Magdalene Viola was born 109 years ago today. Wow! That’s hard to believe. And makes me feel ancient. Mag’s eldest child (Elenore) recently passed away just before her 89th birthday, so the dates must be right. Mag was my mother-in-law from 1969 to 1994. She would have continued in that capacity if she were still alive.

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She was the oldest child of eight born to Ralph and Carrie. Seven children would make it to adulthood, losing a toddler brother with a ruptured appendix. Mag’s early years were a bit unusual. Shortly after Ralph & Carrie married in northwest Iowa, and were expecting Magdalene, Ralph up and left to herd sheep in Colorado. What? Odd for a couple of reasons. Why didn’t he take his new pregnant wife with him or at least wait until Carrie gave birth? What did Carrie live on? Did Ralph send money home? Did they write love letters? Don’t know the answers to any of these questions unfortunately, but if Mag’s next oldest boys (Jim & Les) have any insight, I’ll probably hear about it.

I think Ralph was awol from their marriage and parenthood for about 5 years. Guess the sheep all grew up and left the herd. Can you imagine that reunion? Might have gotten a warm reception from Carrie, but I don’t think Magdalene was very excited to meet a father she didn’t know at all. The marriage endured however, blessing 7 more children to this union.

I’m sure the dynamics changed drastically once Ralph reappeared and the family’s population exploded. Mag, older by several years was expected to help with the little ones, plus household cleaning and cooking. Whenever she spoke of her siblings when Hubs and I were around, it was with great affection. Not that she hung around home very long. She was in a serious relationship (engaged) when something happened and they broke up. She soon met Jim, the 2 quickly became an item. They got married on Jim’s 22 birthday in July of 1929. Mag was 19.

Jim & Mag were rather nomadic during the first years of wedded bliss. The early 1930’s, the height of the Great Depression. I think Elly was born in Sioux Center. For awhile they had farm in Minnesota which was lost under very questionable circumstances. Once they landed in the small town of Rock Valley, Iowa, they finally put down roots. Though they moved from one rental to the next (until they built their ranch in 1958) as their family expanded, they found no reason to keep looking for home. They had a home. It was Rock Valley.

Jim and Mag would similarly mimic Ralph & Carrie in the births and spacing of their children. After the birth of Elly in 1930 it would be about 5 years before James Roger would join the trio. Leslie Dale is 7 years younger than Jimmy. Only 3 years would separate Les and Arlyn, who was born in 1944. I’m fairly certain they thought their family was complete after Arlyn. Magdalene was 34 with a kids ranging from a teenager to a newborn. She needed/wanted to work to help out the family budget.

But there was one more hiccup in store for the Van Berkum’s. Exactly one week after turning 38, Magdalene Viola would give birth to Johnny Wayne. Surprise-surprise! His older sister Elly was 18 and graduating from high school soon. (This dude would become my husband in another 21 years).

John was more or less left to his own devices when he was growing up. Jim & Mag were working hard to provide for their household of 7. As a youngster John learned to cook his own meals. He knew more about cooking by age 10 than I did when I did when we got married. (I wasn’t really sure how to boil water in 1969. Or 1970. But I did learn-eventually. To boil water- and cook a decent meal).

It was far from Mag’s first rodeo when she became my mother-in-law in 1969. Elly had been married for almost 2 decades and had 4 children. (Their oldest son is a couple years younger than me!) Jimmy and Eleanor were married with 3 kids, Les & Mary Jane had been married for 4 years and just had their first daughter, Kristin. Arlyn, although 4 years older than Hubs got married shortly after us. Mag, the mother-in-law was the polar opposite of my Mom in most respects. Mag was happy to let John and I figure out our own marriage. She didn’t hover, wasn’t nosey, was happy to see us if we showed up on a weekend, but not devastated if we had other plans. She was simply living her life and letting us live ours.

After Mag retired she needed something to fill the hours besides making meals for Jim, babysitting for the grands and Bingo. She signed up to be a foster grandparent for children with special needs at Hope Haven. She found this job/mission/calling immensely rewarding and continued working for many years until her health (diabetes) started failing.

Mag was a good cook and terrific baker. As a rule, she rarely measured ingredients, but when she was in a teaching mode, would place her unique style on the shelf to speak in layman’s terms, scrounge around to find her set of measuring cups and spoons. All so this young, inept married girl could learn how to make meals for her baby boy. Happy Heavenly Birthday Mag. Hope they’re serving cake…

After living in mid-Michigan for 7 years, Hubs found another job. We tried valiantly to move back to Iowa but the couple of prospects John was pursuing didn’t pan out. Instead the state’s western shore of Lake Michigan was luring us. About 160 miles west and north of Jackson-maybe a twitch closer to Iowa, but not much. What we gained in heading west, we lost by moving north.

You wouldn’t think 150 miles one direction or another would result in much change but it did. Everything from the difference in soil to how our TV preferences were handled. (Grand Rapids, 45 miles from Muskegon held the television strings with TV stations, which in turn deemed NYPD Blue to risqué for their Dutch population. So for a couple years we had friends tape in Jackson ‘from the sinner TV stations in Lansing’ and send it to us. Just kill me now. Obviously I was not mature enough to turn the channel to eliminate such filth, thus really appreciated WZZM’s to make that decision for me). We would be moving without Shannon and Ariana who were living in Lansing. Shannon was about to graduate from Michigan State with her (first 2 of 4, following with her masters degree in psychology, then doctorate-yikes) double major degrees in psychology and broadcast journalism. Joshua was in college too and working part time. We had 2 goals as we were house hunting. Well, I had one and Hubs had 1. Our youngest kid, Adam, was heading into his sophomore year, a tough time to move. (Ironically, all three kids had to change high schools in the 10th grade. Yes, we were terrible parents). So we wanted to find a good school fit for him. Don’t know if we did him any favors but at the time I was convinced that the larger the school district, the more likely he was to do a couple of things:

1. Fall through the cracks and shuffle his way through.

2. Fall in with the wrong crowd and turn out shitty.

3. He did neither, turned out fine, graduated from Western Michigan.

Hubs was fascinated with water. Ugh. He was determined to live on one of the many lakes in the area. I was not so smitten. (Although I love looking at the water, I’m not so inclined to BE on water) Odd as it sounds, neither of us were gung-ho about living on Lake Michigan itself. While one of the most beautiful natural resources in the world, most of the homes on the big lake were not affordable to mere mortals. While breathtaking, many homes on the north side of Muskegon Lake were located on high bluffs requiring 75 steps to get to the water, plus you really couldn’t have a dock. Ok, the main reason Hubs wanted to live ‘on water’ was to have a boat (yes it’s true, boats are one big money pit), but if we couldn’t dock the boat at our house, we had to pay for a seasonal boat slip, which is very expensive. The homes on Lake Michigan on the south side of Muskegon Lake were on flatter ground but most were part of much bigger school districts. We looked in Grand Haven, Spring Lake, Whitehall, Montague and North Muskegon.

I thought Spring Lake or Grand Haven looked inviting until we really started spending time in both towns. Quaint shopping districts, Mom & Pop dives, small town feel, but the traffic was unrelenting/unbelievable and notched up my rage for inanimate objects. The main thoroughfare was highway 31, a north/south 4 lane-smack dab in the middle of town. With one drawbridge eager to snarl traffic for hours during the summer months. Both towns have major vacation/tourism appeal compared to Muskegon. I know not why. Both (lumping Grand Haven and Spring Lake together) have the same stunning Lake Michigan shore line, but for some reason Muskegon is shut out in garnering the market on summer visitors.

Heading north on 31 was Whitehall and nearby Montague. Both smaller towns with nice lake access but had nothing available in our price range when we were looking. Our best bet sat just north of Muskegon called, aptly enough, North Muskegon. A snooty, old money town of 4,000 with their own good sized body of water called Muskegon Lake. (How did they ever come up with these unusual names?) Parts of North Muskegon are only several blocks wide because a smaller body of water (Bear Lake) lounged there. Each lake had access to Lake Michigan via boat, but your boat better not be very big if you lived on Bear Lake because you had to maneuver under a low bridge first. Both homes we had interest in were in North Muskegon Public school district, which we decided was our number one choice for Adam. Small school, great graduation rate, ranked high in the state.

Bear Lake was my choice. The small, shallow lake was attractive as you looked from your back yard down a few steps to the water. It’s size lent a cozy, neighborhood feel as you could easily see the houses right across the lake from you. John hated it. Too small, not deep enough, boat size was determined by that damn bridge. Plus he hated the house I liked. An addition (attractive), but built on a slab was the clincher. The lake house Hubs was leaning towards was 2 years old (now how are my hundred year old oak antiques supposed to look in a brand new house with no character or charm?) It rested at the bottom of a steep hill, a comma shaped cul-de-sac consisting of 7 homes, all virtually new. Right on Muskegon Lake, facing south. The lake offered a great view, but across the lake was a rather weary piece of Muskegon. Some kind of gigantic, ugly elevator type structure. I was not impressed.

John got his way. He preferred Muskegon Lake, liked the area better, the newness of the house. My take was this card carrying grudge holder (me) would take approximately 5 years to warm up to this house. (If nothing else, I am consistent). But the Hubs called it right on this one. Though the views across the lake during the day weren’t exactly spectacular, the views at night made up for it. Next to the ugly warehouse thingy was an area showing great promise. It’s called Heritage Landing, a place for concerts, fireworks, festivals, none of which meant very much to me. But there was an abundance of vintage street lights around Heritage Landing. Those lights at night would shimmer all the way to our shoreline if there wasn’t much wind. Made for some very stunning pictures and memories. The night view from Bear Lake was pretty much blacked out depending on whatever house/yard lights from the opposite shore to light up on the water.

Besides boat ownership, my least favorite part of lake living was when the surface water was no longer in liquid form. Oh those damn ice fishermen used to drive me bonkers. Part of the appeal of lake living is the view. Watch rolling white caps blow in during the day, fishing boats idling by, 1,000 foot tankers headed for the BC Cobb plant to drop off tons of coal. No curtains/drapes/window treatments adorned our windows to the south beside bathrooms and 2 bedrooms.

But during the winter was a whole different story. It would be a couple of years before we could afford to bring in some fill and add a sea wall to prevent further erosion. Because our lot was fairly flat and next to one of the few remaining empty lots left on the lakeshore, multitudes of 4-wheelers and snowmobiles saw our property as an easy on/off ramp to haul their shit setting up their ice fishing city. Rude dudes. Zipping right over our back yard, back and forth all night long. So glad when the ice finally broke up in March.

Home ownership on a lake should require signing a prenup. Things you may not think about when you’re overly enthusiastic about living on water for the first time and in your early 40’s. You don’t realize how much work is involved or you might reconsider. Everything from trying to grow a lawn of weed free green grass when you have 4 inches of topsoil covering 8 feet of sand (water, water & more water) to constantly repairing sprinkler heads clogged with sand. The most work however is your shoreline. Sea wall maintenance, invasive weeds, putting in 100 plus feet of dock every spring, hauling it back out in October. By July when the heat really hits the area, seaweed floats to your shore (like standing in line for the lady’s restroom at Wrigley Field. Much too long if you’ve really got to pee). Dark green, stinky, unattractive. (the seaweed not your pee). If you want to utilize your beautiful lakefront, you’ve got to haul that crap out of the water to dry and get rid of it.

After 20 years, now in our 60’s, these jobs that are part of lake living proved to be too much. We still had options, hire it done, bite the bullet and continue doing the work-or move. And that’s where we found ourselves a few years ago. The lake appeal had long since faded. The second floor stairway (including our fabulous master suite) was tough on our joints, up & down several times a day. The rest of our family (3 kids, spouses and our 4 grandkids) lived 3 hours east. Since we were both semi-retired, we were on the road almost every week to visit, attend a function, game, or babysit. We decided to sell and move closer to our clan. It wasn’t a tough decision. We enjoyed living on the lake but the pull was now geared to family. At first the kids, especially the grands were disappointed. They loved the water, especially a trip to Lake Michigan’s sandy beach, but we have not regretted our decision to give up living on the lake for one minute. We are where we’re supposed to be. And loving it…

While it’s certainly been a long time for me personally (try 5 decades), hopefully this current phenomenon hasn’t dwindled low enough to be endangered or more dubiously threatened with extinction yet. What’s going on? We could be on the brink of a world collapse. Let me expound.

I’ve been going to high school basketball games since Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) made the varsity team as a freshman four years ago. They play 20 games a year, (not counting tournament play after the regular season). Over half of the games are against rivals in their own conference. Let’s say 56 conference games in the span of 4 years. That’s playing the same teams, twice a year, leaving about 25 games in the same time frame against different opponents. Everywhere from Traverse City to inner city Detroit schools. Not singling out Pioneer here, it’s one of the top high schools in the state academically. It is however the school I visit most often. Pioneer is a large, diverse, urban school of about 2,000 students, freshmen through senior. These are observations by a curious, interested, somewhat discouraged grandma. 

I remember sitting in our newly constructed elementary school (during the late ‘50’s, pretty sure it was Myrna Ver Hoef’s second grade class. It’s been torn down and replaced, yeah, I’m that old). The hallway outside our classroom door led to the cafeteria, so students from all ages/classes meandered/scurried past on their way for much needed sustenance to get through the rest of the day. The door to my room was open and I watched ‘the big high school kids’ walking, talking, laughing, flirting until suddenly humbling themselves seriously to the mercy of the lunchroom gestapo police, Mrs. Haas, the lunch ticket lady. (For whom I had great fear if my lunch ticket had run out and I had to ‘charge’ my meal. I’d rather face the firing squad). It was game day and I was fascinated, envious, smitten and in awe of the cheerleaders. Cute orange and black uniforms, skirts barely covering their knees, Bobbie socks folded down, white tennis shoes. Perfect hair and makeup. They were just so together. I knew right then I wanted to be a cheerleader. 

Who remembers Friday afternoon pep rallies? What a blast from the past. Lasting about half an hour before we were dismissed for the weekend. But before you could make plans for Saturday, a big Friday night game (football or basketball) awaits. Athletes dressed up on game days. Cheerleaders, donning our uniforms held a pep rally with a mixture of cheers, and short inspiring ‘pep’ talks from team members or coaches (sometimes including a sermonette from Mr. Liaboe on what kind of behavior he expected from students during the game. Lucky us). The object of the pep rally was enthusiastically engaging Rocket booster students to show support for our team/school that night during the game. Didn’t matter who we were playing (although we hated Sioux Center more than the rest of our opponents-combined). The whole high school was excited about a pep rally-because it got you out of class early. Who didn’t want that on a Friday afternoon? I loved pep rallies. Watching our entire high school mingling on the bleachers, screaming out memorized cheers in unison. 

It was common to have 2 bus loads of kids signed up to ride a pep bus for an away game because most of the student population went to every game. I know we were from a small town with a relatively small school, but still. Taking an active, supportive role in attending sporting events drew us together. A neat kind of warm (cool) bond. Some of my fondest junior high and high school memories resulted from riding our pep bus. If the Rockets suffered a loss we might have a quiet ride back to Rock Valley, but with a win we were assured of everyone’s loud, hoarse, raspy voice being heard throughout the trip home. Such great times. The last time I passed a bus load of high school kids headed somewhere during the day, every single kid had his/her head down-practically in their lap. On their phone, in their own little world, while their best friends sat right next to them-doing exactly the same thing. Sad. 

Pioneer has 2 big city rivalries, Huron and Skyline. We play them each twice a year. Four times a season, wherever those games are held, the gym is packed. Four games out of 20. The rest of the games, depending on the night and opponent might garner a hundred and fifty students. Might. I think one of the attributing factors is cheerleaders. Or lack there of. Throughout Landon’s high school basketball career, approximately 80 games, I’ve seen a dozen, maybe 15 schools with cheerleaders at the game we’re attending. This. Blows. My. Mind. No it really-just blows. 

What has happened to school spirit? I simply can’t wrap my head around the lack of cheerleaders for sporting events in school systems. When I was in high school (about 200 kids) cheerleading tryouts were very competitive, nerve racking, with an over abundance of girls clamoring for the highly coveted spots. It was a big deal. Huge. Deal. Shannon cheered during high school and participated in several cheerleading competitions every year. Cheerleaders are still a highly competitive, active group at the college level, so what’s happened in some of the high schools? Can the size of a high school be a contributing factor? Is size detrimental? 

In a high school of 2,000 students, I hope there would be at least 8 beaming, spirited young women (or guys) who should be thrilled and damn proud to wear their school colors in cheerleading uniforms-on game day. Can it be cost? If I remember, I think Mom paid for most of my uniform (skirt, shoes, knee socks and jacket) but I believe the school paid for sweaters, which were worn more than one season. Is it sexism?  Not cool for girls to wear short skirts and skimpy tops. Bring back mid-thigh skirts (or leggings) and sweaters. Apathy? The crowd of kids simply are not enthusiastic about high school sports anymore. Lack of a coach? I’m at a loss here. And disheartened about it. 

Then again, if only a hundred kids show up in support for the non-rivalry games, cheerleading must not be much fun either. I can’t remember the last time I actually saw a cheerleading squad run out on the floor in between quarters or at half time to perform a rousing cheer. There were cheerleaders at our last 2 games (not Pioneer, haven’t seen cheerleaders since Landon’s sophomore year). Huron had a dozen gals on the sidelines. Monroe had 4 who walked along the bleachers and threw out T-shirts. Oh yeah, one of the girls did 6 backflips in a row, spelling out M-O-N-R-O-E while the other 3 shouted out the letters on the sidelines. Yay. Glum.

Cheerleaders are the conduit between fans and athletes during sporting events. (But you do have to encourage the fans to get out there and support the team too). A small way of connecting hard working athletes with the student body population. As one unified group. For a couple hours there are no cliques, just kids supporting other kids. I hope high school cheerleading squads make a comeback. That they are encouraged and supported by school administrators, teachers, counselors and their peers. Mentored and coached until they find some bubbling enthusiasm for high school sports once again. Rah-rah-rah…

At the time I certainly didn’t think we were rough & tough. No one did. If you were brought up in Northwest Iowa, several ‘givens’ describing our little corner of the world were assumed to go along with our lifestyle.

1. We had the best soil in the world for growing crops. When you drove beside the farmer’s field your eyes feasted on the richest, darkest black color dirt on the planet. 
2. When one mentioned living and loving ‘all 4 seasons’ of Iowa, they meant it. The 2 minor seasons, (understudies) spring and fall were simply expected to show up every year. Length of stay wasn’t of consequence as long as you could state, “yeah we had spring last week Tuesday & Wednesday.” Then the heat and humidity found its way to Iowa and settled for a spell.
3. Fall would manage an obligatory visit after we (the locals) whined long and loud enough about the damn heat & humidity.
4. And then came winter. And stayed. And stayed. Lingered until it was almost unbearable. Like the unwanted houseguest who wouldn’t leave. Or ever heard of the saying about over-staying your welcome and smelling of fish. Yet we knew no different. It was just another Iowa winter. 

But we never gave winter much thought. It was a time when the fields rested. The land and the farmers needed the rest, (the other 3 seasons involved the bulk of their work) after feeding the world for another year. Growing up I never fully understood just how cold it was-and stayed that way for months. It was a common sight to see several cars parked at the grocery store. Cars unlocked, devoid of people-but running while their driver ran in to buy necessities. There was no fear back then of your car getting stolen. Another common sight was an electrical cord hanging outside on the grill of your car. What? I know, it looked weird. Cars were prone not to start on frigid mornings unless you kept the car plugged in during the night. I think there were a couple different methods used. The heaters either kept the fluids in your radiator warm or the oil warm with a “hot dipstick.” Some folks had the dealer install a heat pump before they’d take their new car off the lot! 

No way around it we got a lot of snow. Usually fell sideways, zipping in from the west, namely Nebraska. Iowa’s not known for an abundance of trees, so there was nothing to break the wind from storming through. My home town of Rock Valley had such wide streets, the snow piles from the side streets were piled skyward in the middle of main street. For months you were unable to see if your one of your friends happened to be shopping on the other side of the business district, because the snow was piled so high. 

The snow even sounds different when the temperature hits a certain (low/frigid/subhuman) degree. (I don’t know the exact temp it has to be to sound like this, but in Iowa these temps lasted a couple months, namely January and February. But not unheard of in April once in awhile either). Not like the cute little ‘slup’ when your foot hits wet packing snow in Michigan. More like noisy popping corn, or crunchy peanut brittle being chewed by the unmannered. It sounds cold when you’re walking or driving on it. We’ve been in Michigan for 30 years and one morning this week as we were backing out of the driveway, John said, “man that sounds like Iowa snow.” One of the few times we’ve heard that particular noise since we’ve been here. Not a sound I’ve missed by a long shot since we left our native state. 

Rock Valley didn’t have many snow days when I was in school. Normally it wasn’t the below zero temps or the amount of snow that would determine school closing, but more importantly the miles per hour of the (sideways-westerly) winds while it was snowing. Wasn’t uncommon to see drifts reaching the roof of some homes accompanied by completely bare ground nearby. These drifts were a better indicator whether we’d be in or out of school for the day. Surrounding country roads would be completely blocked off from the rest of the world for a day or 2.

Our school district was not above cheating the town kids out of sleeping in and staying home either. Half our town’s population lived out in the country. The great Iowa farmers. (They had to do something during winter’s downtime so they made babies). The gravel roads would be impassable so Rock Valley Community would say, “the busses are not running, but you townies get your butts in to school so we can notch another day towards our 180 state mandated total.” Thugs. Used to just infuriate me. So unfair. Sure enough after a couple days the state and county road crews would have the roads clear enough for school bus service to run again. 

I don’t remember what year the higher-ups (superintendent, principal, school board, maybe even some local preachers) saw the light about our dress code, but I think I was in high school, so mid to late-60’s. Meaning all those miserable winter blizzards, with gale force winds and below zero temps for days on end, we had to wear skirts to school. I’d like to know what yahoo thought that was conducive to a girls learning process. Yikes. 

Snow storms and blizzards meant different things to those living in the Gerritson home besides a possible day off from school. Dad worked for the Iowa State Highway Commission, meaning it was his job to plow highways 18 & 75. Blizzards meant one thing, often resulting in OVERTIME. Yay, we loved overtime. Well, maybe not Dad as much as Mom and I. Dad’s boss, Harry Hewitt must have gotten up every hour during the night to check how much, how fast the snow was accumulating and more importantly how hard the wind was blowing. 

When we first moved to 15th Street, there was only one phone in our house. It was in the kitchen. The stairs leading to the bedrooms were wicked steep with a poltergeist inhabiting the sharp turn near the top step, trying to trip up whoever was disturbing his domain. After Larry died we all slept upstairs. Middle of the night, I’d wake up to the sound of a far away phone-rriinngg, rriinngg. You didn’t have to hurry (no answering machine) because Harry was patient and waited until Mom or Dad stumbled downstairs to pick up the bright orange wall phone. Wasn’t a long conversation, just informing whoever Rich was needed as soon as possible. Once in a while it was snowing so hard Dad couldn’t make it to the State shop (about 10 blocks away) in our car. First man to reach the shop would hop in a truck and plow his way to pick up the rest of the guys. Wasn’t long before Mom had (Ma Bell?) install a phone upstairs which sat primly on the night stand in between their twin beds. (I wasn’t above silently picking up that extension phone to listen to either one of them talking. In my defense they did the same thing to me).

Mom always made Dad’s dinner (Mom called it, making his lunch pail) the night before, wrapped snugly in waxed paper, sitting in the fridge. A banana sat on the table, (wrapped in waxed paper too so the smell wouldn’t seep into his buttered Hillbilly bread-American cheese sandwich). But the smell did seep. Dad’s whole lunch pail smelled like a banana. Always). Dad ate the same lunch 9 days out of 10. On the the tenth day he’d get 2 peeled, hard boiled eggs, each wax paper wrapped like individual hard candies. Another smaller, twisted piece of wax paper contained approximately 50 grains of salt for his eggs. Dad’s black metal lunch pail sat wide open on the table waiting for the fridge items and his thermos of fresh coffee to be locked in place in his lunch pail lid. 

When I opened my paper this week there was a picture of some governor (I don’t even think he’s from an ice cold, snow producing state, maybe Kentucky) making a statement how he thinks people are getting soft about winter weather. If I look back on my youth, I might have to agree. Hubs and I WALKED everywhere all winter long on our dates. We’d duck into a small notch outside of the Catholic Church, away from the wind and not close enough to the street for anyone to see us. That was our make-out spot. (Hubs purposefully wore no gloves so he could try for second base). If I was at his house during the evening and the weather was utterly brutal, his dad might give me a ride home. Never let Hubs drive me home, didn’t trust him with his car, but if Jim was still awake, I’d get a ride. 

Things are different now. Times change. Twenty-four hour TV weather stations are commonplace. And they tend to sensationalize every weather pattern. I remember several years ago, The Weather Channel’s Jim Catore was spotted walking in downtown Des Moines, Iowa. The headlines of “The Register” the next morning read something like, “Oh no, Jim’s in town!” Meaning he was there for some ‘epic’ weather pattern and wanted the rest of the U.S. to give their FULL, UNDIVIDED ATTENTION to him on whatever was plaguing Des Moines at the time. They wanted everyone to experience it with Des Moines. But that wasn’t exciting enough for the weather dudes. Why limit only hurricanes with catchy alphabetical names? Let’s start naming snow storms. This is just unbelievably lame in my book. It’s merely a snow storm, nothing more or less. But a snow storm with a name (anticipated for days ahead of time) sounds much more ominous doesn’t it? Think scared straight. 

We didn’t have the term ‘polar vortex’ as part of Iowa speak. The weather dude on Channel 11 in Sioux Falls or Channel 4 in Sioux City would simply say, “we’re in for a cold snap, or cold spell.” Right there was enough to let everyone know to bundle up their kids really warm before they went outside or had to walk 9 miles to school. While some really appreciate the educated Meteorologist of today stating the snow will start precisely at exactly 6:11 as opposed to the local weatherman of the ‘60’s muttering, “we’re gonna start seeing some snow right at supper time, so it would be a good idea to stay home tonight.” I’m really not on board with all the hype they constantly spew. Why does the weather department have to be called ‘Storm Team 8?’ 

You can say all you want about knowledge equating power, but some of the changes in the world have not benefited us. Some have been a detriment making us fearful and soft…