Most days this is the way a conversation gets started at our house. Hubs leads with, “Hey, what you doin today?”

Me: “Well, I’d like to go to Meijer either today or tomorrow for a few minutes and buy some sweet corn. It’s on sale this week. Can you help me with freezer corn?”

Hubs: “Sure, how much are you planning on getting? You always buy too much.”

Me: “I looked in my canning journal and we did 5 dozen ears last year. But we still have 6 bags left, so I thought 3 dozen ears plus 4 for supper might be enough this year.”

Hubs: “Sounds about right. Let me know when you wanna go. I’ll ride along so you don’t have to lift that heavy wooden box.”

Me: “Thanks, did you have anything planned?”

Hubs: “Well, I should drive down and check Shannon’s office buildings to see if I need to mow again with all the rain we’ve had this week.”

Me: “You could swing by Hinkley’s and get me some donut holes while you’re in the area. You haven’t stopped there in months.”

I really don’t know why I planted that seed. He’s the bakery nut, not me. Never saw a donut he didn’t like. I much prefer homemade goodies, German Chocolate cake, cupcakes, fruit or cream pies, bars (not the drinking establishments) but the gooey goodness of a pan of cherry, rhubarb, raisin spice, or brownies.

Yet there’s something special about Hinkley’s. It’s not the first bakery I’ve craved/lusted after during my life. First there was Van Olst’s Bakery in Rock Valley, which really had an unfair advantage over this wayward youth. The Bakery was literally one block from my house. The smell of fresh, sweet Cinnamon Rolls, Almond Patties, Bismarck’s, Date Bars, Glazed Donuts, Long John’s, and homemade sliced/unsliced Bread wafted to and through our house late every night but Saturday. No kid is born with that kind of willpower. I stopped there almost every Friday night after football or basketball games. Standing around talking, watching Papa Van Olst and his adult/almost grown kids knead, shape, slice, bake, frost and fill trays for their next morning’s opening. Always bought a treat before I’d head home. Fond memories of a very special family’s dedication to their thriving small business.

The next time I became fixated on a bakery was when we lived in Davenport during the 80’s. (Although Hubs and all 3 kids had a real ‘thing’ for Super America’s donuts when we lived in Spencer. It was a GAS STATION. How can they even be considered seriously as a bakery? The family was simply blindsided by the over use of sprinkles). A hole in the wall a few blocks from our house called Mount Ida Bakery. Our family’s favorite until Shannon discovered the sweet treat she was devouring was sporting half of a wasp. Talk about freaking out. Yikes. None of us wanted to imagine where the other half of the wasp was exactly. That ended our frequent trips/fond addiction to Mount Ida.

We frequented a neat old bakery in Muskegon called Ryke’s. Their cakes were legendary. We brought a full size sheet cake (frosted with different shades and sized purple polka dots) for Ari’s high school graduation party. We lived in North Muskegon for over 20 years and I dare say Ryke’s changed ownership at least 3 times. Just felt like it wasn’t the same anymore the last few years we lived there.

And then there’s Hinkley’s Bakery in Jackson, Michigan. A grand old unique institution. Opened in 1720 and soon became a hit for the newfound 13 colonies. Sure the distance was prohibitive. Still, every week at least one, sometimes several tired horse riders (with a sweet tooth) from one of the quaint 13 would appear out of nowhere, sporting homespun duds, requesting an extra large box of glazed donut holes for church services. They always bought the biggest quantity because they had church services 3 times on Sunday. Thanks to Hinkley’s, church membership almost doubled whenever donut holes were on the menu. Everyone knew when holes were gonna be served because the Pony Express dude was gone for a week in advance to get them to the church on time. (They were too frugal to use Uber or Grub Hub).

Jackson hadn’t really become a town yet-they were still waiting for that first Republican to show up. But there sat Hinkley’s, in the middle of nowhere (but someday would be lower mid-Michigan-pretty much surrounded by The Great Lakes/though not yet named). Wasting delicious aromas on the local wildlife (stinky Wolverines) 4 nights a week. They’re closed Sunday, Monday & Tuesday. Hey, when you’ve established the first ever monopoly, you call the shots (shots-not like bullets or booze but hours of operation). Even if the customers are hundreds of miles away. (Their slogan- If you bake, fry or frost it, they will come).

To this day the Hinkley tradition continues. They remain in the original building, which at the time was ultra modern. A lone business, without a town just yet. It would be another 100 years before the city of Jackson was born, yet the owners of Hinkley’s somehow knew they were in for a huge local contract before the city would prove to be a thriving community.

When the city of Jackson was still in its infancy, the state of Michigan decided to build and open the first state prison in, ta-da Jackson (named after Andrew). The prison would push hard, trying to force Hinkley’s into opening 7 days a week, but you know how big monopolies operate. “Dey ain’t gonna make us bring dem baked goodies every day. No siree. We need the sabbet to honor God and duh first two days of the veek to recharge our own selfs. We ben vaitin a hunert years, and nobody gonna tell us how to run dis bizness.”

Now when you buy baked goods (the lines can be very long outside the door-they thrive on this kind of shit when it happens) the staff at Hinkley’s use neat boxes so your chocolate crescents don’t have to touch your Bismarcks. The box clearly states Hinkley’s has been open since 1913. That’s a downright fib. Honest, they have been in business since 1720, but got grandfathered in 1913 to save on city taxes. You would have thought since the town was actually built around them, they would have least named the street they were on Hinkley Road, but all of a sudden they grew humble and decided to call their street Blackstone.

The recipes from Hinkley’s remain highly guarded secrets. The bakery has never changed hands, but has been handed down/bought to family members for nearly 300 years now. The head baker Brian is 4th generation (their family’s longevity is as legendary as their donut holes). Must be something they eat or their short work week. Whatever the reason, we are most grateful (and fatter) for our famous little bakery. Hinkley’s. Frost on…

I’ve listened to many versions, heard conflicting stories and vividly remember Dr. Carpenter’s wise words: “the first 2 weeks are pretty uncomfortable and I wouldn’t make any big plans for 2 months following surgery.” One friend breezed through knee replacement and said between week 2 & 3 suddenly the pain was gone. Another recent joint recipient has been told multiple times wait until you hit the 6 month mark, you’ll be thrilled how good you feel. I fall somewhere in between. No, I haven’t actually fallen.

I just passed the one month date post surgery and I’m feeling pretty good. It all started to come together when I hit the 4 week mark during physical therapy. The day I forgot I was still recovering from major surgery. Went grocery shopping at Meijer, making my way through the store using the grocery cart as a walking tool. Stopped home to put the cold stuff away, then made our way to Chelsea Wellness Center for my therapy session, still using a cane.

Therapy is hard work. My muscles quiver under the strain of trying new ways to make my weak legs stronger. And yes I said legs, not just the one sporting a nifty new joint. In 4 short weeks both legs seem to have suffered losing some strength. I notice it when I’m coming up a flight of steps, using my stronger leg first, then bringing up my surgical leg. My left leg is quite a bit weaker than it was before surgery-on the other leg! I dunno why, but many of my exercises include both legs so it must be a common denominator after knee replacement.

oo

After therapy, we stop for a sandwich (my first time in a restaurant) then head to Shannon’s house. She routinely picks up Jovi (our 2 year old fabulous great granddaughter) from daycare early and we usually stop to visit them. Jovi has played a pivotal role in my rehabilitation. I didn’t see her for almost 2 weeks after surgery, fearing she might accidentally hurt me (or be freaked out about it). Well neither has been the case. Shannon and Ari talked to Jovi about grandma’s hurt leg several times prepping her first visit. She’s been just awesome about, “my gamma’s boo-boo.” She wasn’t quite sure about the purple bruises on my leg but the incision was a breeze. After greeting me, she gathers up a fleece blanket and pillow, walks over to me gently pushes up my sweats to see how much healing has progressed. “Gamma’s boo-boo,” she says reverently, softly placing a pillow and blanket over the incision. “Read book,” she asks as she runs to pick out her favorite. Carefully climbing on my lap, via my left leg, we read the same book until she grows weary of it, while constantly monitoring that the pillow and blankey stay put on my boo-boo. Yes, nurse Jovi Nightingale has been a huge part of my healing process success.

Departing my favorite nurse/caregiver (Jovi and Hubs are tied for offering the most assistance) we head to Ann Arbor to watch 9 year old grandson Graham in his little league game. I’m nervous about walking on the uneven grounds of the ball field and sitting in a collapsable chair but neither turn out to be as scary as I thought. There’s a slight incline getting back to the Jeep so I grab Hubs arm. The game ends in a tie (dang it) and we are homeward bound. But it’s been 8 hours without an ice pack, Tylenol or putting my leg up and I’m exhausted.

I pay for it during the night. Fitful, restless, can’t find a comfortable position for my leg. On my back, turn on my side, now the other side, flip onto my back again. Finally get up about 3, take half a pain pill, get an ice pack and spend the rest of the night in a recliner. I don’t feel very rested in the morning but there’s a definite change as I walk. I don’t know what you call it but it’s the last part of my step. It’s just easier to finish each step. The part where I glide (ha-ha-not-hardly) from the heel of my foot to the ball suddenly feels like I’m doing both feet uniformly.

I was itching/antsy/ to start driving again. Hubs didn’t think I was ready after 4 long, miserable weeks as passenger in my own Jeep. (He actually looks for the first available spot in the parking lot. Yikes, who does that? No car I’ve ever driven in the last 30 years has ever been so close to the store I’m trying to spend money in. It’s just not the way I roll. I park far, far away). I swing my right leg to & fro, back and forth and insist driving will not be a problem. He finally relents and lets me drive easily and happily to buy us an ice cream cone. Funny, I’ve not driven since but plan a stop to Meijer soon and he won’t have to accompany me and wait during physical therapy anymore. Yay, me.

Haven’t used my cane for a couple days either. My balance seems some better probably because my steps are more sure footed. I still will take the cane when I leave home. So I’m hopeful the worst is behind me, and happy if this is as bad as post surgery gets. Except for the not being able to sleep part, which I haven’t figured out yet. Why I have so much drama during the night is still troublesome. I’ve tried different methods, aids and supplements to no avail. Sleep has not been my friend since I hit menopause almost 20 years ago, but sleep now seems to be public enemy # 1. A big part of my lack of sleep is feeling so disjointed in the morning. I’ve been a morning person forever. Mornings are when I’m engaged and ready to tackle what needs to be done or fixed. But my motor is slow to start these early mornings because I feel out of sync. Instead of showering by 9, I listlessly mope my way through the AM, trying to ignite my normal spark. I know I’ll feel better after I shower and make the bed, but part of me is still on downtime when it’s really my uptime.

I never really was very inquisitive about the actual surgery-makes me kind of nauseous thinking about what has to be done when getting a new joint. First I asked why my thigh hurt worse than the knee or incision? Answer was, that’s where the tourniquet was. One of my therapists asked if I knew what exactly happens during surgery? “Um, no I don’t.” When he used the word, “Sawzall,” I was grateful to be sitting down in a chair at the time. Had I been laying on one of those gurney thingy’s, he would have soon found me on the floor…

Mom was good at many things. She had a terrific work ethic, loved saving money, and an obsession for keeping our home spic & span, windows included. When Mom learned something new, knitting, gardening, flower arrangements, her goal was to be an expert in that endeavor whether it was a hobby or something as trivial as a new recipe.

This-be the best you can be didn’t lend itself to the breakfast table however. Mom should have been a super breakfast planner/cook. She was highly organized and a good cook with everything she attempted. I attribute her lack of bubbling enthusiasm/expertise of all things breakfasty due to her lack of coffee addiction. She just never was a coffee nut. She would drink coffee to be polite when we were entertained by another family after church on Sunday nights, but never acquired that coffee craving the way Dad did. (He took coffee in his thermos to work everyday whether it was -28 or 95 above).

It wasn’t that Mom thought I was better off heading to school with nary a crumb in my tummy. She thought I should eat something, but since she rarely ate anything before dinner (noon meal) she wasn’t well versed in breakfast planning/foods. Dad liked Wheaties or Rice Krispies (topped with a sliced banana) but he didn’t eat either before going to work. What was that about? Both of them rose at the crack of dawn, you’d think they’d grab something healthy or Mom would fix breakfast, yet neither were compelled to that whole ‘breaking the fast’ after a night’s rest. Cold cereal was a nighttime snack for him. (He ate 1/2 package of instant oatmeal, cooked in the microwave every night for at least the last 5 years of his life).

The Gerritson pantry never housed much cold cereal, probably resulting in the reason I’ll only eat 2 cold cereals (oddly enough neither Wheaties or Rice Krispies) of the 487 varieties now offered. When my kids were young I think we averaged at least 6 different cold cereal choices at all times. Mom had normal breakfast fare in her repertoire of cooking skills but they were never offered in the a.m. If we were hungry for pancakes, French Toast (made with Hillbilly Bread) fried or scrambled eggs, bacon & toast, we ate it for supper, not breakfast. I’m not opposed to breakfast at supper time, maybe because I seldom ate breakfast food-for breakfast. I’ve often thought a big breakfast was too heavy of a meal in the morning.

So back to Mom, little Neese and the breakfast dilemma before school all those years ago. My # 1 choice was toast. Half the time, toasted with real butter. That’s it. Topped with jam occasionally but when butter wasn’t enough, I’d usually choose cinnamon/sugar. Not separately but mixed together. Mom used to buy a small plastic container (yellow?) of cinnamon/sugar already mixed. (Goodness, I haven’t thought about that in well over 50 years). Wonder why she didn’t mix it up herself? Convenience? I don’t think it was very expensive. When you took off the lid, there were small holes like a salt shaker in the top so I could sprinkle it on my toast.

Before I got a bit older (later elementary/junior high) and Mom’s work schedule required an earlier start time, she was happy to make me a bowl of oatmeal. Set the smallest pan on the stove with a cup of water, couple shakes of salt and wait for it to boil. Pour in a half cup of Quaker Quick Oats, boil it for a minute and let it rest for 5 minutes. Dump it in a Corelle cereal bowl, dot the top with a couple pats of butter. I can only remember eating oatmeal with brown sugar (never white) and milk. I still eat oatmeal with brown sugar and milk but haven’t topped it with butter since I was a kid. I wasn’t fond of Cream of Wheat so oatmeal was the only hot cereal on our menu.

Mom wasn’t fond of making a sink full of dirty dishes before she went to work, (she couldn’t leave them until noon or when she got home from work. No, that just didn’t do it for her neat-nick personality) Mom made perfect soft boiled eggs (again only requiring one small pan). If she was making eggs for me, she’d make some for Dad at the same time, though he had already left for the State Shop. When my 2 eggs were done to perfection (solid whites, yolks runny), she’d pluck them out of the boiling water, then continue boiling the other 2 hard for Dad’s lunch pail the following day. After cooling mine off under cold water so she could handle them, she’d grab a butter knife and wop off the top half inch of egg-shell and all. Set them on a plate with toast where I’d use a spoon to dig out bites of the runny yolk egg. Our household was not high on the use of salt or pepper so I can say with certainty I never used pepper on eggs (or much else) but think I used a pinch of salt on them.

Where meals were concerned, (other than breakfast where she did not excel), Mom had a plan. She took out chicken, a beef roast, hamburger or pork chops from the freezer and often did prep work on her lunch break. She’d brown the meat and stick it in the fridge during the afternoon so she could pop it in the oven as soon as she got home. I can’t remember eating macaroni and cheese, Campbell’s Tomato soup, or Spam when I was a kid. Ever. Once in a while we’d have TV dinners, if Mom had something to do that night, maybe ladies aid at church or a fun filled night at the laundromat. With TV dinners or pot pies, we always ate Swanson’s brand (although they were usually our Sunday-after-church-meal for Dad and I when Mom worked every other weekend at Valley Manor) but that was not the norm. Mom cooked from scratch almost every night. Meat, potatoes, vegetables and gravy. There might be something sweet to eat afterwards but she never went all out for the dessert portion of our meal. Pinwheel cookies, Oreos, Pecan Sandies or maybe an ice cream treat like a fudge bar or ice cream sandwich. Some were homemade, (she made the best sugar cookies) some store bought.

I never fully appreciated Mom’s dedication to mealtimes. Not haphazard, or packaged, it was like she had a 45 day menu plan ever looping in her head. If she was stumped, she’d ask me or Dad if we were hungry for something specific-but not the day of. No, that one was already in the books (her head). Never figured out until recently, I’m exactly the same way. I head to the basement and grab 3 or 4 main course ideas from the freezer. Haul them all upstairs and decide what I’m craving for tonight. The rest just thaw in the fridge and for the next 3 days I know what our big meal is gonna be. I might do a bit better in the breakfast department than Mom, scrambled eggs, pancakes and French toast are my specialties. I find it endearing that I tend to do things the way Mom did in the kitchen, though I think I’m a little better cook/baker than she was. She definitely ruled in the Divinity, 7 minute frosting categories and her cinnamon rolls are hard to beat.

It was a definitely a different era. Still most of my friend’s moms cooked when I was in school. Though times were changing, many of the moms started to work outside the home. Maybe some gave up home cooked suppers on certain nights because time was in short supply after they were employed. Mom however continued to make supper every night until I was long gone and her health began to fail. I should have appreciated you more Mom. Sorry. Thanks for my lame breakfasts, good dinners when I didn’t stay at school for hot lunch. And all the tasty suppers you cooked-even after you were working full time…

I’ve not had much personal experience with surgeries. (Thanks God). Still have my appendix and gallbladder, though missing my tonsils and adenoids for the better part of my life (not lonesome-type missing-just no longer residing in me-missing). After I’d started walking (‘she walks with purpose’-one of my favorite lines from the series Deadwood by Al Swearengen) about 5 miles a day for a couple of years in 1998, I acquired a limp. After several cortisone shots, it was determined my great toe needed repair work (actually wasn’t that great-it was just big and refused to bend). Other than breaking the same elbow 3, possibly 4 times (and counting) I’ve been lucky in avoiding hospitals.

Which brings me to my latest surgery notch on my belt (these are belts no one wants to wear or add new notches). I’ve just passed the 2 week mark since my knee replacement. One can’t help but worry when surgery is in your future. Just going to the hospital is scary. The place is full of sickness and germs. You’re either there to have something repaired, removed, replaced or a serious illness. MRSA infections breed and flourish no matter how many times those attending you wash their hands. BTW, during my 48 hour stint I never witnessed one person who came in my room and literally washed their hands before or after helping me. Not once. That surprised me. But everyone did use the automatic hand sanitizer dispenser. I’m not gonna put my hand on a Bible and say I was coherent at all times, (drugs were involved) yet think I’d remember that one nurse who thoroughly scrubbed her hands with soap while singing happy birthday for 20 seconds.

My main concerns throughout this ordeal should have been my brand new knee joint recently hammered into place, pain management, learning how to use a walker, avoiding nasty germs-lurking about, my rather-hard-to-look-at-incision, the tiny catheter resting in my upper thigh-busy pumping novocaine into a numb leg, my mouth (which was as dry as a popcorn fart), my constantly chattering teeth or walking down an endless corridor twice a day for physical therapy. But no.

I’ve had even less experience with prescription meds. For the last decade I’ve been taking one medication for Meniere’s Disease (a disorder of my inner ear which causes dizziness, balance issues. Probably started after my slow hearing loss really took a nose dive). It’s a mild diuretic (water pill) which helps balance the fluctuations of fluid in my inner ear. As far as meds go, I’m not counting the times I’ve been sick and needed temporary antibiotics etc, just the one constant prescription. And I’m not trying to minimize the destruction from drug addiction. I know it’s an epidemic, destroying lives of those who get hooked and those who love and worry about those addicted. I realized as a young age after drinking a few beers a couple of times, I loathe the feeling of not being in control. Although I sure could use better self control with my eating habits. Weighty issues makes me feel bad in a different in a kind of way however. I just don’t look or feel good when I’m carrying extra weight. Plus it takes a toll on my health (and my joints).

I read all the literature given to me, filling several folders about my surgery, rehab, most often prescribed medications before I was even admitted. I thought I was informed. Ha. The last time I took prescription meds for pain, they caused me all kinds of grief. But that was almost 20 years ago. It was Vicodin and I suffered hallucinations. Kept seeing this guy coming out of my laundry room (15 feet away) who I felt was trying to harm me. When Dr. Carpenter discharged me, there was pain medication prescription waiting for me at the pharmacy. I did not understand how much the side effects of the pain pills would affect me.

I was prescribed Norco for pain. Hubs knows how dicey I am under ‘the influence,’ so he immediately cut them all in half. Hoping maybe smaller increments spaced a couple hours apart might help more. But there’s a thin line between being goofy for a couple hours and letting the pain get out of hand. For the most part I took half a Norco about every 4 hours for the first week. And felt worse with every one I swallowed. (In my altered state, my defense is I was slow to realize how bad the pills were making me feel).

Not trying to get graphic here but sometimes there’s just no other way to explain the situation. Ok, the side effects I was so slow to recognize were right there in black & white on my explanation sheet for pain management. Common side effects: constipation, nausea, vomiting, drowsiness, dry mouth, difficulty urinating, confusion and itching. I was suffering from 5 of the 8 listed. I could barely eat because I felt nauseous like there was no room in my body to squeeze in a few more mouthfuls of food. Dry mouth kept me sipping ice water (with a lemon slice). But my inability to to move any waste products (ok, poop) or water (pee) was literally scaring me. I’d been given laxatives as soon as I was admitted to the hospital to counteract constipation. How can I not pee? I can feel I gotta pee, but it takes 10 minutes to get the party started. And then it was a tiny dribble.

These trying side effects can’t possibly just occur for people recently coming back from surgery. So just how does one become hooked when the side effects are so debilitating? Do people simply talk themselves into a new way of life by saying, “Ummm, I like the way this makes me feel for a couple of hours and if I never urinate or defecate again in this lifetime, I’m ok with that.” I was terribly uncomfortable, hated how I felt, and was scared shitless. Literally. Scared. Shitless.

On day 10, I told John I was not taking another Norco unless the knee pain was unbearable. My stomach was in turmoil so I moved to ibuprofen. Not a smart move Neese. Basically, the identical side effects, which took another 2 days for me to reach that conclusion. Dang, I’m dense. Bloated and miserable, it dawned on me that the side effects of the medications ordered to help me were causing more problems for me than my newly minted knee. Holy shit. Talked it over with Shannon and the pain reliever with the least amount of side effects was Acetaminophen (Tylenol). She dropped off regular, PM to help my horrible sleeplessness, (feels like restless leg syndrome, just gotta keep moving that sore leg to a different spot) and Melatonin in case I didn’t care for Tylenol PM. (I didn’t. It made me feel groggy until noon the next day). I started a sleep routine, Tylenol and melatonin an hour before bed. No Facebook or internet for a couple hours before bed. A cold gel pack and pillow for my leg in bed. And a book to read until I got sleepy. (Yikes, I’m reading Dean Koontz’s 5 book series on Frankenstein. So much for calm and soothing).

Good news, I’m feeling better. Discharged from home physical therapy to facility therapy which starts this week in Chelsea. Learned how to go down the basement stairs, so decisions about what to fix for supper, and when to do laundry are again in their rightful place. With me. Graduated from the walker to a cane this week. This is a tricky one for me. My balance is not great on my best days. Now I’m trying to maneuver a very stiff leg, using a cane in what I consider the wrong hand! What? Carpenter advised me to use the cane as long as needed when leaving home. If I feel comfortable lurching through my little abode without, that’s fine too. His main concern is me not falling-ever.

Went back to Dr. Carpenter for my 2 week check up. He was pleased (well it was his all his doing). He was satisfied with my movement, motion and mobility so far and tickled with how ‘straight’ my leg is. He was a little surprised at how badly bruised my leg is. He looked on the inside of my calf up to the new joint, then on the outside from my ankle to my thigh and said, “ah, don’t be too concerned with all this bruising. This was me-ah-us during surgery.” Right doc, I already figured that part out…