We lived in Spencer, Iowa from 1977 through 1981. Our move after life on the Cascade farm in eastern Iowa. Spencer was one of our favorite places to live in nearly 50 years of marriage. We were devastated when we had to leave that quaint town. Color us shocked when we loved the big city of Davenport. These 2 cities were as different as night and day.

Life in Spencer, 1979. Josh 4-1/2, Adam 4 months, Shannon 9…

The reason for much of our love for Spencer was Hub’s sister Elly, her husband Dewey and their family. They were quite a bit older than us, almost like another set of parents-without judgment. We had more fun together. Antiquing, bowling league, shopping, family meals together at either of our houses. It was a wonderful 5 years and we didn’t want it to end. Wish it would have lasted longer.

Elly and Dewey years after we moved farther east…

I think Spencer’s population was 8 or 10 thousand at the time. We did much of our shopping downtown. Several blocks of various clothing, shoe, department, book & gift stores, pet stores that weren’t part of a chain. Close to The Lakes, it was darn near a perfect place to live but for the winters. Oftentimes the coldest spot in the lower 48, running neck & neck with International Falls, Minnesota. The winters were brutal. But we were young and dumb so blizzard conditions and 20, 30, 40 below zero never stopped us. Sometimes stopped our cars for a few days though.

Shannon, Elly holding Adam, Dewey with Joshua in front, 1981…

We were in our first decade of marriage, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck. Shannon was 8, Joshua, 4 and Adam was just on the horizon. We were living in a concrete block house a few blocks from downtown. The kids had friends in the neighborhood, and a creek in the back yard. We were blocks from a Super America gas station which made their own doughnuts. Almost every Sunday John took the kids and let them pick out doughnuts with sprinkles. I’m not a big doughnut fan but they were always fresh, often warm and pretty good. The kids thought it was a huge deal. The other spot which was quite popular with our little family was Godfather’s Pizza. A new franchise trying to compete with Pizza Hut.

Breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day, Spencer 1981…

Do you remember when grocery stores had special displays with arrangements of pots, pans, dishes, or silverware you could buy at bargain prices after you spent money in their store? There was a grocery store I frequented which was near highway 18 south and 71 junction. I think it was a Hy-Vee but not certain. They were starting a special sales event featuring silverware. And I was hurting bad in that department. I had a small amount of mismatched, bent out of shape, dime store junk. One day I walked in for groceries and feasted my eyes on this fancy display of flatware. Shiny, patterned, heavy, made in Japan. The good stuff. Butter dish, gravy ladle, soup spoons, salad forks, ice tea spoons, plus all the regular daily stuff folks actually used. I was giddy with anticipation. And full of new silverware lust.

For every 3 bucks I spent, I could buy 3 pieces of silverware for another dollar. On an average week of spending about 20 bucks, that would net me 18 pieces of brand new, fancy flatware for our home. For 3 bucks. I needed and wanted a lot of it. OK, I wanted it all. All of it. Every piece they offered. But there were several weeks when I truthfully didn’t have the extra 3 bucks to pay for my new table setting after groceries. We were definitely lacking any kind of discretionary fund in our tight budget. And I think there was a small catch. I could only buy their choice for the week. One week it would be forks, the next maybe spoons. And the accompanying pieces were higher priced which caused major problems and thoughts of despair. How to keep up with getting a complete set of 12, plus the serving spoons, gravy ladle and that cute little covered butter dish. I was worried.

My Springtime gravy ladle…

Eventually I did buy a pretty good sized set of Springtime silverware (made in Japan) and was pleased as punch with my humongous matching set. But you know how it goes when you have little kids. You turn your head for 2 seconds and the little stinkers are nabbing some spoons to help dig out a trench for the toy pay loader in the backyard. You ask one of them to clear the table and while they’re helping, 2 forks somehow land in the garbage, never to be seen again.

So 25 years later my Springtime flatware (made in Japan) is looking rather meager in the drawer. I just couldn’t see buying something different. How could I grasp a fork if I wasn’t comfortable with a new pattern texture to which I’d grown so accustomed? Could I even bring an offensive shaped spoon up to my mouth? No, didn’t think I could. I stuck my head in the sand and ignored how few pieces were left in the drawer.

My official Springtime butter spreader knife. Never use it, but I had to have it…

Living around Muskegon got me hooked on estate sales. Wonderful things really. As a rule pretty classy stuff, everything is marked, and the sale lasts 2 or 3 days. The prices were slashed 30% on the morning of the second day, half price during the last afternoon. There was always a line waiting to get in when they first opened. Never me though. I went opening day to look, but after the first 3 hour feeding frenzy, fresh corpses still littering the floor. Those in line early for the sale are crazy. This is the way I viewed the sale: if the item I was coveting was still available when it was either 30 or 50% off, it was meant to be. Otherwise I wasn’t supposed to have it. Period. Bought much of my Waterford collection at estate sales. Some antique furniture but our big collecting years were a thing of the past for the most part.

My Springtime sugar spoon. This I use everyday…

About 10 years ago I was perusing an estate sale of somewhat lower quality. I could jog my way through in a hurry if nothing was catching my eye. Nothing to see here folks, keep moving. Yeah, it was that kind of sale. I tried to be thorough, zipping from room to room, willing something, anything to be worth a second glance. Down to the basement (always last), a room that originally was used to store coal, rested a box. Inside the cardboard box was a set of flatware, still in thin plastic wraps. Oh. My. Goodness. Springtime silverware (made in Japan). Tons of it. I was dumbfounded. Wary. Suspicious. Peeked over my shoulder to make sure no one was going to stop me or grab the box out of my hands. Made my way back upstairs, clutching the heavy box. Hubs was shopping in another room and when he spotted me didn’t know what to think at my dumbass grin from ear to ear.

My 2 serving spoons. They aren’t even shaped the same way…

I can’t tell you what I paid for the whole lot but it was a pittance. Maybe ten bucks. It wasn’t a complete set but a nice amount of the basics, plus the serving spoons, which turned out to be the biggest surprise of all. My closed serving spoon has served me well. Forty years this spoon has attended to my every need whatever I mixed, stirred, boiled, hacked to pieces, beat or served with pride. When I got home from my glorious estate sale shopping spree, I threw all the plastic wraps away and tossed the whole lot in a sink of hot soapy water. Upon rinsing the set I noticed a huge difference between my 40 year old serving spoon and the sparkly new one. The new one was much heavier and almost twice as thick near the tip of the spoon. What?

Never realized how strong I really am…

I have literally beat the livin’ shit out of my spoon. Huh. It’s paper thin in comparison to the new, clunky, chunky ton-o-spoon. Where has all that spoon matter disappeared? Have I been eating bits of spoon with my spoon?

I know the main culprit has been Fudge and Penuche. Each batch of candy I’ve beaten for the last 40 years has devoured most of my favorite spoon. It’s like disintegrating. But what can I do? I hate the new one, all thick, fat and hard to handle. I can’t beat a batch of Fudge with that enormous heavy scoop. I’d need a forklift.

Newbie on the left, candy beater unparalleled on the right…

Every time I need a big spoon I dig around the serving piece section of my drawer until I lay my hands on the familiar feel of my favorite, wafer thin spoon. Ah, there it is. Ready to beat some boiling hot candy into submission and turn it into another success story? Me too. We’re friends, my old spoon and I. We’ve been through a lot together and I’m not ready to give her up or give up on her. I’m not certain which one of us will bend, break or give up first. I’m definitely not ready to give up making fudge, or try to break in her Amazon sized big sister. Skinny spoon still seems up to the task. I like spooning with her. We fit. I hope we both have a few more years of making candy together…

My poor spoon. Who knew I literally beat the shit out of it?

My Mom is on my mind a lot every December. Shannon, Mom’s and my birthday’s are all this month. Mom would have been 92 on the 13th and has been gone for 14 years already. Don’t know exactly why as the end of the year nears, she’s in my thoughts more often.

Mom feeding me, Larry & Mona peeking over her shoulder, 1951…

It’s probably the fudge. When I gear up to make Christmas candy, Mom’s fudge pushes its way to the forefront. And it’s not really her fudge either. It’s Mom’s grandma Berghuis’ recipe, so do the math. Mom was born in 1926, lost her young mother a couple weeks later. Grew up in the care of her paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, but also lived close enough to spend a lot of quality time with her maternal grands, the fudge and penuche makers. (Frequently on Sunday afternoons, between morning and evening church services. A sin for sure, but you didn’t hear it from me). Meaning this recipe probably originated in the Netherlands before they immigrated to Sioux Center, Iowa in the late 1800’s. They were sponsored by local folks (friends and relatives, also from the Netherlands earlier in the century) who had housing and jobs lined up and waiting for them when they arrived.

Great grandma Berghuis’ fudge recipe…

I love making candy, well, because I love candy. Over the years, I have tried various fudge recipes, marshmallow fudge, evaporated milk fudge, sweetened condensed milk fudge, chocolate chip fudge, (never made peanut butter fudge because it’s useless and gross) but all pale in comparison to the simple Dutch recipe of my great grandma Berghuis. The ingredients are few, but the taste is smooth, solid and deliciously creamy. There are drawbacks. It’s not called Never fail fudge for a reason. Because I’ve failed perfecting it numerous times. Distracted or in a hurry will get me every time. Patience is a virtue to be desired when one makes old fashioned fudge. I don’t use a candy thermometer because my Mom didn’t, her mom didn’t neither did her grandma. It would be disloyal or simply letting them down somehow if I used a different method to make perfect fudge. Just can’t do it.

The hot chocolate set brought over from the Netherlands as a thank you gift to their sponsors…

You can’t miss the window of opportunity given when one makes candy. The perfect soft ball stage lasts only a minute or two. My job is to test it during that short time frame. My failures are usually when I prematurely turn off the heat source. Maybe a mere 30 seconds from victory and the soft ball may look just about right. Don’t fall for this pagan candy wannabe. Be patient and wait another half minute and test again. And again. The effort becomes apparent when that small dot of fudge removed from its cold water grave sets proudly on my index finger for a nanosecond before succumbing to gravity. Perfect. Move it off the hot burner, add butter and vanilla and wait about 20 minutes. Don’t touch, stir or look at it cross eyed during the cool down.

When it’s still too hot to carry the pan to the table bare handed, but the pan has cooled considerably, your second tough task begins. About 5 to 10 minutes of hand beating with a large spoon. I lay an old towel over my lap because that melted butter splashes around until it’s mixed in. I have never made a batch of fudge that didn’t end up on a buttered plate. Never once poured it in a pan. Mom thought her poured, sometimes uneven fudge had some depth on a plate and was pretty and unique. The middle tends to be thicker with some swirly designs as you’re scooping out the entire batch on a plate. And the word ‘nutmeats’ is just so Mom. She rarely made fudge without nutmeats, always using walnuts. Me too unless it’s a specific request to go nutless. Over the years this family fudge recipe remains near and dear. I feel a strong sense of belonging to some exclusive club, surrounded by love every time I make a batch. (Except for the occasional cursing fit when it fails to ‘lose its sheen’ and I’m ready to pour it on the plate. Yeah, there’s that). I hope it’s years before my fudge making days are a thing of the past. And yes, Shannon makes the same fudge, so the tradition lives on.

No uniform, even pieces of fudge in this house…

Mom also bequeathed her soup gene to me. I honestly could eat soup everyday of the year. But her soup days were more determined by the seasons, mine aren’t. If I’m hungry for Bean Soup in July, I’ll be making a pot whether it’s 92 degrees or not. Mom only made Pea (whole, not split) and Bean soup during the winter months for the strangest reason. After a big snowfall, she’d get out her white enamel 4 quart soup pot, pull on her boots and coat, trudge out to the back yard and fill the pot to the very top with fresh packed snow (never yellow tinged). After the pot full of snow melted in the kitchen and she’d gone through every stinking pea or bean, deeming them worthy for our consumption, she’d toss them in the melted snow to soak overnight. Couldn’t use regular great tasting Rock Valley tap water, had to be snow. I don’t know if she thought it was softer water or if it was the fluoride in our drinking water that bothered her, but she always used snow when the peas or beans needed to be soaked.

Mom’s homemade chicken soup recipe…

I thought that whole snow business was a bunch of hooey, plus prohibited me from making some soups during warmer months, so I veered away from that strange tradition. Geez, I don’t even like looking at snow when it’s falling, let alone bring it in the house on purpose. I simply use tap water, soak my peas or beans overnight, drain, rinse and use fresh water to cook.

Mom didn’t make chili very often (neither do I-that’s Hubs department) but she did make great Vegetable Beef, Chicken Rice, Pea and Bean soups. I’ve kind of lost my taste for rice in soups the last few years though. I prefer pearl barley (pain in the ass, it’s got to be soaked like beans or quick cooked. If I’m not feeling the love of pre-soaking/cooking I just use 10 minute quick barley (hanging my head here in shame).

Can’t forget about Penuche (pe-noo-chee), brown sugar fudge…

Maybe the reason I’m prone to Mom’s soups can be explained because we live in Michigan. (Besides our endless winters like Iowa’s, I could easily melt snow most months for soaking). You know how much I enjoy reading ‘actual books’ and ‘real paper newspapers.’ I only get a real newspaper 2 days a week. (Besides my weekly Rock Valley Bee which shows up whenever it so chooses). Last Sunday I sat down with pretty good sized paper because of all the Christmas ads. Front section of the Jackson Citizen Patriot has almost of full page of weather. Local forecast for the week plus this meteorologist dude writes a couple paragraphs about some weird weather related phenomenon, or astounding snowfall amount for the poor schmucks who live in the UP.

No, not a fungus. It’s flour from rolling my loaves of bread that spilled off the counter…

I’ve been down in the dumps all week about his weather article. It just seems so much worse when I see this type of language in print. There’s a tool (besides the weatherman) in Grand Rapids which measures the amount of sunshine we get. During the month of November, there was a possibility of having 17,500 minutes of glorious sunshine in Michigan. We were blessed with 1,500 minutes of sunshine. Turn it around it’s even worse. Instead of the lowly pittance of 8% sunshine, we were graced with 92% of cloud cover during daylight hours. Oh for cripe’s sake, just shoot me now. Weather rants over, I’m spent.

Homemade bread on the rise. Hey, it’s got a cup of wheat flour in it…

Thursday morning dawned dark and dreary, surprise-surprise. Good day for chicken soup and homemade bread. John prefers me to use a whole chicken for soup (dark meat), I prefer 2 big chicken breasts with skin and bones to start. But I had thawed a chicken so simmered him for a spell. Started mixing my 3 loaves of bread and decided to eat totally healthy for the day so I threw in one cup of whole wheat flour. (That justifies the thick slices of bread and the glob of butter slathered on each one). Before that healthy bread dough needed some major smack down I cut my veggies for the soup. That’s when I was hit with such a Mom moment it almost knocked me to my (bad) knees.

Tastes great and I did give a loaf to Ari…

Chopped up a big onion, cried for awhile (just because of the onion-not Mom-induced-yet). Half a bag of shredded carrots chopped in half, measured some 10 minute barley and a handful of small noodles. Got out the celery, rinsed off 4 stalks to chop. Looked at the 5 inner, smaller stalks remaining when it hit me. Mom. She always chopped those beautiful green leaves of the celery stalks and threw them in the soup during the last couple minutes. I don’t know if it was for the taste especially, maybe for the visual appeal, added color or texture to the soup. I’ve done it oodles of times in my life, but yesterday it knocked me for a loop. Just a flood of Mom thoughts. This frequently happens when I least expect it.

It was the small container of chopped celery leaves that got to me…

Mom must have thought those celery leaves added a lot to her soup. If she had extra, she’d lay paper towels down on the counter, chop up the extra celery leaves and let them dry for a day. Store them in a container and the next time when soup was on our supper menu and she was pushed for time, she’d use the dried celery flakes from her spice cabinet. Really, how much love does this show for a simple supper of soup? I should have appreciated her more. Much more. Mom, for always adding celery leaves to our pot of chicken soup, thanks…

Penuche-uncut version…

Shannon and her 2 business partners were planning this year’s Christmas party for their associates. An afternoon open house. Shannon asked if I would make an assortment of dessert finger foods? Guest list was under 40. Well sure, doesn’t sound like an enormous amount of work. I might have however forgotten my age once again. I am baker, hear me roar. Or whimper softly. 

My peeps outshine my baking-always. Shannon and John, 2018…

Shannon wasn’t fussy, she wanted fudge without nuts, (crazy, right?) cutout frosted Christmas cookies for sure. The rest was up to my discretion-until I mentioned Pecan Tassies. “Umm nobody likes them mom.” Well right there in a pecan nutshell is what’s wrong with society today. Who doesn’t love a 3 bite piece of pecan pie? Really. I love Tassies and dread the future December when I’m no longer up for that particular task. I have been eating Tassies for a half century (unfortunately that part shows). Heck, ever since I started dating Hubs. John’s mom, Mag was great baker and excellent cook. Or maybe the other way around, an excellent baker and a great cook. 

Oh Christmas Tree, oh Christmas tree, my Tassies how I love thee…

Every Christmas season Mag made a boatload of Christmas goodies. Homemade dipped chocolates, fudge, penuche, cookies and her famous Pecan Tassies. Let me tell you right here and now. For being so dainty, delicious and cute, Tassies are a royal pain in the ass. Way too time consuming. Way. Mag had 4 aluminum Tassie (tart) pans which each held a dozen Tassie shells. The shells are a mixture of cream cheese, butter and flour which has to be chilled before the shells could be formed. You pinch off a piece the size of a small walnut, roll it around in your hand, then plop it in one of the little tart openings. Heavens no, you’re not done. Not even close. Then you carefully use your index finger to pat the dough on the bottom and build up the sides just past in each individual top opening. The filling is beaten eggs, brown sugar, melted butter, vanilla, and lots of chopped up pecans. Why anyone in their right mind makes these scrumptious tidbits on purpose is simply beyond comprehension. You bake them at one temperature for a few minutes, then lower the temp for another few minutes. Royal pain. 

Penuche, delicious and super sweet…

Newly married, without a clue on how to cook or bake anything I eagerly embraced Mag when she was in a teaching mode. She had a lot of patience with me and there was a recipe for Tassies to follow which helped. Many things I would learn to make from Mag had nothing written down, and in those instances I needed to watch, listen and write shit down because she used terms like, “you just add a little sweet gherkin juice.” What? I didn’t even know what that meant. For a 20 something clueless girl, this could be anything from a teaspoon to a half cup. So watch her closely I did. 

Learning from one of the best. Mag & I, early 1970’s…

Practice, practice, practice. Each year I got better at making Tassies. Much of the grief and angst was caused by those dang pans. If one iota of filling bubbled over the top of the shell, you literally had to bring in the chainsaw from the garage to remove that buggar from the pan-because they had melded as one. I suffered through 4 decades of those miserable stinking pans until meandering through Meijer a few years ago and spotted a Wilton non stick Tassie pan. Are you kidding me? The sucker was huge and netted 2 dozen Tassies at a time. I bought 2 pans and haven’t looked back once. The Tassies never stick. Worth every dime. Only wish I would have had these pans when I made 100 DOZEN Tassies a year. (I was a stay at home mom, friends and fellow bowlers would each order a couple dozen Tassies every Christmas. Tough way to make a buck but I always enjoyed baking). 

Well back to this year’s addition of, ‘Christmas baking with Neese.’ As recently as 5 years ago, this little baking party foray would have been easily handled in a day and a half. Not so fast there, sloth-gram. The new Neese is beginning to recognize her limitations when it comes to standing in my kitchen for hours on end. I just can’t with these bum knees. Can’t. So I made one of my famous lists, doling out these six desserts over a few days instead of 36 hours. Listed first what couldn’t be done until Saturday, then it was just a matter of going backwards to my start time. 

The nutless batch…

First was a batch of Fudge. Yeah I know it was too soon to make the candy, but I needed to practice a batch. I do soft ball stage without a thermometer, so 30 seconds either way is the difference between a  beautiful, delicious firm batch of fudge and crap you can beat for two days but will not set up. This batch turned out perfect (which bodes well baker gram) and I thought long and hard how that soft ball looked and felt on my finger, just out of the cold water. Since cookie and Tassie dough have to be chilled, I made both on Wednesday afternoon.

Thursday afternoon I baked 6-dozen-pain-in-the-butt-Tassies, freezing all but a few for the Hubs and me and the party tray I was sending-despite Shannon’s Tassie-less warning. Just something I had to do. Surely there are a few palates out in the therapy world who love these mini pecan pies as much as I do. 

So cute, so good, so dang time consuming…

Friday was a big day for getting lots done. I baked the cookies and made the frosting. I’m not one of those multi-talented folks who make 8 different cutout shapes, or uses non-pareils like there’s no tomorrow. I make 2 cookie shapes, bells and mittens-period. I dare say my frosting is better than most. I give all credit to my Kitchen Aid. I’m just the intermediary. And my cookies never touch each other once frosted (unlike my food which I like up close and personal with each other). So each cookie gets its own sandwich bag-always. In the case of this party I did buy cute cookie bags with Santa’s mug slapped on the front. I frosted the party cookies right before we left for Landon’s basketball game so the frosting would harden a bit. Bagged them when we got home. (Yes, Pioneer won easily so my star, Landon hardly played-not needed when they’re ahead by 30). 

Quite unimaginative but tasty…

Another batch of nutless fudge was on my Friday to-do list; because it’s touchy to get just right in case I needed a do-over on Saturday. My Penuche turns out perfect 98% of the time. Fudge maybe 85%, so I was assuming my Saturday batch of Penuche would be flawless. (It was). The fudge turned out great too, thus I was feeling pretty smug so I tackled the cream puffs too on Friday. They’re not much work, but I’d never made them so small before. I wanted the cream puffs to sit nicely in festive cupcake papers. A couple of them were really small which made the perfect dessert for Hubs & I with grilled hamburgers Saturday night. 

Bite size cream puffs…

Shannon was picking up all the sweet treats on Saturday at 1 and I don’t like to leave very much until the last minute. Makes me twitchy. I washed all the Christmas plates, made my favorite Cherry-Coconut-Nut bars which take like 15 minutes. Next was the Penuche (1 hour start to finish) which turned out perfect. Wasn’t worried about the filling for the Cream Puffs. I use Mom’s recipe for banana or coconut cream pie filling. Egg yolks, milk, flour, sugar, butter and vanilla. Easy-peasy. But I still needed to cut up everything but the candy and put all individual pieces in cup papers and arrange on trays. Plus drizzle chocolate over half the Cream Puffs and dust the other half with powdered sugar. Those 2 little steps would absolutely be done right before Shannon showed up. 

One of my favorites for decades…

My tiny hand held desserts came off without a hitch. Well, after dividing the work between 4 days instead of a day and a half. Sigh. Just have to accept that stuff and move on. I’m really grateful for the things I get accomplished, but sometimes it’s easy to get down because I want to do stuff like I used to. You know when I was young, full of stamina and ambition.

Hope they tasted as good as they looked…

Change is not easy. Especially when it comes to actual physical limitations. I really don’t see myself as getting older and slower. But I am. As sure as my hair continues to grow and show more gray/white. (Which hasn’t been as bad as I thought with an inch now clearly visible). Kind of makes me smile that I’m sticking to my decision. I fretted about my dang hair color for 20 years-then bam! I was simply done using hair color. Why did I stew about something so trivial for so long? I don’t have a clue. Happy baking and Merry Christmas…

It happened a long time ago,
Yet I’m quite sure of the date.
The year our family went from 5 to 4,
It was 1958.

Our dog Spitz, Larry & me, months before Larry died, 1958…

Larry had been snatched from us,
After 12 years on this earth.
I didn’t fully comprehend,
But had loved him since my birth.

Though I was only seven,
Life would never be the same.
For Larry was now up in heaven,
The year Santa Claus never came.

West side of Rock Valley, 1954. Me, Larry & Spitz…

Our house grew oh so quiet,
Larry always picked out our Christmas tree.
But Mom and Dad weren’t alone in their grief,
Shared with me and Mona Lee.

The laughter all but disappeared,
The spark from our family was gone.
We seemed to shrink within ourselves,
Everything said to each other was wrong.

Dad, Mom, me & Mona (pregnant) in 1961…

The years sped by, some sadness left,
Mona got married and I grew up.
Grandchildren were born, smiles reappeared
Our family wasn’t as lost as I feared.

The family of the boy I loved,
Knew Christmas should be shared.
Mag cooked all their favorites, plus tassies & fudge,
Comfort food to show me they cared.

Ed, Mona, Brian & Brent in 1965…

They celebrated on Christmas Eve,
With family, food and fun.
After gifts were exchanged and eating was done,
Midnight Mass to praise the birth of the Son.

I grew to love Christmas-when we had kids of our own.
Simple ornaments made with their little hands
Fillled with pride for all to see.
Still have the highest priority-upon our Christmas tree.

Christmas 1985…

You might not think about it much,
But traditions are being made.
That doesn’t mean there’s no room for change,
But the groundwork has been laid.

After our kids grew up, we had to allow
The in-laws to have a say.
Of when they choose to spend some time,
At our house and away.

My tree doesn’t change much anymore,
The ornament total is high.
No themes, no rhyme or reason
Just celebrate our Christmas season.

Still adding stockings since this picture, 2014…

I miss our hearth and mantle,
Stockings hung near our neat lake shore.
Now displayed on a goofy curtain rod
On top of the patio door.

I’m more sentimental, the older I get,
My Christmas’s left are numbered.
My throat gets tight when I reminisce
The tears come frequent and quick.

Our own family of five in 1982…

I’m grateful to God who lets me stay,
On earth for yet another day.
I try my best to make them count
Being good, being kind and to pray.

I think about my past a lot,
Messed up Gerritson’s we’d become
Larry, Mom & Dad-now Mona too,
From a family of 5-down to one…

We were happy at Lake Okoboji in 1957…

In January, 2015 I wrote a story called The Burbs. The time frame from this post was during 1987-1994, when we lived in Jackson the first time. That move was significant in many ways. First time we ever moved from our native state of Iowa. (We never thought we’d still be in Michigan 32 years later). I had a great group of friends in Davenport. Leaving the Quad Cities was very emotional for the whole family, and moving the kids was tough on us. They were 16, 12 & 8. Heavy emphasis on tough for the one who had just turned 16.

Great house on McCain Road with awesome neighbors, 1990…

My story on The Burbs was more about my neighbors on McCain Road. I was in my mid-30’s with 3 kids in school. It was easy to meet people. Maybe the root of my loner-ness in recent years has been caused by my hearing loss, but I blame much of it on my age. At least for me, it’s harder to meet and develop lasting relationships when you’re over 60. Everyone my age already has their inner circle of friends. They don’t need another friend to fill a gap in their life. It’s just easier to stay home. But I wasn’t like this 30 years ago. I considered myself quite outgoing. There have been significant changes.

The Burbs house was located in a huge oval subdivision, consisting of about 60 homes. Every lot was about an acre so these homes weren’t very close together. Hard to believe, but at the time I knew the occupants (by name) in at least 50 of those homes. (Fast forward 30 years. We’ve been back in Jackson for 3 years. I know 5 neighbors by name. First name only-of 4 of them). Much of this is my fault. Hubs wanders around the yard, spraying, weeding, mowing, watering. Next thing I know, he’s been talking to a neighbor or a couple out walking for 15 minutes. (Though he doesn’t always remember their names. Chalk one up for me). But that’s just not me anymore. For starters, I’m rarely outdoors unless I’m sitting on the deck, trimming errant branches off new landscaping or weeding my pachysandra bed. Conversing is tough for me. If there’s any distractions, cars going past, wind, tire drone off nearby I-94, or lawn mowers in the background, I miss much of the conversation.

Joshua with grandma Mag before tree taken out and poured patio, 1988

Now about those neighbors on McCain Road. Three of them would be of key importance in my life. Two of the gals, Diane & Elissa are my age and all of us had kids around the same age. Mildred was twice my age, we were as different as night and day, yet we became close friends for a lifetime. After we moved 150 miles west seven years later, every time I came to Jackson to visit Shannon, I spent time at Mildred’s house and went out for breakfast or lunch with Diane.

Mildred passed away in 2006, so our friendship lasted 20 years. She had two children, 5 grandchildren and several greats by then. After Mildred’s family divided up what they wanted and were ready to dispense with the contents and sell her home, I was invited over before the sale. I could choose a couple things that reminded me of Mildred. One item was a small watercolor which hung in the bathroom I used when I stayed with her.

My dear friend Mildred, the classiest woman I’ve ever known…

The other item given to me was one of her plants. Mildred mentioned the plant numerous times through the years. It was given to her by her relatives decades before. She said it was 50 years old when we were neighbors. Let’s just round that date off to 1990, making that plant about 80 years old now. And I almost killed it. I’m a horrible person.

The plant (I named her Millie, I’m so original) wasn’t exactly a raving beauty before she came to reside with me. Mildred had a lovely family room and spent a lot of time in there. The room had an enormous picture window overlooking her lovely backyard. Millie (the plant) spent winters sitting in that window, getting some much needed light during Michigan’s gloomiest season. During the summer, Mildred would move Millie out to her covered patio. There she sat, lopsided, root bound in an old clay pot, pushing out new growth in spite of no preferential treatment. None.

Mildred’s egg coddlers, made in England. No, I’ve never made eggs in them…

So I lugged home the chair I sat in during our visits, the egg coddlers (yes, they’re a real thing) an indigo blue teapot, her hand tailored wedding dress (still trying to get ahold of family who might want to reclaim it. I am hesitant to get rid of the dress, but recently have considered donating it to a lady who makes baby gowns from old wedding dresses for parents whose babies were stillborn). Conundrum. Plus guilt.

Mildred’s everyday teapot, we had tea together often…

I’ve never had much of a green thumb. You could probably tell that when I said I’m not keen on being outside. I’d rather be inside, reading, cooking, canning or baking. Or doing nothing. I’m really good at that. But under my care, Mildred’s Christmas Cactus responded splendidly. Millie was huge and magnificent. Repotting her helped a lot. I’m just anal enough to be enormously bothered by a lopsided plant. I bought a pretty pot, threw in new soil, fertilizer, plopped Millie in there ramrod straight. She was quite appreciative and graced me with hundreds of gorgeous red blooms twice a year. Usually between Halloween and Thanksgiving, and during the spring around Easter. This relationship flourished for ten years.

2015 was stressful but good. We finally got an offer on our house in North Muskegon and closed on it late that summer. We purged numerous pickup loads, embracing our upcoming move and welcomed the downsizing, instead of cringing on what we were leaving behind, selling or giving away. (It was hard. I had grown unhealthily attached to stuff). Shannon and Tracey had generously offered us sanctuary while we renovated our new little home before it was habitable. Yikes, it was pretty bad. We stored everything but the clothes on our backs, (ok, that’s a bit of a stretch but pretty close) and my plants, which I plopped on Shannon’s front porch and promptly forgot.

Millie, in all her glory, 2013. I almost killed her a couple years later….

Six weeks later, mid-October we hired movers for a second time (no, once was not enough) to pick up everything from storage and cram (still) too much stuff in our yet, unfinished house. As I was loading plants in my Jeep I noticed all my African violets were beyond saving. I felt really bad because they were gifted to me, but I was encouraged because Mildred’s Christmas Cactus looked pretty good. I snagged an antique oak plant stand from the movers, set Millie in a south window while we unpacked, moved things around, finished enlarging the master bedroom, and got carpet installed.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching and I was trying to figure out how to feed our family of 13 in a 4 person dining room when I realized there were no buds on Millie. Strange and disturbing. Besides no blooms peeking, my whole plant looked weary, worn out, pale & pooped. (Kind of like Hubs and I after feverishly remodeling for 2 months). Come to think of it, I’d felt her soil several times in recent weeks, never giving any thought that she never needed watering. In fact, the dirt was still sopping wet after being inside and not watered once for several weeks.

The watercolor I was given was Mildred’s estate, 2006…

I was beginning to panic about losing Millie. Realistically it was impossible because I had trimmed her numerous times during our decade together and ‘started’ many baby plants with the clippings. So Mildred’s heirs lived on and I knew where the adoptees had been placed. All three of my kids had Mildred’s young-uns (although Shannon keeps trying to kill hers. She’s good with plants except for Millie Jr. Dr. Shannon’s either too busy healing people or baby Millie is lonesome for her mama and me so she periodically comes to stay for extended visits. Both boy’s plants continue to thrive). Still-it’s not the same. I didn’t want to lose the original mother plant.

I needed help. One of my old Rock Valley school buddies, Marlys Etter’s hands are all green thumbs (yes, she looks strange but Marlys is oblivious, so play along). I asked her what I could do to save Millie? She said, “she’s drowning Neese. No matter how long you wait, that soil is not going to dry up. The roots of your plant are literally rotting. Get her out of there now. Save what you can. Start with some gravel, new soil and plant the greenest, driest clippings you can salvage.”

Yup, between moving twice in 8 weeks, I let 4 gorgeous African Violets die…

That was 3 years ago. (Sarah & Adam’s beautiful Cactus, Millie Jr. Jr. Jr. is doing exceptionally well, and Sarah’s offered me clippings for a starter plant. But I held out, hoping I could nudge Matriarch Millie back to her feisty self). No, I didn’t lose the original plant. But she’s a shell of her former self. Maybe the word I’m looking for is dormant. It’s like she was in shock (sick from my neglect) and needed to ‘lay low’ until she felt better. Three years. No more summers outdoors either. Millie was royally ticked but I stood firm. She had the life of Riley in North Muskegon. Covered and protected by our front porch where she got tons of light but stayed out of direct sun, wind and rain. But the front and back of our house now offers no protection, so Millie’s spending all of her summers indoors. Period.

The beginning of November this year I noticed something. Millie seemed bigger, greener, taller. And what were those tiny growths on the end of some of her fronds? Oh my stars! She’s pushing out buds like there’s no tomorrow. While Millie’s top heavy in some spots, kinda frail looking elsewhere, and definitely not yet needing a trim, she looks fully recovered and healthy. My Millie’s back and right on schedule…

She is a bit lopsided, but Millie’s made it back from the brink, 2018. Thanks Mar…