I remember a time before a McDonald’s sat on every corner. No Arby’s, Burger King, Wendy’s or Subway. There were restaurants in my hometown, but no chains and none were open on Sunday. We went out to eat every Saturday night, usually within a 30 mile radius of Rock Valley. Mom cooked all week after she got home from work and she was bushed, but I rarely heard her complain about making supper every night.

My first experience with something I’d never tried before was in 1964. I was 13 and old enough to run around town. I now spent much of my free time at Rock Valley’s 6 lane bowling alley, and I don’t ever remember bowling there. That’s odd, right? The front section of the bowling alley was huge. A long counter took up one wall plus multiple tables, pinball machines, and a great juke box. There was no reason to go back by the actual bowling lanes unless you needed to use the restroom. A nice lady named Fran managed the kitchen, made the food, served the food and ran the register. I don’t know how she remained sane or coherent after football or basketball games. The place was packed with nearly everyone from school. (Our high school probably totaled 225 back then, which included 4 grades). There was barely enough room to move. Pinball machines dinging, jukebox rocking out The Beatles, Beach Boys, Elvis, Johnny Cash, The Turtles, Neil Diamond, The Dave Clark Five and the rest of the greatest music ever written, played or sung. And everybody wanted food. Poor Fran. A lot of nights after games my boyfriend (now Hubs for half a century) would hop behind the counter and make malts, shakes and sandwiches to help her out.

Well there was this edible creation Fran made that I’d not tried before. It was flat and about the size of salad plate. Gooey, stringy melted white cheese, capable of producing a blister on the roof of your mouth or on your chin. On top of the cheese was browned crumbled (seasoned?) hamburger. Fran browned all the hamburger earlier in the day and I remember John telling me she rinsed the hamburger with hot water after it was browned to get out as much fat as possible. (That woman was making healthy choices for us way back when). Awwww. There were some spices visible and I distinctly remember tiny oblong seeds that were a bit spicy, giving it just enough zip. Pizza. The cost of this delicacy was 60 cents. Another dime bought me an RC Cola.

In all truthfulness, I think our school’s hot lunch program offered a menu item every few weeks called pizza. Being savvy teens, we were not so easily fooled. It was not a ‘Fran’ pizza. It was browned hamburger mixed with tomato sauce/ketchup plopped on a thick bread-like crust with a slice of America cheese on top. It didn’t begin to resemble real pizza. And I had not yet ever had pizza from an authentic pizza parlor yet. Be still my heart. Soon young one, soon.

As my world began to expand, most of our ‘big date night’ destination was Sioux Falls, South Dakota, about 40 miles west. Compared to Rock Valley’s population of 2,000, Sioux Falls was humongous with about 60,000 people. K-Mart, Lewis Drug, a brand new chain called McDonald’s, with downtown shopping to die for, including Woolworth’s, Penney’s and Shriver’s (Mom’s favorite store). Huge, fancy movie theaters. It was just such a hip city.

Depending on our financial situation for the night was the engine determining what kind of fare would sustain us. We could each get a shake, cheeseburger and fries and get change back from two dollars at McDonald’s if money was tight. Or opt to walk around K-Mart for an hour, stop at their own little deli and buy a couple of their foot long sandwiches (the precursor to Subway). Piled high with cheap bologna, ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato and yellow mustard. I don’t remember the price but it wasn’t much, maybe 39 or 49 cents. (Of course we did dates on five bucks most nights which included food, movie, snacks and gas). But if our budget was an iota more for the night we’d always-always spring for pizza. Sioux Falls had 2 or 3 restaurants JUST for pizza. The one we really liked was downtown Sioux Falls and it was called The Pizza Palace. While Franny’s pizza was awesome, The Pizza Palace offered a variety of ingredients like pepperoni, Italian sausage, mushrooms and better cheese. (In Fran’s defense, I’m sure The Pizza Palace did not rinse their browned hamburger to keep the fat content down for us).

As I remember The Pizza Palace was not a super huge place but was always busy. One memorable night, after finding a parking place we walked into a packed house and finally spotted a small table. (Most trips to Sioux Falls usually ended up with us double dating with another couple but on this occasion it was just Johnny Wayne & Neese). We ordered our pizza and pop, talked about what movie we should see while we gazed into each other’s eyes, drooling because the place smelled incredible. We devoured our pizza pie like malnourished inmates, both my arms tightly protecting my turf, just in case he thought I wouldn’t finish what was on my plate and he could snag leftovers. As if. I had my eyes on every slice he ate in case he left that one inch edge of crust (my favorite). But no, we each scarfed every crumb that was offered and then sat there, sated, fat and lazy. Carb coma, my favorite. While John paid the bill, I used the restroom. Towards the back, in the middle were 2 swinging doors. After going through, one direction was the lady’s restroom, the other way was the men’s.

I left the restroom and headed to the saloon doors and discovered John leaving the men’s room at exactly the same time. With just our heads barely poking over the swinging doors we each pushed one open and were greeted with loud gasps, guffaws and snickers. Everyone in the restaurant was staring at us with a mixture of amusement, shock and nervous laughter. I could feel myself blushing but I didn’t know exactly why. Hubs seemed fine.

It must have looked like we were doing something illicit in one restroom (together, duh) instead of going our separate ways. All because of our inopportune timing. By the time realization hit how questionable it looked, I honestly didn’t think I could make my feet move towards the front door. Think of it. I was 15. Mortified. Humiliated. And there was absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Ho man, it would be several weeks before I let John talk me into a return visit to our own little house of ill repute. Statistically, it was highly unlikely the same customers/workers were going to be there again-patiently waiting for the sex-crazed teen couple to start swinging-just out of sight-behind the saloon doors…

Ever have something so bizarre happen that 30 years later you’re still thinking, “what the heck?” Trying to remember the year, think it was 1992. We’d been living in Michigan about 5 years. Our house was on the outskirts of Jackson in a housing addition consisting of one huge oval with about 60 homes. Most of the homes were built during the mid-50’s when lot size still mattered. Every house was situated on an acre. While a few of the homes were two story, the majority were rambling ranch style like ours.

This neighborhood was changing. Originally thought out and built for mid-level execs employed by Consumers Power Company which was one (still is I think) of Jackson’s largest employers. The folks who bought these homes while raising their families had since retired and were now selling to move closer to their adult children and grands, giving families like ours some growing room. There was a nice mixture of retirees and younger families with scads of kids but spread so far apart it was very quiet. And safe.

Our house had four doors leading to the outside, although 2 were seldom used. There had been a breezeway between the garage and house which had been enclosed before we bought it. Kind of an odd room we used as a dining room because we had an extra table. (the main function of this gorgeous antique oak table was to collect school bags, coats, hats, miscellaneous gloves, candy wrappers, half eaten food, mail, toys or wet towels recently used in our hot tub). The room had 3 doors (one going into the garage), plus a double doorway to the living room and a single to the eating area off the kitchen. There was one wall for a large Amish cupboard plus the round oak table plopped right in the middle of the room. Everything else was doors or windows. But this little room got used frequently for either going to the backyard, out the front side to the driveway (bikes-skateboards) or into the garage if we were coming or going. No wonder it was always such a mess.

Shannon and Ariana (1 at the time) were living in Lansing because Shannon was about to graduate with her first degree from MSU. (First of three, she excels with the whole school atmosphere) Joshua was in high school and Adam was in junior high.

For several years after we moved to Michigan the only vacations we ever took were to Iowa. About 750 miles west of Jackson to the little town of Rock Valley, our old stomping grounds. John’s dad had passed away in ’87 but his mom, my folks and most of our siblings/nieces/nephews lived within an hour of each other. We went at least twice a year, usually spring break and late summer. My parents were still driving to visit us a couple times a year too.

We were just coming back from a week in Iowa during the boy’s spring break because it wasn’t hot outside. We drove straight through which took about 14 hours with the addition of a couple of stops and losing an hour for the miserable Eastern time zone. The boys were excited to get home, spend their remaining free time with friends before heading back to school. Our dog Chico stayed with our neighbor Mildred (2 acres away) while we were gone. They were besties but it wasn’t the same love Chico had for the boys. And the boys felt the same way so they were anxious to bring him back home before Mildred went to bed.

We were all exhausted, but the car was still loaded to the gills with crap that had to be hauled inside, unpacked, thrown in the laundry or put away. (Usually included was a huge cooler filled with Iowa beef already frozen). We’ve all got jobs to do before we can call it a day, so we start unpacking the car. First thing I do is hit some lights and turn up the furnace. (It maybe called spring break but the weather is seldom very springlike, it’s still quite cold). Everyone’s doing their own thing when I hear The Hubs and Josh talking to someone-and it’s not Adam or me. I walk from the kitchen into the hallway where John has a hold of a woman’s arm (which is still connected to the rest of her). What’s going on?

She’s petite, maybe in her 50’s with gray/blonde hair and glasses. She’s incoherent, mumbling, agitated, nervous. (First thoughts-Where did she come from? How did she get in our house? We never thought to call 911 at this point. We thought she was hurt or needed help). John leads her into the living room and sets her down in a chair to put her at ease and get some answers.

We’re nearly as befuddled as she is. She seems incapable of putting sentences together and her discomfort is palpable. She’s getting hysterical and it’s giving me the willies. We’re all looking at each other, then back at her, wondering what we should do. (Hold onto her, call the cops seems prudent).

All of a sudden she “springs” out of the chair and makes a mad dash to the breezeway door leading out to the driveway. A pickup screeches (we live on a corner with a stop sign) to a halt just before the stop sign, opens the passenger door and she literally throws herself up and in the truck. The truck squeals away at a high speed and we’re left standing there with our jaws dropped. John got within a yard of grabbing her feet as she flew through the air but was a couple seconds late. We stood there, looking like saps and shaking our heads.

What just happened? Now we call the cops. Duh, 10 minutes too late. We start going through the house trying to determine if anything’s missing. Was she casing the joint? Looking for drugs? Homeless and trying to stay warm? How long had she been there? And how did she manage to get in our house? John had replaced all 4 entrances with new storm doors and none had signs of a forced entry. We only used the door going into the garage since we pulled in, but the way she flew out of the side door appeared as though it was already unlocked before we got home.

It takes awhile for the cops to arrive. We explained what transpired in the hour since we parked in the garage but we’re really at a loss. Hubs gives a good description of the truck (he knows his makes and models) but we didn’t get the license plate number or a description of the 2 guys in the truck. The police are not very optimistic about finding out who broke in and what they were after but at least a police report was filed.

Some 30 years later we still wonder about the crazy lady in our house when we got home. John thinks she was searching for drugs. Although I don’t know what she was looking for, my opinion on her behavior (after we literally had her by the arm) was she got the drop on us. She acted scared and agitated so we’d let our guard down until she found the right moment to sprint out of the house. Had the truck tooted their horn to let her know they were outside? I don’t remember hearing anything. Did she spot headlights coming to a stop through our big bay window? Possible, but guess we’ll never know. But I still think we were played…

When we moved in 2015 we wanted to be closer to our adult children and grands. I thought downsizing our belongings and the square footage of our residence were going to be the only changes in my life. As if. There’s been a lot of little things adding up since I turned 65.

I had knee replacement 10 months ago. Did well until I fell in September which took a toll. My balance was way off and I ended up using a cane for 3 months, plus I lost much of my knee range of motion. (I’m back for more physical therapy). But it was when I started feeling better that I recognized other differences. Number one was my morning walks, which have been sporadic since we moved. First I hurt my left knee which took physical therapy and a year to feel somewhat better, then I fell and hurt my right leg necessitating replacement. I desperately wanted to start walking everyday “with purpose” like I did for 15 years.

I’ve come to the conclusion there have been many changes in my life since I was a young whippersnapper in 1998. I was then 75 pounds heavier and had finally found the willpower to diet. Along with limiting my food intake and dropping unhealthy pounds, I discovered a walking addiction. At my peak I was walking about 5 miles a day in 70 minutes. Now I use a walking stick and have just bumped my walk from 1-1/2 miles to 2 miles everyday our streets/walking path are dry and clear. Two miles takes about 38 minutes. And that’s me working hard. I have managed to shave 7 minutes off my total since December, but it’s still pathetic.

I stopped at my favorite shopping Mecca (Meijer) for groceries a few days ago. Meandering through fruits and vegetables I spotted fresh blackberries, a 6 ounce carton for 50 cents. Wow! Blackberries normally run about 3 bucks. Sweet berries about half the size of my pinkie. Just a few years ago I would have instantly cased the joint for marauding thieves trying to move in on my territory, while wrapping my arms around the entire display with a heady, “my precious.” Then walked out the door with a hundred boxes and a big smile on my face. I’m not exaggerating, I’ve done this numerous times during the last 25 years of my canning obsession. Not anymore.

Now in my defense, a few years ago I was still giving my canned goods away at an alarming (but good) rate. As Parish Visitor for an aging congregation those I visited on a regular basis who remained in their own home or independent living always got jars of my home canned jams, pickles and beets. Plus I donated dozens of jars to the United Methodist Women who sold them after church services (a sin on Sunday according to my Dad) for their mission fund. But after retiring I no longer have a reason to can 1,200 jars a year.

So instead of berry pouncing, I decided to pick up the items I came for and decide if and how many cartons of blackberries to buy (which goes directly against my first instinct to empty the shelves). Several months ago blackberries were on sale for a buck a box and I ended up canning about 30 half pints of seedless blackberry jelly (my second favorite next to apricot jam). The second reason I hesitated is the thought of standing by my stove for any length of time. Haven’t been able to do that since surgery. But really folks 50 cents a box is crazy! And I have a lot of trouble passing up crazy.

Not even a decade ago I routinely canned 80-100 jars of jam in a day. A day! Now I realize there’s no way I can stand in one spot in my kitchen for more than a couple hours in a stretch. I walked back to the fruit and grabbed 2 cases (24 boxes). Enough for 3 batches of jam totaling 30 half pints. I did lament to myself about how wimpy that was but it is what it is.

No more trying to do it all in one day like Super Woman. On day one I washed and smashed the berries, dividing them up in 5 cup increments and stashing them in the fridge. The next day I brought up the jars, lids, rings, sugar, pectin and water bath canner from the basement and washed everything. A day later I canned 30 half pints of jam which took a little over 2 hours. Felt odd/different and got me thinking how much my life has changed during the last decade.

And suddenly decided I’m looking at my life from the wrong direction.

Instead of pissing and moaning about the things I can’t do, the once simple project which now takes me longer, or the copious amounts I used to do, I gotta start being grateful for the THINGS I STILL CAN DO.

1. I’m older and slower. It’s about time I own that statement. My legs aren’t ever gonna feel the way they did when I started walking 22 years ago. I’m fairly certain I won’t ever jog again.

2. Does it really matter that my 2 mile walk now takes me 40 minutes instead of 28? The walk’s definitely still good for me. I continue to derive enormous satisfaction from lumbering along. (Those wacko endorphins feel fantastic). Listening to funky music while singing off tune with my own version of lyrics because I don’t understand the words still gives me pleasure (and strange looks from passers by and cars-I do not care) Deaf walker in the house! Who cares? Not me.

3. A big issue for me has been work. Haven’t worked in 14 months and I still miss it way too much. It gave me purpose. I miss little baby breaths on my neck while rocking one of them to sleep. I miss their unique smell, soft hair, toothless smiles and coos. It’s gotten so bad I miss spit-up and poopy diapers. I haven’t come to terms with this just yet. Kinda feel like there should be a part time job out there somewhere that would benefit from a sarcastic but empathetic grandma so maybe it’s time I start looking. This I care deeply about. I need more meaning in my life.

4. Giving thanks for what I’ve got in my life. Great family, warm house, easy access to doctors. Fridge, freezer and pantry filled in case of a zombie apocalypse.

5. In all seriousness though I’m truly blessed and grateful for another day on earth. Here’s to less complaining, less negativity and taking my life for granted. Start focusing on all the good in my life. Thanks God…