I haven’t specifically talked about my long, long, long time spouse since I started blogging. He’s actually an integral part of my life. A huge part of my story. Maybe I’ve been remiss. Often the idea of my next blog post of this never ending story just kinda writes itself (I just tap out a few keys). Still, most of my life has been intertwined in the life of Johnny Wayne. (He’s been ‘John’ ever since he left Rock Valley in 1966). So here’s a snippet of the Hubs’ childhood.

The youngest of 5, his birth was not planned. When he was born, his 4 older sibs ranged in age from 4 to 18. (When I think of how Shannon would have reacted had I told her I was pregnant when she was a senior in high school, I still get a dry mouth and a twitch in my eyelid). But birth control was quite limited when John was conceived in 1947.

John was born handy. He’s just always known how to do stuff. (Although I don’t think he was taught a lot by his dad, who was 40 when he was born). John’s able to change the engine in a car. Run a natural gas line so I can have a gas stove instead of electric. Wire electricity through a new garage. Plop a sump pump in the basement. Dig a sand point well for an in ground sprinkling system. Design and build special machines and transfer lines. (Truthfully, I don’t know what half this stuff is, but have heard about and witnessed such miracles my entire married life). Lay a ceramic tile floor. Install a sink, toilet, water heater, new brake pads, rotors on a car, a muffler when we were too broke to take the car to a shop. Utilize 20 cartons of dirt cheap old 1936 Chevy car parts, and voila.’ Hubs rebuilt a cool antique car before he was 30. I don’t know how he acquired this vast array of how-to-knowledge, he’s just always had ‘it’. (However, he was born with a built in dislike for any particular-color-pattern of wallpaper he’s ever seen. He might not know how to hang a double roll of wallpaper).

When Hubs was ready for kindergarten, Mag was working full time, so he learned at a very young age to be self-sufficient. He was making eggs on the cook stove by the time he was 6. He still bears a nasty scar where he dropped the lid (where you stuff the wood) on his hand because it was too heavy for the little squirt. His daily whereabouts were not closely monitored. We lived in a small, somewhat isolated town. There wasn’t much to be scared of in Rock Valley. No one seemed very worried about how much mischief he could get into. He had the “run of the town” (like most of us kids) but wasn’t too much of a hell-raiser.

Still there were some special family moments he remembers quite clearly. One summer the whole Van Berkum clan (his only sister, Elly had been married for several years by then and had 2 or 3 kids of her own) were going to Newton Hills (about 15 miles away) for the day. Little Johnny drove his mom nuts with giddy anticipation on when exactly they were leaving. Zhanicked (Dutch word for whining) until she banished him outside while she prepared a feast for the picnic (and Mag could cook up a storm). So the caravan finally arrives and everyone’s busy unpacking at this beautiful woodsy park. Kids are running around, acting crazy and no one notices that Johnny Wayne is not among them. Finally when it’s time to sit down and eat, someone asks, “where’s Johnny?” No one knows. Each driver is asked if Hubs was in their car? No one knows or remembers. (This was the original installment of Home Alone). Finally they come to the conclusion Johnny’s really not there and send someone back to Rock Valley to fetch him. Even worse, he was now locked out of the house after he saw everyone drive away and eventually climbed back down from the tree. He was 8.

By the time John was a teen, he was hunting pheasants (often bringing his shotgun to school and keeping in his locker so he could walk nearby corn fields after the last bell rang). Or go fishing at the Rock River, swim in Rock Valley’s new fangled cement pond on days when he wasn’t baling hay for one of the local farmers for a buck an hour in the sweltering 95 degree Iowa summer. After a spending the day throwing bales of hay in the hot sun, his hands and arms would be full of small, pus filled slivers of hay. He would invariably fall asleep on our date that night from sheer exhaustion (which never did much for my whole sex appeal image I was going for back then).

It was the summer of ’63 (catchy phrase, someone should use it in a song or something) John was 15 and had found a new passion (no, not me-yet). This was a 4 legged variety, not 2. Horses. The kid was obsessed with horses. He was working for a dude named John Blom, just east of Rock Valley. Mrs. John Blom (why on earth would any woman in their right mind call themselves Mrs. husband’s first name plus his last name? I can’t believe my Mom actually signed checks, Mrs. Richard Gerritson for years before she was hit hard with a case of women’s lib. After that she signed her checks “Florence Elaine Wanningen Gerritson.” Her signature took 2 lines- hilarious-go Mom! End of rant).

Anyway, Mrs. Blom kept her homemade root beer down a root cellar in glass jars. It was a rare treat when she’d offer John a quart while he was taking his break. He still talks about how good that root beer tasted. But you had to stop drinking it before the jar was empty. The bottom half inch was solid, dark brown yeasty stuff that was far too strong to consume. Mr. Blom had a special needs brother living with them who’d grab the jars after everyone was done, then finish every single drop of dark brown goo that was left.

Back to Hubs new fascination. He bought this horse from Mr. John (not Mrs.) Blom and named her Comet (the horse, not Mrs.). Spent weeks breaking Comet, getting her used to a bridle, saddle, his voice and gentle leg commands. John had to ride Comet into Rock Valley for a distemper shot from either veterinarian, Simonsen or Mouw. But Comet was still a little skittish. When 2 kids on bikes zoomed around the corner towards Hubs, Comet reared back, throwing John off-then landing on his foot. The bone from the ball of John’s foot was exposed-busting right through his shoe. Yikes. Our miracle working town physician, Doc Hegg rushed to the scene but knew immediately this was beyond his field of expertise (and that field was vast indeed). An ambulance ride to Sioux Falls (45 miles west) was warranted but expensive, and they had no medical insurance. Hubs instinctively knew and asked mom if his oldest brother Jimmy would take him to the hospital? Jimmy had an F-85 maroon Olds.

(This story really encapsulates the true meaning of Murphy’s Law. Anything that could possibly go wrong after John started riding Comet into town-did indeed go wrong). With Johnny writhing in pain in the back seat, Mom fretting in the passenger’s seat and Jimmy driving like a bat out of hell, they were off. Zipping to Sioux Falls, about halfway they had a flat tire. Jimmy gets out and jack’s the car up. The jack broke. (You think I’m kidding? Nope) He’s frantic, John’s in shock, losing blood and delirious and they can’t change the dang tire. Mama Bear (Mag) explodes out of the front seat, literally picks up the car by the bumper and Jimmy slaps the spare on. I. Kid. You. Not.

They finally arrive in Sioux Falls-and neither of them knows where the hospital is. (Why Lord, why)? They race over to Elly’s house, she jumps in the car and gives directions. Hubs is rushed into surgery to fix his foot. Mag and Jimmy go back home (they gotta both work tomorrow. Jim and Mag visited when they can. Elly visits everyday, but Dewey (Elly’s husband) needed their only car to go out of town for work, Elly had no way to get to the hospital. John is crestfallen when she can’t visit, so she walked 20 blocks to visit her baby brother. Awww.

Long about day 5 of hospitalization, there’s a sudden change. John woke up and there’s a basin of acid next to his bed. The nurse’s were covered from head to toe before they walked into his room. The doctor came in and explained that gangrene had set in. They need to take his foot off at the ankle or he’s gonna die. John went nuts. Mag came in to try and convince John. “No, I’d rather be dead than to lose my foot. Can’t you try something else first? Find another doctor. Please?” A different surgeon came in and said there was a slim chance of opening up his foot, cut out the infected part, wash everything else with disinfectant, close it up and pray they got the infection stopped. If not, he’d have to take his leg off at the knee. John finally agreed. But the wash bath worked! Doc said he’d be in a cast, use a wheelchair for months and never walk without a limp. Dude was playing football and wrestling in less than a year! One tough little shit…

I had knee replacement in April. Seems like I waited forever to get my surgery date, then-bam-3 months flew by. While I’d definitely have the surgery again, I’m surprised (and disappointed) that I haven’t bounced back as fast as I thought. Guess that’s what happens when you’re not 20 anymore. Or 30, 40, 50. You see where I’m going with this? Everything I do takes longer, including healing. While that sucks, I can think of many folks who aren’t around anymore who’d love to be healing at a snails pace. So not gonna whine about getting slower. At least I’m getting older. Here’s my recovery update. Yay.

Third–The Good:

11. I’m finally starting to sleep better, except for an occasional night. If I maintain a certain consistent bed time, place an ice cold gel pack on my knee and read for about half an hour, I’m usually drowsy enough to fall asleep. Staying asleep is still an issue, but I’m doing better.

R. The Chelsea Wellness Center is changing companies/policies/personnel, so while I consistently had one main guy named Rob, (who was awesome) my exercise program person changed almost every session, so there wasn’t a lot of continuity. So glad I’m finally done with going to therapy.

7. Hoping this week’s visit with Dr. Carpenter will be my last (forever! Please hold out and behave left knee). I’ve already seen him twice post surgery and was surprised when another appointment was set up for me.

XII. I am making some strides with my knee. Kind of strange because it happens when I’m not thinking about certain movements. There seems to be no noticeable change for a week or two, then one day I automatically pick up my leg and slip it into a pair of capris instead of putting the pant leg near the floor and sliding my foot through. One night watching TV, I notice both my knees are bent in a V shape with both feet flat on the recliner, although my left leg is snugged more tightly towards my butt than the other. But I did it without thinking (wincing, groaning, tugging or swearing) which is a major accomplishment.

T. While I have some aches and stiffness in my hamstring, the pain in my knee is gone. The place I find quite tender is a couple inches just to the right of the bottom of my incision. The gel pack sits there for the first few minutes.

First–The Bad:

LL. I’m still not comfortable venturing outdoors without a cane. Sigh. While that makes me feel old, inadequate and decrepit, it’s far better to use it than falling. This extra needful-artificial-appendage disgusts me, but I seriously doubt it has much to do with my new joint. I think it’s linked to Meniere’s which has haunted me for 15 years, stemming from my hearing loss. My balance is not the best on a good day, which has now been complicated by my new ceramic joint and knee cap.

6a. Dang back has been a thorn in my side lately. I go months without a flare up, then all of a sudden I bend down to pick up a “plueshie” (Dutch slang for a crumb or fuzzy on the carpet) off the floor and I feel it slip out of place. A swollen lump the size of Milky Way candy bar forms low on the left side of my back. Nuts. I find my prescription for Flexeril, stick on a Solanpa patch, get out my heating pad and try not to move (which is a two-edged sword). The more I don’t move the stiffer I get. When I try to stand, I’m literally hunched over at the waist for the first excruciating 30 steps, then I usually manage to straighten mostly upright. But that’s not the worst of my back issues when it’s acting up. The worst happens when I’m laying down and try to sit up or stand. Electric shock spasms shoot from the lump down my leg to my toes. (This is to be avoided at all costs. Feels like I’m grabbing an electric fence, which I’ve done). Those little sharp spasms occur mostly in the morning when I’m trying to get up, but were consistent this time for over 3 weeks. Infuriating and actually kind of scary with my sometimes wobbly leg.

E. Stamina is an issue. I’m pooped after shopping an hour at Meijer. This is so embarrassing, goodness that’s hardly getting started at my favorite store. I’ve already accepted not running multiple errands on any given day, I now have to choose and limit myself to one or 2 when heading out. Last week however I managed to get in and out of the car 5 times, during one outing. Yes, I was quite proud. And totally shot for the rest of the day.

8. Therapy took forever. Sixteen sessions, should have finished in late June. We were out of town for a couple days so I had to reschedule one appointment, which brought it into July. Then my back went out and I couldn’t stand up straight for over a week. I closely resembled an upside down capital L, which put all leg exercises on the back burner for 10 days. Trying to reschedule, the only open spot was one day at 8 am, meaning my last appointment went into the next week. Ugh.

P. I used to walk at a nice clip. No more. Now I have to come to a compete stop if I intend to turn my head in either direction or I lose my balance. Arghhhhhhh.

Second–The Ugly:

5. I wasn’t limber before surgery. I have not been able to squat down for at least a decade. Thus it shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that my knee does not want/like to bend. Straight and extending is great, but damn if I didn’t fear/stew/worry/constantly about going to physical therapy because I could not make my right knee bend comfortably beyond 115 degrees. Until the last day! Rob was loosening my knee up and for the first time he was forcing it a bit further in every direction. Not white knuckle pain but not very comfortable either. He gave me the old, “come on Iowa Hawkeye fan, you can do this,” routine with his little gauge propped up while I slowly inched my flat foot backwards towards my butt. It wasn’t easy, had look ugly and hopeless but I finally made the bend to 120 degrees. He assured me my bending degree will continue to improve for up to a year so I’m hopeful.

6b. The bruising that appeared about a week after surgery was horrendous from the bottom of my heal to mid thigh! While the bruises have faded, I’m not very happy with the skin discoloration that seems to linger. Even the nurse’s first IV attempt bruise is still visible. Is this because of my age? Or am I lacking something? Will it ever go back to normal? Enquiring minds wanna know.

In Conclusion:

17. Please tell me I can’t be the only person who finds almost everything about Battle Bots totally asinine like a bad joke? (Except for the actual Bots engineering teams which show some very clever ideas) From the corny hosts, the hopeless announcer, a much too enthusiastic audience, to the dimming of the lights leading up to the 30 second pause before the green light comes on, I find this program one of the dumbest. No, I don’t watch it but have walked into the family room when Hubs is immersed in an episode.

And Lastly:

C. Just as oddly, why do I totally love Forged in Fire? What’s up with that? I mean it’s about 4 competing blade smiths (vying for $10,000 prize money) making their own knives in 3 hours, usually out of materials that would not be their first choice. Love the host Wil Willis (I know his name is wacky but he’s appealing) and the judges, J. Neilson, David Baker, Doug Marcaida (“this knife will keel.” What a hoot) and sometimes Ben Abbott in place of Neilson. Ben’s a wiry little shit who’s amazingly strong. It shouldn’t appeal to me at all, yet I look forward to every episode. Can’t figure it out but I’m hooked…

It doesn’t seem fair. I already did this. Willingly took one for the team. With hardly any tears. Why is it happening again? I swear it’s a flaw in my DNA. Four years ago Hubs and I were in the midst of a major downsize, anticipating a move to a much smaller home. We had collected ‘stuff’ with reckless abandon for decades and it was the time to pay the piper. The collecting wasn’t done with much forethought. Furniture that appealed to us but needed work. We just kept accumulating more and more-stuff. The kids left one by one and we filled every nook and cranny of our house.

John and I accepted the challenge to downsize seriously. Went through boxes, closets, plastic containers, basement and garage with the intention of getting rid of absolutely anything we couldn’t live without nor would have room for in a smaller home. Or so I thought. The antique furniture was hard to let go. Many pieces were acquired when we got caught up with restoring and owning old oak furniture from 1970 until recently. The kids took most of the good pieces, but it was hard realizing our antiques were gone.

The number one clue that I hadn’t fully embraced my new leaner way of life was of all things, containers. Yup. When we put the lake home on the market, Mary gave us strict instructions to pare down every room in our house. For better eye appeal, and make our home look roomier. Not knowing how long it would take to sell (forever) or that we’d have to decide what to keep, store or toss, without knowing what kind of house we were moving into. So I bought plastic containers of various sizes by the carload. Lovingly wrapped and packed most of my doodads, because I wasn’t ready to give anything up just yet. Rented a storage unit and stuffed it to the ceiling with furniture and containers.

Once we knew our move east was imminent, we sorted through most of the containers, donating literally tons of stuff. But I didn’t throw out one plastic container. Not a single one. We now had about 20 which were empty. I insisted we move them all. I needed to first see where we were gonna live, what fit, what pieces I loved too much to part with and what I had foolishly hung onto for no good reason.

A few months after we moved we finally got to the last of the boxes and containers which were taking up half of our garage. Donated more stuff and felt pretty good about what we were keeping and what we no longer needed. (It’s inexplicably therapeutic after I’ve made the decision to “let it go.” It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Then why do I dread getting rid of excess un-needed stuff? Yes, I’m conflicted). Hubs said I needed to donate a dozen empty containers but I could not. I just knew as soon as he dropped them off, I’d need a particular size for something that needed storing. (This was my unconscious way of allowing new clutter to fester and grow. It’s kinda like unwanted mold).

We have 5 closets on our main floor besides the pantry. I now have some of my ‘stuff’ in 4 of them. It started innocently enough. A few months after we moved, I got a part time job in the infant room at a fabulous daycare a couple miles away. I love those babies with all of my heart but dang it, they’re the messiest bunch of little people. Drool, spit-up, poop quickly became part of my wardrobe. I threw every piece of clothing I wore that day into the laundry. Then decided I needed easy care fabrics, just for work. For me that’s not only tops but another shirt/sweater to wear on top of the top, because I’m always cold. (Total count on white/off white sweaters I’ve pitched with multi shades of formula and breast milk spit-up all over the shoulders and sleeves stands at 4). Since I went to work at 6, I used the spare bedroom closet for all my work clothes so I didn’t have to rummage around in the dark in our bedroom while Hubs was cutting z’s.

See how it starts. If I wanted to use my new living room at all, I needed some place that’s comfy to sit, so I bought a nice Lazy Boy. Still rather empty and if anyone wanted to sit and visit me (a room without a TV) they could sit on the floor. Umm, no. Went to a nice used furniture place and bought 2 odd chairs. Yup, pretty much wall to wall furniture in there now. But it’s not the furniture, although one antique piece is driving me crazy. It’s a beautiful oak blanket chest in the spare bedroom which gives me about 18 inches to walk through to the other side of the bed. How often is that you ask? Maybe once a week. But I’m just stubborn enough because I’m still smarting after I had to get rid of my gorgeous wardrobe. If there had been a choice I would have kept the wardrobe. We could get it in the bedroom, but then we eliminated a doorway so we couldn’t get it back out. Ever. So I gave it to Josh & Erica for their early 1900’s house they’ve been remodeling for a couple years. It still stung though.

No, it’s the damn containers I keep filling up and storing that’s driving me bonkers. If I die before I go through each and every one of them again, all 3 of my kid’s eyes are gonna roll right out of their heads. So much useless stuff. And I don’t have the willpower to toss any of it away. Hubs doesn’t want any of these containers in his garage so they’re stacked in several rows, 3 high in my laundry room. Most of it’s from my parent’s house in Rock Valley. Handwritten sermons my Dad wrote 15 years ago. One container is filled with hand knit wool sweaters Mom made me 50 years ago. Over. Fifty. Years. Ago. One is stuffed with afghans Mom crocheted. Two are so heavy I can’t move them an inch from where they’re sitting. It’s gorgeous china (Apple Blossom by Haviland) I bought at Mildred Johnson’s auction. In North Muskegon I displayed the enormous set of dishes in a china closet and actually used it once in a while. Have not used the china in 4 years. I would love to give it to someone who would cherish and use it, but no one in the younger generation wants to use old fashioned china. But I can’t part with it. It would be a huge betrayal to Mildred. (I loosely took care of her for a couple years, got her groceries, took her to the doctor, and her unruly cat, Charlie to the vet. Unfortunately, I discovered Mildred a couple days after she had passed away. Cried about that for months).

Now I’ve noticed my closets are way too crowded. Purses, jackets I’ve not worn in 5 years (boiled wool), and crafts. You know I’m the least crafty person in the world and my almost 10 year old grandson Graham is past these silly art projects we used to do. Yet one closet has at least 20 canvases waiting for someone with talent to paint. Yes, I should keep a couple because 2-1/2 year old Jovi is almost to the age where she’ll eagerly do projects with me. But 2 tubs of small bottles of paint? Goodness, whatever possessed me? How many different shades of green does one need when one does not paint?

I looked up the word purge. To get rid of. Exactly. I’m starting with the closets (mostly because I’m still not ready to deal with sermons, sweaters and an 12 place setting of china with accompanying pieces). I decided 9 months ago I was done dyeing my hair after 35 years. It took 8 months to get rid of all the fake brown color off my short hair. For longer than those 9 moths I’ve had 7 boxes of L’Oréal Dark Blonde sitting on the top shelf (quantities buyer-don’t ask). No more. It’s the first thing I emptied from the linen closet that is going to St. Vincent’s. Right after I load some more ‘stuff’ into the Jeep…

I was a car buff before I hit my teens, although I didn’t know the difference between a 283 and a 327. Or care. But even as a snot nose kid, I could grasp the importance of this mode of transportation. Yes, for the first time, I was looking at the bigger picture. Cars were the means of getting me from one place to another. Didn’t get any better than that. I have enjoyed driving everything from a Nifty-50 (1950 green Chevy with a defrost fan on the dashboard. Cutest thing ever with a 3 speed on the column) to my favorite luxury car, a 1995 El Dorado, that was an absolute dream to drive, and every car in between the 2 green extremes. I love cars!

I learned to drive when I was almost 13. Right on the streets of Rock Valley (think Mom would have been more nervous teaching me on a gravel road) while Mom’s car was at Santema’s Chevy garage for some reason. Mom and Dad never drove automatics and this loaner from the dealer was an automatic. Mom thought it would be easier for me to learn on it. I think it was a ’56 or ’57 Chevy. I did great and loved tooling around on the widest streets in the county. Much like my obsession after I smoked my first cigarette, I couldn’t wait to drive again (legally or otherwise). Soon I would be taking driver’s training and could drive with a parent in the car.

Driver’s training was thorough. Many hours in the classroom and more hours learning to drive in town and on the highway. Stan Negaard taught driver’s training during the summer. At this point I really didn’t give 2 hoots about classes during the school year, but this class was different. Excelling in this would mean I would be driving very soon. During one of Negaard’s classroom sessions (yes, I did study for this one) he was yakking about something to do with transmissions. I raised my hand and piped up, “it’s because the gears are sanforized.” (How embarrassing, sanforizing was a fabric treatment for cottons. How did I ever even hear that word? I’ll never know). Negaard’s eyes glazed over as every boy in the class started laughing and a couple shouted, “synchronized transmission-not sanforized.” Anyway, you can see I had a bubbling enthusiasm for one class in my life.

Soon Mom was brave enough to teach me on our car which was a 1958 Chevy Biscayne (Canyon Coral, somewhere between pink and taupe-hideous) with a 3 speed on the column. (I don’t remember Dad teaching any driving lessons with me, only Mom). I really didn’t care who was with me as long as I could practice driving around town. The true test came when she had me drive across the railroad tracks (past the Lutheran and Methodist churches) to my grandparents house. Their house sat on the crest of a steep hill, right off Highway 18. This highway (very near where my brother Larry was killed when he was hit by a car) had a fair amount of traffic, but that wasn’t the hard part. The tough part was keeping the clutch and brake depressed until traffic cleared long enough for me to scoot out on the highway. Which meant easing the clutch out, giving the car enough gas so I didn’t stall or worse, start rolling backwards. Yikes. My knees were shaking so bad I can’t believe I didn’t stall it. Luckily, there was no one stopped right behind this brand new driver. You can’t believe how many times during my life where someone was literally up my tailpipe on a steep hill. But it’s been very seldom when I stalled a car. That was the only good coordination God ever gave me.

So it makes sense when one loves to drive, there’s nothing more frustrating than getting in a great set of wheels and it won’t start. It’s not a hard concept. I want my car to start and run perfect every time I’m ready to go. Anywhere. Any time. It’s not too much to ask. Everyone says they’re making cars better than ever and they can easily be driven for a couple hundred thousand miles. Right. I get twitchy when my car hits 50,000 miles. I don’t want a fan belt to fly off, an alternator or battery to go kaflooey, the check engine light to shine bright. I just want the car to start and go without issues-ever. Every time. Every. Stinking. Time.

But I know better. Life is messy and things go wrong with inanimate objects. (I have a healthy amount of rage for inanimate objects). A goodly amount of disdain. Just putting it out there, keeping it real. In my life time I have owned and driven some great cars and fair amount of sour lemons. In no particular order, these are some of my more memorable sets of wheels during my life.

1. The first new car we ever bought was a 2 door, shit green 1972 Chevy Vega hatchback. Shannon was 2 and called it, “my Bay-ga.” The payments were around 70 bucks (that was high for us). I had my heart set on a stunning orange Monte Carlo sitting on the dealer’s floor. But in comparing prices, the diarrhea Vega was around $2,400 versus $4,100. for the Monte Carlo (as close as I can recall). No way could we afford that. But I sure coveted the 1972 M-Carlo for a long time.

2. During some of our leaner years we drove a 1965 International Harvester pickup. The clutch went out, but before we could replace it, we’d park on the top of a slight incline, then push in the clutch and start rolling downhill, then “pop” the clutch with the gear shifter already in second or third. Talk about jerking and grinding! But the worst part was the passenger door kept flying open when we turned a corner. Shannon would be standing in between us and we’d each throw out an arm to keep her in place while I grabbed the fly-away door which was trying to swing me right out of the truck. Fun.

3. I was a stay-at-home-mom (meaning we only had one car through our first 18 years). Soon after we moved to Michigan in 1987, we bought a 1987 Chevy Astro Van (and my first automatic) with 12,000 miles-the first time there would be a car at home for me. Wow. Hubs was driving a 1983 Chevy S-10, meaning we had 2 reliable means of transportation-AT THE SAME TIME. I babied that mini-van as though it was worth millions! It was the answer to our prayers. We were 750 miles from family in Iowa, John’s Dad was critically ill and there was ample room for the 3 kids to stretch out a bit. Shannon got the back seat to herself so she wasn’t required to breathe the same air as her 2 gnarly, younger brothers. Best thing we ever did was purchase 2 Game Boys, which kept them happy and occupied.

4. The most luxurious car I ever owned was a 1995 2-door Cadillac El Dorado. The doors each weighed as much as a Volkswagen. No outside noise, Bose speakers, heated seats. It was luscious. This was after the Astro Van and 2 of the nerds had graduated and were in college and Adam wasn’t driving yet. (We got him a car when he turned 16, no way was he driving my Caddy). If I could find another El Dorado with low, low miles, I swear I’d sell my Jeep.

5. My first SUV and only Buick was a 2005 Rainier. Loved it but it was one size too big because most of my driving was now solo. Kids were grown up, Hubs kept getting new Chevy pickups so we took the truck if we were antiquing or hauling anything. I sold it to Shannon, who was now a mom to 3. She drove and loved it until she hit a deer which totaled it.

6. When my Dad moved from Iowa to Michigan at the young age of 88 after Mom passed away, he was driving their 4th Ford Escort (I think, after they moved up from the no-longer produced Chevette). The Escort had seen better days and Dad wanted something new-and different. He bought a 2006 PT Cruiser. (We searched for days because he would not even test drive one with an automatic transmission). When Dad passed away in 2008 I drove the PT for a couple years. It’s doors weighed as much as a newborn-preemie. But I had fun shifting a 5 speed for a couple years.

7. The coolest, hottest, neatest car we ever owned was a 1964 Chevy Stingray Corvette, 327- 365 HP, 4-speed on the floor. Hubs bought in 1992 and we it kept for more than 20 years. What a beast! We drove it a lot. Parades, car shows, Friday afternoon movies, church on summer Sundays, ice cream cones after supper. He spent most of those years dinking around with it. Lots of new parts, carburetor, tires, paint job back to its original Tuxedo black. It was a fun project for him-like a savings account that just kept gaining interest. Very cool muscle car.

8. Oh the irony. The name of my story implies a Ford Mustang is somehow involved (or maybe just because I love Wilson Pickett’s version of the song-Mustang Sally, Guess you’d better slow that Mustang down). But no, that’s not it. I still feel bad about our Mustang. I bought it by taking over payments from this young couple from South Sioux City, Nebraska. In those days I didn’t have to refinance, they just signed the car over to me. I gave them a small amount of cash and they handed me the remainder of their payment book, taking themselves off the hook. They were about to lose the car so it benefited both parties. The car was a year old with hardly any miles. They had one child and were expecting another so their family of 4 would have been crowded. Tragedy struck a few months later when their whole family was killed in a car accident. Mom called me after she recognized their names in the Sioux City Journal. That 1968 Mustang however, was the biggest lemon we ever owned (and the only Ford). Should have been a couple of recalls but neither issue was ever addressed. The bucket seats were junk. The passenger seat broke almost every time someone sat in it. Half of you would end up in the small backseat, unable to get it (or you) back upright. Even more frustrating was a starting problem. If the weather was damp-between the temperatures of 28-40, it refused to start. Would not start. New battery, new starter, nothing worked or helped. When we traded it in, it had 38,000 miles on it. John told the dealer to ship it to Florida because it and Iowa weather definitely didn’t mix…