Santa to find his way to her little hand. Perfect timing, the kitchen is a freaking mess. Halloween clearance tablecloth for art projects, Mother’s Day canvases litter the counters, and one more darling little Santa magically appears…

It is what it is…

The First Of Many Lasts…

I was surprised by the lump in my throat. It started forming the closer to Fort Wayne we got. I knew there were going to be lumps this coming year, just didn’t expect it last weekend. Nothing really special about the time or place, yet there it sat. The lump. All weekend.

It’s pretty electric watching him on the court. Landon, 2017…

Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has been on a travel basketball league half of his life. He’s always played a click above where he was supposed to. First only age wise. When he was 10, he was on a team of 11 year olds. That’s just always the way he played. It didn’t take watching him very long, although he was younger, he was already better than most. So playing above him made him a better player. He was shooting hoops when he was 2 and Tracey was a coach. He knew how to run the floor when he was 5. And could outshoot much older kids on free throws by the time he was 7. 

Look at how little our favorite hoopster is strutting his stuff, 2007…

But the real basketball competition started when he was in junior high. Not so much playing with the school team, but these travel teams/leagues started in earnest during 7th grade. And there have been some awesome players we’ve watched through the last few years. Landon included. Duh.

Landon showing one of his many trophies, 2011…

We first went to Fort Wayne, Indiana 5 years ago. Not a quick or easy trip when we were living in North Muskegon. Maybe 5 hours of driving. To watch our 11 year old grandson tear up the court. Spiece Fieldhouse sits right off interstate 69. A funky, massive structure honoring basketball in general and Indiana hoops in particular. (That whole state of Indiana is wacko for basketball, think the movie, Hoosiers). Glass framed-used-sweaty-worn-out-uniforms (but famous like Larry Bird) adorn the walls. Men’s basketball shoes from sizes 10 to 20 fill glass display cases in the halls. Lots of quotes and autographs hanging around. Part health-club, part sports arena but we notice very little of that when we show up, along with hundreds of other parents, friends and grands shelling out big bucks to watch teenage boys sweat, jump and score.

New team and number this summer. Same great shooter….

My only complaint. The cost. I know it’s expensive to host one of these tournaments. Eight courts, games from 8 a.m. until 9 or 10 at night. Just think of the number of refs needed for 3 days of hoops. Scorekeepers, supervisors, maintenance, gals who run the concessions, complaint department, T-shirt/sports paraphernalia shop. I get it. Still. We see one game on Friday night. Ten bucks a piece. Saturday it’s 15 bucks each for the day, which is usually worthwhile because Landon’s team is good. They’re scheduled for 2 games, but because they win them both have to play another 2. My butt is sore from the bleachers but I get my money’s worth. Sunday is another 10 dollars each but as long as they win, they keep playing. Landon’s team wins the first one, then loses in the semifinals. They’re done this weekend.

What I’d like to see is a senior special for 20 bucks. I almost went up to the main desk to complain. (The ticket gals are sick of seeing me walk up and give them my spiel for 5 years in a row now). But then Landon introduced me to the owner. I wanted a T-shirt like Landon wears for warmups, but didn’t see one at the kiosk or pro shop. The owner (about the age of Joshua, our middle kid) said they were out of long sleeves but thought he might have some short sleeved ones in the office. (Might have helped that Landon now plays for the Indy Heat Gym Rats from Spiece Field House, so he’s on the owner’s home team). Yeah, there’s that. Owner didn’t ask our names, where he could find us later, or if he would even recognize this retired couple 2 minutes later. He knew exactly where we’d be. Watching Landon’s next game. He saunters up right before the game starts, hands John 8 Nike, Indy Heat Gym Rats T-shirts in various sizes and colors. Smiles and says, “here ‘ya go, enjoy them.” Are you kidding me? Damn. He just had to be so stinking nice.

The Spiece Fieldhouse owner with the cool shirt giveaways…

Last summer I blogged about a weekend in Fort Wayne at Spiece Fieldhouse. Landon wasn’t even supposed to be there. His travel league team had committed to a tourney in Florida, so Shannon and Tracey decided to make it a family vacation. Rented a house for the week. At the last minute, Landon’s lame-ass coach at the time nixed flying to Florida and said they were going to drive to Fort Wayne instead. The Lowder’s, minus Landon went on the vacation and we got to tag along with Landon for the weekend. It turned out to be one of our most memorable weekends and Landon’s best basketball ever. (I seriously thought it was a conspiracy. Something about an easy going weekend with the grandparents, no high expectations. And he did it all. Just sayin). He had a superb tournament, scoring 29 points in the first half of a game, winning the 3 point shootout in his age division. Then his team went on to win the whole tourney. 

It’s going to be strange not going to tournaments here…

This season is different for Landon. New team, several different players, new coach (thank heavens). Which in turn means learning all new plays, signals, teammate’s personalities etc. Since he’s the new kid on the block he’s been playing catch-up for a month. This Fort Wayne Run N Slam tourney certainly wasn’t the best he’s ever played, but he did have his moments. During the first game Sunday morning against a tough Chicago team, the score was tied with 4 minutes left. Landon zipped off 9 quick points to ensure the win, putting them in the quarterfinals. Can’t keep a great player (even if he’s new to the team) down for long.

So this lump I carried around all weekend. Why? Probably the last time Landon will play at Spiece. I feel like I’m losing an old friend. I’m comfortable at Spiece. I like watching him play there. I know my way around town. Sort of. I don’t want this part of Landon’s basketball to be over yet. 

Winning the 3 point contest last July. And he gave me the trophy…

There’s a couple more tournaments in May, then AAU takes off the month of June for individual high school things. July, they’re back on the court, hot and heavy. Flitting all over the country, Virginia, Nevada, too far for us. 

There will be no more AAU basketball for Landon after July because his  junior year is the last time he can play. This winter will be his last for Pioneer high school basketball, and time for serious decision making on which college basketball scholarship to accept. (We’re hoping for several more than the 5 he has now). Seems like I just started watching him play. How can this part be almost over? I’m not ready. I mean, I’m really not ready. I’m gonna be a mess during basketball season this winter. More lumps to get used to. Sweet and precious but a little painful too…

My new favorite team shirt, thanks to the owner…