I simply didn’t pay attention. All those years with Mom and Dad (who BOTH loved to reminisce although Dad said very little about his grandparents). You know how it happens. Visiting your parents with small children. The littles are occupied when your mom or dad says something about when they were young. Or a story about their parents as youngsters that was passed on decades ago. You listen, nod, maybe even ask a question or 2, but then a fight erupts and you scoot to make peace among the kids.

But what about all the years following the visits with small children? I drove or flew to Rock Valley for years by myself to stay and help Mom and Dad. And we talked a lot. Yet very few of those old family stories are written down or stuck in my memory bank. Something I’m very sorry about now-when it’s far too late to glean parts of my Dutch heritage from my folks.

I have much more material embedded from my mom’s paternal side which is odd. Don’t want to say Mom was exactly estranged from her father but for many years they weren’t close-at all. Mom’s dad, Gerrit (nicknamed Lakey) was 10 years older than his beautiful bride in 1924. Lakey was the big prize winner in that marriage at least in his eyes. Coba was gorgeous, educated and loved him. She became pregnant in the spring of ’26 and gave birth to my mom, Florence and her twin brother, Floyd in December. Coba died 2 weeks later, complications from their birth a couple days after Christmas. Lakey was devastated, heartsick and bitter. He wanted no part of his newborn twins, though both sets of grandparents raised their hands to volunteer in rearing the babies.

I told a story about the mild squabbling involved between both sets of grandparents before the dust settled and Lakey’s parents, Guert and Jantje ended up raising the twins. The grandparents lived a few blocks apart from each other so it wasn’t like either set wouldn’t be a big part of their young lives. But one home would have the babies the majority of the time. This home was bigger and there were no other children in it which they felt was an advantage. The other set of grandparents had raised more children and still had 3 at home which they felt was a bigger advantage for the twins.

The paternal’s (Wanningen’s) had raised their 2 children already and lost their only daughter Jenny and newborn grandson by the time babies Florence and Floyd moved in. Lakey stayed for a bit but the constant reminder that those squirming, squealing babies were the reason he no longer had his beautiful wife by his side proved too much and he moved out. He was 30 and ready for whatever came next in his life, but raising twins didn’t figure into the equation.

So this is what I know about Mom’s maternal side of the family. The Berghuis bunch. Pieter Berghuis was born in the Netherlands in 1862. When he was 19 he immigrated to the United States. He was sponsored before ever touching soil at Ellis Island. The way mom explained it, sponsoring an immigrant included a family vouching for him. Helped him find a place to live, assured the authorities that Pieter would have a job waiting in northwest Iowa when he arrived.

Aafje (Effie) Beukelman was born in 1877 in the Netherlands and immigrated with her parents when she was 7. The Beukelman’s were sponsored by another family in northwest Iowa, so much of the pressure/stress was missing by the time they got to Sioux Center. There was housing and employment waiting for them, the biggest barrier probably resulting in language. This part of northwest Iowa was (still is) predominantly Dutch so it wasn’t hard to communicate. And the children learned English when they attended school. (My Mom spoke Dutch before she learned how to speak English).

Now how 30 something Pieter met and married teenage Effie in the mid-1890’s remains a mystery. Maybe the marriage was arranged. I know they were devoted to each other throughout their marriage. Mom told me that Effie and Pieter teased each other and were very affectionate. (The Wanningen’s were more stoic with their words and showing affection, however Mom adored them and they felt the same way about her and Floyd). But it was during frequent visits to the Berghuis house where Florence & Floyd realized they weren’t sinning or bound for hell when they made a batch of Fudge or Penuche with Grandma Effie-on a Sunday afternoon. Oh. My. Word. That would never happen in the Wanningen home. The Berghuis family were no less religious or faithful to the Lord-just a little less rigid. (Both women peeled their Sunday dinner potatoes on Saturday! Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work, but the 7th day is the Sabbath to the Lord your God, on which you must not do any work). Yet grandma Berghuis didn’t think it was wrong to make a batch of candy with the grandkids on a Sunday. God love her.

Into this Berghuis family 7 children were born, starting with Alida in 1897, followed by Abraham in ’98, William in 1901, Lena in ’03, my grandmother Jacoba (Coba) in 1906 and twins in 1910. Oddly enough, the boy/girl twins were named Floyd and Florence. The twins were sweet 16 when their 20 year old sister Coba gave birth to her own set of twins. She and Lakey promptly named them Florence and Floyd. Like there wasn’t another set of twin names that would fit them in the universe. My goodness.

After the death of their mother at the end of 1926, the twins lived with their paternal grandparents, the Wanningen’s, but were also very close to the whole Berghuis family. Lena didn’t marry until she was almost 40 so she and my mother were very close. The oldest sister Alida married and moved a few miles outside of Sioux Center. Mom and Floyd and spent much of their time at Aunt Alida’s house. Alida’s children were just a bit older than than the twins. My mom learning to can/preserve several hundred jars of meats and vegetables every year with her cousins and aunt. Floyd helping in the fields and with the animals. Although Effie Berghuis was a decade younger than the other 3 grandparents jointly raising Mom and her brother, much of the twins practical life lessons/experiences came from the Berghuis’ six siblings, especially Alida and her kids. Mom said it was Aunt Alida who told her about the birds and the bees, and what to do when that first period arrived. By the time mom and Floyd were nearing their teen years, the grandparents raising them were closing in on their 80’s.

Not as detailed history on my great grandparents as I’d like but what I do have I hold dear. Actually have quite a few pictures of my greats over the years. Much of this I think is because having twins was a big deal, plus losing their young mom within a month garnered a lot of attention back in the mid-20’s. This Christmas I made a couple batches of fudge using great grandma Effie Berghuis’ simple (but not so easy) recipe. I have to make it exactly like she (and Mom) did. No candy thermometer, soft ball tested on my finger, no pan-always poured on a buttered plate. Carrying on with their tradition-sometimes even on Sunday…

Anyone reading my blog probably realizes over the years I’ve used my grudge app on occasion. I don’t really consider myself a spiteful person but the grudges I’ve accumulated over the years have been difficult for me to let go move on. As I age I’m more content with my life, thus more forgiving. My Christmas grudge only lasted 15 years which I view as a short term success story.

Some of this Christmas skepticism is the result of my upbringing. I’m not exactly a Scrooge type character, just wasn’t raised very Christmasy. Growing up I don’t remember Christmas being a big deal. Doesn’t mean there weren’t festive times, I just don’t remember them. I do remember the Christmas following the death of my brother Larry in October, 1958. That one I recall vividly because there was nothing to celebrate (sorry about your birthday Jesus). No tree, no presents. I was 8.

There are many things I’ve grown to love about Christmas over the years. My collection of stockings for each family member. You can easily see the changes in stocking patterns over the years. Our first 5 are smaller (except for Joshua’s which is way bigger than all the rest), patterns were simpler, not as sparkly with sequins or detailed (or as puffy, I started making the first one in 1984. When the pattern called for filling, I used dryer lint. I know-hopeless, so I convinced a bowling buddy, Mary Lou to finish the first 5). The last few are works of art. (Dread the day when they actually go to their rightful owners, but that too is part of life). But my tree is probably my favorite, or more specifically the ornaments on my tree (although actually putting the tree up is far more work than I remember when I was 40, 50, even 60). I caught the exotic Christmas tree ornament bug (there is no cure) from my sister-in-law Elly. She had the most beautiful, completely loaded tree with stunning, unique, gorgeous ornaments I’ve ever seen. Many from all over the world. After enjoying her tree every Christmas during our early years of marriage, I learned instead of buying a box of ornaments, I would purchase one of a kind ornaments. After decades of collecting, I don’t think I have any duplicates on my tree.

Hubs and I were raised totally different. My parents were more somber and strict, John’s family was loosey-goosey. Hubs was the last of their 5 kids. He was as unspoiled as I was a total brat. His folks didn’t worry where he was or if he didn’t show up for supper without calling first. He could whip up fried egg sandwiches topped with ketchup when he was 6. I attempted boiling water the day after we eloped. (Epic fail). And the Van Berkum’s went all out for Christmas. Being the last of 5 kids, his sibs were older and had kids of their own already. Their large, boisterous family would have presents stacked up to the ceiling when they all came home to celebrate on Christmas Eve. The Gerritson’s didn’t celebrate Christmas. New territory for me when we were dating, newlyweds and new parents.

I was befuddled how irked I was with someone who was fictitious! I’ve got some issues. I should have directed my resentment towards the Hubs. At least he was a living, breathing entity who could duck and find cover. This Christmas discord started in the mid ’70’s after a few years of marriage. We were now parents of 2, Shannon 7 and Joshua, 2. Hubs was an engineer at a toy company (don’t be mislead and think this was a hap-hap-happy place to work. It was run by 4 unruly brothers who tried to out crazy each other-and were highly successful in their endeavors) in eastern Iowa (350 miles from both sets of parents). He was working 60 hours a week for a pittance and I was home with 2 littles and no car. Good times. There just was not enough of anything to go around. Except bills.

Shannon and Josh had worn the pictures off the pages from the toy section of the Penney’s and Sears Christmas catalogs. They were normal kids and wanted it all. But we were seriously lacking the proper funding to make this happen year after year. Trying to make young children understand they couldn’t literally have every toy on multiple pages was impossible. But the Hubs was the worst offender! He’d come home from work and while I was making supper (yes I had learned to cook real meals) or cleaning up the kitchen and getting ready for the kids’ baths, Dad would eagerly help the kids peruse the Christmas catalogs.

Instead of gently putting the brakes on their outrageous requests, Daddy would simply say, “why don’t you ask Santa for that?” (Are you out of your ever loving mind)? They both asked for twice as many gifts than what we could afford. After scrimping and saving, penny pinching, utilizing lay-away, giving up a couple dollars from the grocery money each week and using my birthday money so we could buy what they had their little hearts set on, we (I) never got one iota of credit or satisfaction for buying them any of the cool gifts. Every present that was a hot ticket item of the season, each new fangled toy on the market that was circled because they couldn’t live without it–was from Santa. The novelty, cheesey, mundane dollar toys/stocking stuffers were from us. Yay. The too expensive, hard to find toys were from Santa. Every. Time. Every. Single. Time.

So I’m being brutally honest in admitting from 1972 until 1987 (Adam was finally 8) I resented the ‘whole enchilada’ concerning Santa with his uncanny ability to bring my kids all the best presents. (Hubs didn’t do himself any favors by siding with Santa either. I think he still believes). Hubs would go so far as buy special gift wrap each year and kept it hidden from the kids (because Santa would never use the same wrapping paper as us mere mortal parents. Duh). Sounds petty as I’m writing about something so trivial but truthfully the whole Santa thing bothered me a lot. Guess I was selfish to want the credit for what I considered blood, sweat and tears shopping for Christmas because I doted on my kids when along comes the fat guy in red and steals all my thunder.

I see some similarities between how I responded to the silliness of being one-upped by Santa for a spell and Christianity, which is sort of odd. Instead of freely giving with a full heart of happiness to the glory of God, the grinch in Neese was not ready to give freely. It didn’t matter to Shannon, Josh or Adam where the presents came from. They received great gifts and for a few years believed in something magical (which caused me angst because I wanted the kids to appreciate the high cost of those gifts. Which was selfish and childish). Lesson learned. Maybe it’s time to tackle the rest of my grudge demons and see how exhilarating that might feel…

A lot has changed since I stopped working. I still get up fairly early (though not at 4 anymore) but no longer hop out of bed and head to the shower. While I like being up early, I now enjoy lounging around for awhile before my shower. (I do not miss showering before I’ve had a quiet cup of coffee).

As dawn finally made an appearance the day was proving to be the kind where you’re just grateful you don’t have to go out. It was cold, snowing and blowing. But we had to go out. Ugh. It had been a week since Hubs’ cataract surgery and he had an early post op appointment. We head to the ophthalmologist office just after 8. His vision has improved so much they popped out the left lens of his glasses, then scheduled surgery for his right eye and soon we were back out in the snow and wind.

It was still early and I wasn’t ready to go home for what awaits me. My day of Christmas decorating. Yay. While I love seeing my tree up, I wasn’t as excited about literally hauling everything up from the basement. Until I remembered crawling around on my hands and knees (which I haven’t even attempted since knee replacement) in our 40 inch high basement for 20 years in North Muskegon, looking for all the tubs of decorations. Yup, this is much easier. Grateful for a full, deep basement again.

We decided to eat breakfast out first. A place we used to go to often had just changed hands. They served the best waffles with strawberries and whipped cream. Probably should have ordered that but I was hungry for eggs. The eggs were done right but that’s the last good thing I can say for the place. Toast was like eating a dry rusk bun, and the sausage links and home fries were cooked in the French fryer! The sausage lacked nice brown grill marks and I was sorely tempted to ask for ketchup for the steak fries. At 9 am. Umm, no and another big no.

After that little fiasco I convinced John we should stop and buy a couple Christmas gifts. I know, he was shocked too. (We usually just give cash but this year have actually had a couple brilliant gift ideas). An hour later I couldn’t think of any more excuses to avoid going home.

I went through our Christmas tubs first to determine what had to come up. (I swear this is the year I’m gonna get rid of everything Christmasy I no longer use-but after Christmas). I probably have 200 more ornaments and I do want to keep some of them. Several are sorely missed on my tree. I need 50 of the what’s down there. And my mission is to go through absolutely everything before I condense my tubs and donate copious amounts of Lenox and Precious Moments to some place or someone.

Truth be told, I’ve had this talk with myself for the last several years-get rid of what I never put up anymore. But when I’m decorating the tree I just want to be done so I can enjoy it. After Christmas I’m twitchy to get my house back in order and can’t wait until everything’s put away until the first of December next year. And to a certain extent I have given away and donated a lot of the bigger miscellaneous decorations I had. But I struggle with the ornaments. I. LOVE. ORNAMENTS. At one time I had 150 Precious Moments ornaments. So many that I bought an extra tree and set one up specifically with only Precious Moments in the family room, then our big tree in the living room. Plus a huge hanging spiral. Goodness. Maybe this is the year I declutter and condense. I’m hopeful-and way off topic. Focus Neese.

Hubs checked the lights and stuck our angel on top (that’s the extent of his help besides hauling everything upstairs). I’m the fluffer of branches and decorator. But when I get to this point I’m having fun and get all nostalgic. Very few of my ornaments are new and the older they are, the more they mean to me. The ornaments that aren’t in separate boxes are wrapped in tissue paper, paper towels or bubble wrap. It’s almost like opening gift after gift. And I know where most of them belong on the tree, year after year. My own little tradition.

Besides missing the nifty 50 that clearly deserve to be hung, I’m enjoying my tree up and done once again. Hubs is reading and listening to the 25 mile an hour winds howl when he pipes up with, “sure would like a mug of hot chocolate. Any idea where you might have hid it?” “Umm, cleaned out that cupboard this summer and noticed your canister was out of date by a couple years, so I pitched it. Sorry.” But it got me thinking.

Mom (who kept her pots and pans in the oven) finding a small saucepan, filling it two thirds full with whole milk, turning the gas burner on low. Measuring Hershey’s Cocoa and sugar in a tiny bowl and waiting for the milk to get very hot, but not boil. (She never forgot to scoop off the preacher’s coat. Ha-ha-ha. I can still see her standing by the stove removing the preacher’s coat). Grabbing a soup spoon, dipping some of the hot milk out to make a syrup of the sugar/cocoa mixture, then slowly adding the syrup to the milk. What was the ratio? Hmmm. Mom wasn’t fond of real dark homemade fudge or hot chocolate (but did like dark chocolate candy-odd). I think it was 1 to 3. One teaspoon of cocoa to one tablespoon of sugar for a good sized cup of hot chocolate.

I think that might work. Heat up the milk (2% in this house), measured out the sugar, cocoa, mixed in some hot milk and dumped about half back in the milk because I was afraid it might get too chocolatey. It was barely beige, so poured the rest in and waited until I saw tiny bubbles near the edge. (I searched high and low for my preacher’s coat but have come to the conclusion there’s not enough fat content in my 2% milk or my eyes are really bad). Poured the works in mugs and topped with a healthy (I lie) portion of miniature marshmallows and brought a cup to Hubs. You’d thought I’d discovered the the fountain of youth instead of a cup of hot chocolate.

It’s hard to describe how delicious that cup of hot chocolate tasted (never called it cocoa in our house). How much better it tasted than the prepackaged pouches of hydrated/artificial this and that on the grocery stores shelves these days. And why after a week I’m still thinking about Mom’s 3 ingredient hot chocolate. In a saucepan-on the stove-covered with a thick covering of preacher’s coat. Some things, no-many things were just so much better when I was a kid. Thanks Mom…

Whenever I watch a courtroom drama on TV the first rule for the lawyer is don’t ask the question if you’re not sure of what the answer will be. I’ve tried to maintain that philosophy since I started blogging in 2014. Write about what I know (which isn’t much). This is my story to tell from my perspective. The exception here is I don’t know ‘everything’ concerning this shining star of my story. But I’ll do my best.

Terry, one of my former classmates, started sharing posts from a young mom and dad who were friends with Terry’s son Justin (Justin passed away about 4 years ago). Aaron & Chrystal, their 2 children, Gavin and Alexia had moved from Iowa to Montana and Chrystal was pregnant with their third child. I’ve never met Aaron, Chrystal or their kids, and probably never will. Yet I feel like I’m a member of their extended family. Perhaps Evy’s odd, eccentric great aunt.

Although I only know a fraction of the story, nothing has piqued my interest or captured my heart with more empathy than reading the daily journey on little Evy (Evelynn). She was born in June, 2019. From what I’ve read, Chrystal’s pregnancy and Evy’s birth appeared routine. That changed one week later for this little peanut.

Medical personnel couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with Evy, so she was airlifted to Spokane, Washington with an unknown infection. After thorough testing, a genetic defect was found caused by a mutation of the gene MYH7. Meaning where an A should be, Evy has a G. One of only 3 known cases in the world.

What this meant for little Evy’s heart in medical terms: non compact left ventricular dilated cardiomyopathy. Laymen’s term was just as chilling. Evy needed a new heart and was added to the transplant list. By mid-July accommodations were found for the family at the Ronald McDonald House because it was gonna be a long haul before Evy would be going back home to Montana. Evy was moved to a Seattle hospital awaiting a heart.

When I started following Chrystal’s story I was amazed how much knowledge mom expressed about all aspects/complications/medications on Evy’s condition. I didn’t know how to pronounce half the terms Chrystal was using as easy as everyday language. She was like Superwoman. Although she is remarkable, Chrystal’s also an RN with a bundle of degrees. Some of her heartfelt posts were upbeat accounting for small victories, others a bit discouraging (and rightly so). One day she’s advocating for a different size IV line, or pleading for a few more hours to see if Evy’s body will rectify something on her own before more pokes, prods and jabs. While none of these days have been easy, Chrystal has remained full of faith, knowing God’s got her back. That does not however negate her normal mom frustrations, anger, helpless, and hopeless feelings at times.

Mom’s posts usually include pictures of Evy or family members enjoying snuggle time with their dimpled, blued eyed doll. On particularly low days posts, she explained, “what I’ve chosen not to share is Evy, her skinny legs rigid, back arched, writhing in agonizing pain,” while I sob beside her because I can’t fix this. “I’m emotionally, physically, spiritually tired, and my soul is weary. But God is good. I will finish my ice cream, my popcorn and laundry because the hospital staff frown on nudity.” (What a great attitude Chrystal. Just when she felt empty and spent, God gave her a refill).

In September a heart became available and Evelynn underwent the transplant. There aren’t many posts where Chrystal doesn’t acknowledge and pray for Evy’s heart angel and her family. This holiday season is going to be especially hard on them.

By the end of September, Evy was on anticoagulant, anti-rejection and immunosuppressant meds (some of which will continue for the rest of her life). A few weeks later her surgical scar is barely noticeable. As time passes, I notice more of Evy’s personality starting to shine through. She’s got ‘this thing’ for maneuvering her nap blankie over her face (maybe trying to suppress the urge of those who are snapping pictures). She’s been pritnear naked (but for a diaper) most of her short life, and isn’t fond of wearing clothes, plus with all the lines and tubes virtually impossible to dress.

Evy’s worn newborn mittens to curb the yanking/pulling/ripping out everything foreign stuck on her face. She has become quite adept at removing the tiny oxygen tubes from her button nose. “I want my face naked just like everyone else!”

There’s been some highs and lows since Evy underwent surgery. She had to be intubated again for a spell because she’d become so distressed and inconsolable, she’d hold her breath until she turned blue/purple and pass out (which was terrifying for mom and dad). A cooling pad underneath her has helped a great deal. She also has severe acid reflux. Poor baby. Chrystal noticed one of Evy’s legs was swollen and the staff discovered an infection. Trying to wean her off some meds, plus adding others can be tricky and traumatic for everyone. Sometimes it’s one baby step forward, 2 bigger steps backwards, however Evy is making progress by leaps and bounds.

I don’t know all the technical terms but Evy is finally showing off her beautiful face, now completely unadorned of medical paraphernalia. No more yanking out her oxygen. They have transitioned from the intensive care unit to a regular floor. Mom and dad are working with Evy’s team to learn how to give her medications. And there’s a ton of them.

As soon as Evy is discharged, (and it’s getting closer) the family will not be able to go home. Sigh. They will live at Ronald McDonald House for several weeks, staying in close contact with Evy’s medical team as they tweak medications, and continue with her physical and occupational therapy. But there is light at the end of the tunnel as Evy adjusts to life with her new heart.

God equips people with special gifts when they become parents. I remember fretting about my kids when they were small. Chicken pox, measles, fevers, teething, childhood accidents. He gives us more coping skills and abilities when they become teenagers (because that’s when we really need them). But how do parents prepare/adjust when life and death issues spring up right after the happy occasion of welcoming your newborn? What kind of strength/faith does that require? I just can’t even imagine.

I look forward to reading more (maybe writing Chapter 2) daily posts on Evy’s story as she grows. My prayer is in the near future Gavin, Alexia, Mom and Dad will be playing in the backyard watching (tiny spice) Evy run around, squealing with delight. About the wonder of dandelions gone to seed, ladybugs, birds and mud puddles. May God continue to bless and hold this family ever close…