I’d forgotten how upset I was after receiving the first letter. It’s been a long time, but when the second envelope arrived, it all came flooding back. Thinking about the circumstances leading up to my rather unattractive meltdown. Ugh. At least I’d been alone. It’s been about 15 years. I would venture everyone thinks about how they’d react, what’s expected of them if they’re selected. I did. Being responsible. Making a difference.

The 5 years preceding the first summons had been tumultuous for me. Mom and Dad were both on a downward spiral and I was 750 miles away. I visited for a week about every 3 months but it’s not the same as hopping in the car for a half hour ride to their house every couple days. Like clockwork I noticed with dismay, the changes in their demeanor, behavior and overall health every time I stepped foot into my childhood home.

At the time, my job consisted of 20 hours a week, and I could set my own hours, which was helpful taking all those trips to northwest Iowa. I was Parish Visitor and the ordeal I was experiencing with my parents was happening to most of the folks and their families I visited on a regular basis. Still, it’s much harder to deal with all the complexities involved when it’s your own parents. A small part of me was resentful every time I went home. (Not about the time spent with them, helping with chores and cooking. Those I really kind of enjoyed and knew how grateful they were for my help. Some peace of mind when their freezer was fully stocked with measured out meals, sweet breads, cookies, soups, even homemade fudge and penuche). But I didn’t want and wasn’t ready to face the new crop of health and emotional issues every time I came back. I wasn’t ready to accept that during the last 90 days one or both had slipped another notch.

I was going through some stuff myself. Menopause had struck, rendering me irritable, forgetful, sleepless, losing my hair, developing homely new age spots on my hands and face, plus hot flashes (without warning) at the most inopportune and embarrassing times. What a freakin trip. Man wish I could have a do-over for that half decade.

Then this whole ‘noggin’ issue started up. What first felt like weird allergies/cold/funny feeling in my head in the beginning eventually led to a hearing loss diagnosis. Which did not seem like such a big deal. My ENT’s recommendation was getting a hearing aid for the ‘good ear’ which then sent magnified sounds to my impaired ear. Which worked well-for a couple years-until I began losing hearing in my, thus far, perfect ear. Well heck. ‘Lefty’ was losing the ability to hear and understand clearly at an alarming rate so the consensus was to deal with my right ear exclusively and get a new hearing aid.

My hearing loss was now saddled with 2 complications. First and foremost was the noise. How is that even possible? If you’re deaf, your world should become silent. Oh what I wouldn’t give for golden silence. Complete quiet. My head feels too big-oversized (no, we’re not talking ego, introvert here, try to keep up), filled with constant racket. Sounds like a wind tunnel, chain saw, dentist drill, snow from a TV station off the air, live wire pinging on the ground after a lightening storm. All these loud sounds at different times. But never given a break from them all at once. Since 1998 I have not had one second of silence. Not one. Ever. This is caused by my brain trying to help me as I continue to struggle deciphering the spoken word. As more sounds become garbled, my brain started making goofy noises to compensate for words I had trouble understanding. These words are not unfamiliar to me but cause me all kinds of problems because they’re somewhat similar. Like late and lake. Only one letter difference but to a deaf person, I don’t often hear the end of a word. (Not helping brain-at times it’s enough to drive me crazy). The other biggie is Meniere’s syndrome, which causes fluctuations in my inner ear affecting my balance. Holy cripes. (Still, could have been much worse. At least it wasn’t my eyes. Thanks for that God).

And that’s when I got the first letter. Jury duty, in the form of a summons (basically no choice-it’s your civic duty, which I wholeheartedly endorse and agree). But I had huge misgivings about serving. Would if I were seated on the left of a testifying witness? Well forget about it. No way I’d understand what they’re saying. Same if a young child was giving testimony. So I called my ENT and asked what I should do? “No problem, we’ll write you a note.” (felt like I was back in school). “Pick it it tomorrow and send it along with your jury questionnaire.”

When I picked up the doctors note it was in an envelope but not sealed. After I got in the car I took out the letter and read it. Besides a hearing aid this was the first concrete documentation of my deafness. I thought I’d never forget the stark realization of those words but I simply can’t remember them verbatim. (And why didn’t I make a copy? Now that was dumb). But the message came through clearly. Something like, “Denise has a PROFOUND hearing loss and does not have the necessary tools to adequately serve as a juror. Please excuse her.”

The word profound hit me so hard, I just sat there and sobbed. ‘Profound’ made it so real and inevitable. This was never gonna go away or get better. Probably get worse (which it has). No it wasn’t a serious or terminal diagnosis like cancer, merely a tiny blip in my life. But both ears. Why both? One was bad enough. I felt pretty low for weeks. In a funk, wallowing in self pity.

Well I just got another jury duty summons in the mail. We moved 150 miles east 4 years ago to be closer to our kids and grands. Guess county jury duty information, exemptions do not move along with you. My first instinct was to make an appointment with my primary care guy and have another note written to excuse me again. I happened to mention it to my brilliant clinical psychologist daughter who then asked, “why don’t you want to be on jury duty? I think you’d find it very interesting.” “Well because I think I’d have a lot of trouble understanding what’s being said.” Shannon responded, “Mom, I was just testifying in court and the defendant couldn’t hear. Took them about 2 minutes to hook her up with headphones. It’s not a big deal. What’s the worst that will happen? You’ll be excused. My guess, you probably won’t be called at all.”

So I resisted the urge to get an excuse for sidestepping my civic duty. Filled out my questionnaire, stuck it in the prepaid envelope and threw it in the mailbox. Assuming most courtrooms now come equipped with headphones. I’ve been using headphones for years in movie theaters and at home to watch TV. They’re cordless with adjustable volume control. And if they don’t offer headphones, or I pose problems not foreseen, I’m sure I’ll be excused. Not as big of a deal as I surmised. I can do this. Just hope they’re patient and ready for-“huh? Would you mind repeating that? What? Did he say cat or calf?” Oh brother duck….

You can’t really argue. We’ve all got them. Insignificant telltale signs which make us unique. These very personal oddities don’t require a label or diagnosis from a highly educated professional. We’re perfectly fine. Really. Except for a few crazy quirks.

I’ll start. One of my Mom’s favorite colors was orange. For a time during the 1970’s she had orange kitchen cupboards, plus loud curtains and bedspreads sprinkled liberally with orange, lemon yellow and avocado. I like orange too. My high school colors were orange and black. I can picture a couple of tops in my closet right now that are orange.

When we moved to Jackson 4 years ago, we had our bathroom gutted and remodeled. I couldn’t decide on a color scheme for accessories. Rugs, towels. I’ve never embraced the theme of bath, hand towels, wash cloths, with matching rugs. It’s just too much. Wash cloths are my downfall. I can’t buy matching ones because they’re usually way too plush and thick. So my bath towels are deep plum color and match nothing. My stack of hand towels are stripes of grey/turquoise/black/tan striped with another couple along the same line but with periwinkle/maroon/black/tan. (I am a hater of any bathroom accessories containing white. Think make up, dirty hands, shoes, feet and toothpaste). Then I bought a dozen colorful wash cloths-just for my face. Robust, bright colors, not too plush, but just the right thickness. Because I’m worth it. Yellow, lime, hot pink, lavender, aqua and orange. But I had an immediate aversion to the orange wash cloths. Makes no sense. Whenever I open the cupboard for a clean wash cloth and an orange one is sitting on top, I gently place it on the bottom of the pile. This way I have several preferable colors before I have to turn away one of the 2 orange ones. The easy way out is just to remove the 2 orange wash rags from my rotation, yet I’m compelled to leave the two offensive orange ones with the rest of their siblings. They never get washed so remain a bit brighter than the others. This my friends is one of my quirks. But I’ve accepted this handicap and moved on with my life. For now.

Facebook posts. Not so much memes friends post, most of them make me laugh out loud. (Not even going to start on the political crap-for now-I’m still ignoring them). Stay strong Neese, scroll right on by or hide those suckers from your newsfeed. Don’t get pulled in, there is no chance of reasoning or winning. Ever. But once in a while someone posts something so vague, I can’t imagine what they need, or are even trying to say. These are different than when a member of your family is facing a serious health issue they’re not ready to share, thus only prayers are requested without any details. I’m fine with this vagueness. The posts that trip my trigger will read something like this: “Well, that made me feel like shit today.” No explanation, nothing further. Do you give it a thumbs up, a heart, a wow? Any comment is borderline crazy because you might really be indicating the wrong thing. So you’re left out in the nether regions with a furrowed brow thinking, why even post something like this? What are they trying to achieve? Makes no sense. Makes me nuts (maybe that was their goal all along). Ha, guess they showed me. Well played vague Facebook post. This is one of my (many) irks.

Some of you must have issues with robo calls. Most of these calls will originate from your own area code. Their rationale is you’re more likely to answer the call if it’s local. My robo call randomness seems to go in spurts. One day I might get 6, then nothing for a day or 2, followed by a phone feeding frenzy from everywhere. I haven’t had a call from intimidating, female monotone “courthouse official” saying they’re issuing an arrest warrant for me in a while, so that’s been a pleasant respite. But I have had a half dozen calls from freaking Liberia. What in the world is that about? I’ve pretty much accepted there are approximately 2 dozen people in the world who might want or need to call me occasionally. Everyone who’s actually friend or family knows of my hearing loss. So they text, iMessage or use messenger. (A note about me and my friend the messenger. I like to think of it as a means to have a private conversation with someone (or several someones) without using an actual phone. I’m not crazy about memes sent to me to be forwarded. I don’t and won’t. Isn’t that what Facebook’s about? Wanna talk to me, use iMessage or messenger. Want me to see something funny, post it on Facebook. It’ll be on my newsfeed, not to worry. I follow all my friends). I guess our government is tired of hearing folks complaining about robo calls and is looking for ways to stop them. Yup robo calls are a definite irk.

I might have a problem with toilet paper. Sigh. Since I’m the one who removes and replaces the roll (it has to be Northern-does this qualify as a quirk? Asking for a friend). I place the roll going under with the paper against the wall or cabinet. It’s just the person I am, although I’m in the minority on this from what I hear from the haters. Everyone else in the world puts the roll on ass backwards over the top. I’m not trying to change anyone else’s mind, but as for me and my house, the roll shall remain ‘going down under.’

So I made a small turkey (with all the fixings) last Sunday because it’s Landon’s favorite meal (he leaves for Holy Cross soon). There were 10 of us but I’m discounting Jovi, the Hubs, Landon’s girl friend Lainie because she’s never been to our house before, (therefore uninformed of my toilet paper rules), and me from this dastardly incident. One of the remaining 6 suspects replaced the toilet paper roll-GOING THE WRONG WAY. In my own house. Yup, that’s the thanks I get for cooking a great meal including fresh peach cobbler and strawberry pie. I’m thinking of hiring Liam Neeson, including his phone. He will find you. You’ve been warned. Irked-up a notch.

Little did I know 4 years ago when I attended Landon’s first varsity basketball game that I was starting a tradition that would require absolutely no changes in the way I kept stats on the kid during his prolific high school career. I bought this small, neat leather journal to use. At the time I didn’t know how much information I wanted to keep so part of his freshman season is a bit sparse. But I got better at counting his minutes of playing time and some stats I didn’t deem very important but others do. Like assists, rebounds, turnovers, fouls. I was all about the minutes played and points. But I got in a certain rhythm with his stats. I’d chart the date, opponent, if he started on top. Draw dividing lines (not always very straight) to track each quarter. Down the left side I’d start with LU (layup), J (jumper), 3 (3 point shot) and FT (free throw). Skip a couple lines and follow with the rest that didn’t get tracked as well, adding minutes and the score. Twice in 4 years I veered off course with some disastrous results. Once I forget the journal at home and had to use a scratch pad. Number 3 had an off kilter game, plus they lost when they should have won. The second time I messed up I filled out this sheet at home on the afternoon of the game. Wrong. I needed to do this while I watched him warm up right before tip off. Duh. Not good for Landon’s game. My fault. Sorry dude. Quirk.

Inanimate objects. My anger has no boundaries. Dumb stuff like dropping the end of a radish or a lid on the floor. Missing when I try and scoop it up. Twice. Or not paying attention and miss the doorknob hauling in 3 bags of groceries. Certainly all these little blips from life are my fault-maybe that’s why I get so irked. But from failing to snag a Kleenex to trying to start a grocery list when the first 4 pens will not write-truly drives me nuts. Irk.

What remains? Oh right, still my # 1-irk of the decade. Driver’s who camp out in the left lane. How can it be so hard to pass a car and return to the right lane? Do you feel threatened when someone wants to drive faster than 68 or 71? Not your fault or responsibility. Let them get the ticket. Laugh when they get pulled over. It’s the small joys that give your life meaning. Give them (me) some space and move over…

I’ve lived in Michigan almost half my life, yet consider Iowa my home. There is a deep abiding affection when I reminisce about my native state. I hold my home town, Rock Valley close to my heart. I can’t foresee a time when I don’t get choked up thinking about Iowa. In my immediate family however, I’m in the minority with these heartfelt thoughts. Our three children have all lived in Michigan much longer than Iowa and none nurture that strong pull/loyalty/love for Iowa like I do. All have graduated from high school, college, graduate school, found spouses, had kids-in Michigan. This is their home. I get it.

You’re gonna think I’m being petty. Perhaps you’re right. A piece of my heart literally broke in Iowa recently. After all these years of my undying loyalty and warm fuzzies. Really, where is the love? Ever since we left Iowa in 1987 there’s been many reasons to go back. Family was a biggie. Both sets of parents and all siblings still made Iowa their home. Most of our vacation time was spent in our native state. For decades. And what do I get in return? Nothing. It’s over. Kaput.

See it was all a ruse. I methodically used, “yeah, I gotta go stay with my folks for a week.” Cooking and baking for days so their freezer was packed like a can of oily sardines before I left for the airport again. The martyr visits, fooling people into thinking I was really ‘there’ for them and no other reason. I lied.

It started several months ago as I perused Facebook. Something was afoot in my favorite state. (note: I didn’t say favorite spot. Not gonna fib about this. Favorite spot is Niagara Falls-hands down). Some seriously rich guys were investing mega bucks into something very dear to my heart and taste buds. No, not corn, beef or hogs although I’m partial to all 3. Much more significant than just what keeps Iowa’s farming economy revved up. And it does have a strong connection with moo cows.

It’s all about the Wells. A band of brothers with more money than they know what to do with (think heated driveways in Iowa-what a hoot, second, third and 4th homes and probably as many wives). These guys have had the world as their oyster for decades. A few years ago they opened a quaint ice cream parlor on Highway 75 in the ice cream capital of the world, Le Mars, Iowa. A quirky establishment with an antique restored milk delivery truck permanently parked outside. Couldn’t rake in the bucks fast enough, so they up and moved the store. Huh? Chose a building a few blocks east on Le Mars’ main downtown strip. Spent major coin designing another cute ice cream/souvenir shop. Place could handle a pretty good size crowd. Nostalgic tabletops showing how Wells Blue Bunny got their start-with black & white photos. You were happy to sit and enjoy a scoop, sundae, shake, cone, and revel in the cuteness of everything Wells. Oh cripes.

But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. So another huge remodel got underway last fall. New color scheme, conference room, and party room. Roof top seating covered with solar shades to ward off some of Iowa’s glorious sun. The souvenir shop size was diminished and moved. Wall art was added. I was giddy with anticipation. Couldn’t wait to visit and order my ice cream. Sorry ’bout the drool.

It’s my goal to have ice cream everyday I’m in Iowa. Every. Single. Day. It’s not that I’m crazy about ice cream in general. During the summer, I eat a soft serve twist cone once a week in Michigan as a treat. But there’s this thing about Wells Blue Bunny ice cream. They make this flavor I can’t get anywhere else. Blue Bunny Ice cream wasn’t even sold in Michigan until recently. And only like the top 10 flavors. Not the ONE flavor I’ve literally traveled thousands of miles for in the last 30 years. (Kind of like a religious pilgrimage/while scamming everyone that I was really there to see them-ha).

I’ve enjoyed Wells Blue Bunny Ice Cream since I was a little girl. Their extraordinary flavor is called CHERRY NUT. Pink colored ice cream with chunky pieces of maraschino cherries and hunks of chopped walnuts. That’s it. Not readily available anywhere, it remains the number 1 reason I continue to drive 750 miles west. I kid you not.

We arrived in Le Mars late one morning last week to take our nephew Andy out for lunch. We’re all hungry for Mexican food and meet him at a joint. Food was ok. Andy’s on his lunch break from work but has just enough time to scoot for a scoop at Wells. We walk in and I wander around for a few minutes, admiring the wealthy boy’s (probably closer to my age. I’ve got to stop calling them boys. They need to be held accountable for their bad decisions). The decor is cute, but not any cuter than the last 2 times they opened a parlor for their money-making-shtick. Eager young faces peer at me from behind a long, long counter, courting multiple 5 gallon round cartons of every imaginable ice cream flavor known to mankind. “I’ll have a good sized bowl of CHERRY NUT please.” Well(s) had flavors up the wazoo-everything but-CHERRY NUT.

I felt light headed, the fringe of my peripheral vision dims. Voices sound very far away and I think I’m gonna faint. “You don’t have CHERRY NUT? Now? You ran out? I can wait.” The only worker who’s older than 12 steps conspiratorially close to me and softly mumbles, “no ma’am, they’ve discontinued CHERRY NUT. Permanently.” Well(s) my life’s shattered. There is no reason to go on (ok, I’m still planning on attending my class reunion-but as a broken woman-without purpose. No goals. I’m seriously in a funk). “How could they? Do they realize what they’ve done? That I’ve driven to Iowa every year-for 3 decades-just for WELLS BLUE BUNNY CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM? 750 miles. For ice cream. Would it help if I bought some cherries and walnuts? Did they finally run out of money?”

“I’m very sorry. We don’t understand the reasoning in their decision either. They discontinued peach about a week later. CHERRY NUT is no longer available in the grocery stores either, I’m afraid. I can relay your disappointment, but your disapproval would have much more of an impact if you complained to the head office.”

“Oh, those little shits are gonna hear about it. Mark my words, they will see the error of their ways. After all the money/praises I’ve lavished. How could they? Honestly, how could they hurt me so? Umm, I’ve never been in this position before. I don’t know what to order. I’ve never tasted another flavor. I’m lost and afraid. Please help me.”

“Well(s) we have butter pecan, moose tracks, strawberry, blah, blah, blah.” Just stop, I’m gonna be sick. The rest of the day was a blur. I think I gave Andy a hug goodbye and pushed him towards work but I really don’t remember.

My sister-in-law Mary Jane came through though, after we had supper with them at Archie’s. She had a half gallon of bootleg CHERRY NUT. (That woman remains a mystery. I didn’t ask how the CHERRY NUT was obtained-she just knows people). CHERRY NUT has always been made by Wells, then packaged for various grocery chains. After a great steak I wasn’t craving much of anything but I did myself proud. Ate as much CHERRY NUT as I could. Took one for the team. The CHERRY NUT flavor was somehow enhanced with the realization this might be the last time I’m ever really happy and content for the rest of my life.

Two odd things happened since. Well more than 2 really. My vision eventually returned which was good. You know how I am about ‘real’ books. I want to hold them, turn the pages-literally-while I read. I had some catching up to do with an author I love named John Sandford. He’s written a series for 20 years about a cop from Minneapolis named Lucas Davenport. So I ordered the last several in the series and was on maybe my 5th Lucas book in a row. (Sandford writes an even better series about a coworker of Davenport’s named Virgil Flowers. I love him). Anyway, I’m reading this novel about this gorgeous young woman who’s running for the Minnesota senate. She’s a freakin nut case/psycho but Lucas can’t prove it (actually pretty close to the whack jobs we have in the senate now-truly not funny-but certainly resembles some of the lifers we continue to elect). Lucas needs to question her while she’s campaigning and she walks out of her trailer, eating an ice cream cone. Lucas thinks it’s CHERRY NUT, one of his favorites. (Just shoot me now. He’s going to be so disappointed too).

Recently I read a comment on my last blog story (about my class reunion) after I failed to hook up, (time was of the essence and mine was running out) with one of my Facebook friends, Renee’ from Rock Valley. She invited me to her house next time I’m in town-for CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM! Now how am I supposed to deal with that kind of negativity in my life? Living/coping/pretending-in a world that’s Well(s) CHERRY NUTLESS….

Long ago, in a small Dutch town, the choices were not only limited, we had no say in the matter. Doesn’t sound fair does it? Adults weighed the pros and cons without seeking any advice from us on the matter. What these parents may have considered a minor decision of no consequence would have a huge impact on a group of 45 pounders, happily playing outside during the last, lazy days of summer during August, 1956.

What we didn’t realize, (we were only 5 at the time) the conversations of our parents that summer would be life changing. For some families there was no discussion, others might have been torn trying to decide which way to go. Could really go only 2 ways. You either sent your kid to Rock Valley Community School or the Christian School.

The church my parents were attending for the 3 years prior preferred sending their children to the small Christian School exclusively. But for some reason Mom & Dad sent me to the public school (a mere 2 blocks from our house). Don’t know if they couldn’t afford the tuition for 3 kids because I never asked. In my heart I know I would have been just fine had my parents chosen a different school choice path for their youngest wayward child, but that’s real hard to see when I’m reminded of the life long relationships with the core group of 5 year olds I met on those first days of school.

Our initial kindergarten group wasn’t very big. Two classes, morning and afternoon, each about 20 kids. But Rock Valley was growing and it was with manufacturing and retail, plus a few more farmers. A couple of factories were booming, more workers were hired, bringing in new families. Over the years families moved in and out, (Reinke’s in-Harmon’s out) but this initial group remained-bound at the hip. For better or worse. By the time we were finished meeting on a daily basis, the class of ’69 would number closer to 60.

Did you catch the part about ‘on a daily basis?’ Think about that for a minute. Say what you want about a humongous graduating class of 350, 500 or more, but this fact remains. The starting team of our 1956 kindergarten would attend school TOGETHER over 2,300 days. With 180 days of school a year averaging about 7 hours, we were TOGETHER over 16,000 hours. Just in class TOGETHER. Yes there was an imaginary (social) caste system (ha-ha-gotcha, I did learn something in school) some cliques, friends for life while other friendships faded, but our basic group remained intact. And those were just the required hours of learning.

Extra curricular activities, speech, sporting events, shopping trips, bowling alley pizzas, camps during the summer, Lake Okoboji, cheerleading, swimming, yakking on the phone (my phone number was 691), slumber parties, pep rallies, bus rides to and from games, field trips. The class of ’69 spent some quality time together. Seriously. For 13 years. Longer than many marriages these days. Wow. We did good. Really good.

From tears on the first day of school with some frightened tykes wanting to go back home, to skinned knees, resisting our nap time with the shades pulled, broken bones from playing too rough during recess or PE. Watching one of our classmate’s tongue get stuck to a frozen slide pole during a cold spell (I’m being kind here. An Iowa cold spell means not getting above zero-sometimes for several days in a row, but we still played outside for recess and after lunch).

At the beginning of each new school year as our class continued to age and grow, you were never guaranteed who would be in your class, which fabulous or so-so teacher you might have. This was good and bad. You might be separated from your bestie for 7 hours a day, but it was a unique opportunity to get better acquainted with some other kids who weren’t in your (social circle) the previous year either. And everyone from our class still had lunch together and recess.

So do kids from gigantic schools have the same ‘close’ feeling like our core group from a small, rural Iowa town? I find it hard to believe that a group of 350 just goes around hugging everyone in the class during reunions, but hey, maybe they do. More likely though, you stick with your small group of kids you ran around with most of the time when you were in school. That’s how the caste system really works.

As hard as it is to fathom, my class of ’69 had another reunion last weekend. I wonder if anyone ever actually thought about being OUT of high school for 50 years? I sure didn’t. Our turnout was terrific. I was hopeful 20 classmates plus spouses would show, and the number was about double that. My theory on this is things change drastically after your 25th reunion. Everyone’s pretty much done with one-upping anyone, no one cares if you’ve gained weight, got new joints, have less or no hair, nor the color. We’re way past house size, and high paying stressful jobs. Our conversations now include bragging about the kids and grandchildren. When those subjects have been depleted, we’ve all got health issues that require second, third or 4th opinions.

Still it’s scary when you walk in (like the first day of a new school year). Unless I’m friends with them on Facebook, there’s only a handful of kids I actually recognize. It’s the truth. And no one recognizes me. No one. Ah well, it is what it is. There were several tables set up and 30 people milling around when Hubs and I arrive. I’m looking for ANYONE who looks vaguely familiar and praying there are name tags or I’m gonna have to say Denise Gerritson 50 times throughout the night. Although I can’t remember who said it, this is one of the best lines I heard, “we were sitting at the table when you walked in-trying to figure out who you were. After we decided you were Denise, we all could pretend to know who you were all along!”

I talked with several friends I hadn’t seen for decades, but it wasn’t at all awkward. It was, I’m glad you’re here, let’s catch up with each other-time. Good for the soul visits. Let’s not wait so long again in between chats. You look great. How’s the family?

I wasn’t the nicest kid in school. Heck, I’m still not nice. But I have matured a bit. I want to thank each of my superlative classmates from the bottom of my heart for their part in my story whether it was huge or tiny. When I was a shit, I apologize, even though it’s come years too late. (Yes, I see several nodding heads. Don’t know if you’re in agreement of my shittiness or just dozing off out of boredom). Back then, I didn’t realize what a huge impact all of you would make on my life. How often I’ve thought about being on the playground with different kids, telling scary stories on the merry-go-round as daylight faded, or an evening school party that’s made me smile and give thanks I was along for the ride.

There was a memorial board at the reunion with notes about the classmates we’ve lost over the years. Eight kids-gone too soon. Over 10% and none of us have reached the age of 70 yet. A sad and sobering moment. Laura Vogelzang, Pam Bunch, Harv Voetberg, Wayne Miller, Rod Hulsolf, Tom Gayer, Andy Kaupins and one of my best buds from school, Randy Vandevelde. You are missed and thought of often.

A special shout out to one of my oldest buddies, Dave Suter for remembering the horror movie, Mr. Sardonicus we saw during a blizzard in 5th grade. I was so petrified, I begged Dave to walk me home from the theater in waist high snow.

A big thank you for the crew of classmates (led by Sue) who threw our reunion shindig together. You guys did an awesome job and we appreciate the effort you put into our special night together. Another heartfelt thanks to Robert and Lorna Huyser for hosting the venue. Next time, let’s shoot some hoops! So, no sarcasm, no tall tales, just love, appreciation and a grateful heart on how lucky I was to be included in the class of ’69. Thanks for that. Neese…

Have you ever mulled the time frame of your birth? Not something minute like the exact minute but more like a certain era, decade or century? Wish you’d been born earlier to experience some part of history you’ve only read about? Or perhaps a few years later-or farther into the future? When I reminisce about my 1950’s-1960’s childhood, there’s not much I’d change. I’m forever grateful when and where I was born, although I really could stand to be a few years younger. I’d take better care of myself. Hindsight. Karma.

After discussing Hubs’ childhood, here I am typing about the dude again. I guess it was the part where I listed all the different crap (useful stuff though) he can do, most without formal training that brought this on. He’s just a handy guy. So when he says- “man I wish I’d been born when”- I can’t really roll my eyes too far back. (makes me dizzy anyway) Because with Hubs capabilities, he could have easily made them a reality.

When we’re watching a western this is how the conversation starts. He’ll say, “I wish I’d been born when the West was young.” (Just shoot me now). He gets giddy (up) at the prospect of being part of a wagon train. A. Wagon. Train. For real. Covering a whopping 10 miles a day over rough terrain, (much like Michigan’s roads today, just at a faster clip to fully experience the sheer magnitude of our ginormous potholes). No rest stops or bathrooms smelling of disinfectant. Nada on the fast food restaurants or hotels offering clean, hot showers and freshly laundered sheets. With king size beds. I mean, where’s the appeal in that?

Staking his claim to 40 acres and living off the land. Plowing virgin fields. With oxen. (I don’t even know what they are. Or care). Hubs, a sweaty hot mess, tripping over rocks, tree stumps, but happy and content. Listening to his iPod while plowing:

Me & you and a dog named Boo

Traveling and livin’ off this land.

Me & you and a dog named Boo

How I love bein’ a free man.

Building a log cabin before winter sets in. With his bare hands. Emailing his list of construction requirements to Menard’s, anxiously awaiting all the lumber, plumbing, wallboard, cordless drills, (has to be cordless because there’s no electricity out there yet) nail guns and fixtures to be delivered. Right. Being several miles from your closest neighbor. More than that from the closest town. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

Not to this chick. I’ve come to terms long ago and readily admit to being a loner. For the most part I enjoy my own company and don’t feel the compulsion to be entertained by others. But I’m not crazy about back breaking work either. Truth is, I’m lazy. There’s something very appealing about a warm/cool, well lit home with scads of unread books at my fingertips. Spiffy new glasses when I notice the fine print is getting harder for me to read. Fresh, clean tap water with the touch of a handle, not pumping outdoors during all kinds of inclement weather. Maybe if I’d never experienced some of these luxuries, I’d be more inclined to hop on that wagon train with John.

OK, I’ll just come right out with it. I’m a wuss. Although I hope never to require the use of many of these products, their availability is highly appreciated-like antibiotics, novocain, epidurals, root canals, hospitals, grocery stores, ready made clothing, comfortable shoes, refrigeration, natural gas, crisp, soft sheets on an 18 inch mattress. Love my Jeep with heated seats, air conditioning, waiting in my garage until I decide I need to go somewhere.

Hey, its not like I’m without some of the necessary skills. I can sweep, mop, clean and cook. Even can my own meat, spaghetti sauce, veggies, jams, pickles and beets but everything’s been simplified for me. Dependable stoves, pressure cookers, jars, lids, hot running water, Dawn. They’ve just made it too easy for me to backtrack. Here’s the real game changer. I’m so spoiled when it comes to canning. Just check my canning journal, see when it’s apricot season or cucumber time. Find the dude who grows what I need, hop in the car with some cash in hand and off I go. I grow absolutely nothing. (That’s why God made Farmer’s Market). I don’t want to grow anything. Weeding doesn’t make me feel good. Preserving fruits and vegetables makes me feel good. And tastes good, but I’m not compelled to grow it myself.

I don’t think I would have made a very good pioneer woman. There’s not a lot of appealing lure for me to wear flouncy, stiff fabric dresses, corsets, shawls (I’d probably start myself on fire) or clunky, ill fitting shoes. Here’s the deal. I’m more of a shower, wash my hair everyday kind of girl. I get bitchy if I miss a day of either one. I guess that’s why I find books like The Outlander series totally unrealistic and implausible. (I enjoyed reading them but some aspects are so far from reality). Here’s my cliff note version.

The weather has been a constant, bone chilling, freezing rain/drizzle for 5 days straight while you and your significant other travel 4 miles a day with one horse so you have to take turns walking. You’re hitched (arranged marriage so you’re still virtual strangers in every department, except sex. Exploration there has been a rousing success. Every which way and constantly, even though he suffered a serious stab wound a week prior and his shoulder was dislocated). He’s valiantly trying to outrun a band of ne’re-do-wells who are hell bent on killing the hurt husband and doing some indescribable icky stuff with you, letting every lucky guy in their crew have a turn. Your one meal a day consists of a small piece of tough as nails jerky and a biscuit that’s showing some colorful mold, is hard as a brick, (so you haven’t pooped for a week, plus you ran out of Charman 2 weeks ago). You’ve been sitting on a stinky horse 6 hours a day, walking for another 3, don’t own a toothbrush or a bar of soap, your hair’s so greasy it hangs in attractive clumps and smells much like the hog yard. Yet you can’t wait to stop for the night so you can jump Jaime’s bones every freaking night for hours. On the ice cold, slick, sleet covered ground. Without a shower or warm bed. Because he’s just so hot. It’s true, you can make this shit up! Nope this is one scenario I never daydream about. This is like my worst nightmare. Sorry Hubs…