I’ve discovered something odd about myself. (No need to pile on, I don’t need your input on my shortcomings or we’ll be here for a month). I never would have connected the dots if it weren’t for Facebook. Blame them. All those goofy memes asking silly questions. I actually don’t answer those questions very often because they seem too nosy/invasive/personal/inquisitive. I do however read some of the comments on these posts to get differing viewpoints/opinions on how others feel. Umm, hide behind anonymity much? Why yes, yes I do.

Some of these posts are about music which holds a special meaning for me. No, I can’t sing but that doesn’t mean I don’t like music. Through the biggest share of my life I was rarely without a radio blasting 1960’s and 70’s tunes every hour I was awake, in the house or car. Until I started going deaf. Music lost some of its luster for me because my head was suddenly overflowing with obnoxious, inexplicable, constant noise. Whooshing wind, power lines crackling, chain saws, dentist’s drill, yikes. One would assume deafness would mean total silence. Not in my case. My head is filled with so much noise, which in turn causes me to misunderstand or mistake what’s being said or sung. Add more noise to the mix (yes even the greatest music from my formative years) and it puts me on edge instead of being enjoyable or relaxing for me.

Since my hearing loss (starting in 1998) there has been one exception where music’s concerned. Listening while I walk in the morning. Music keeps my feet moving and puts a smile on my face. But I’ve evolved. After several years of Walkman’s, MP3 players, portable CD players and iPods, a dear friend gave me a pair of Bose headphones which has made a world of difference.

With these extraordinary headphones it’s been much easier to determine the words in lyrics. But my music preferences have changed somewhat too. Nothing’s going to change my love or loyalty to Neil Diamond, The Beatles or The Doors, but I got to the point where I simply couldn’t listen to the same music day after day. I thank Josh for that one. He was in charge of locating, buying, taping, transferring all the songs I wanted to whatever piece of equipment I was using at the time. After a few years of daily walks, he sent me a couple of surprise tapes with Offspring, Train, Lady Gaga, P!nk, Black Eyed Peas, Christina Aguilera, Flo Rida, Gary Jules, Jlo, Ke$ha, Maroon 5 (who are these people?) and more and I was literally off to the races. He’d finally spent enough time fiddling around making music for me and set me up with a Rhapsody account (before iTunes) and taught me how to acquire music without him giving up 3 frustrating hours in the process. Slacker.

So it could be the lyrics that give meaning to my old and new favorites, but my pull to a song often has to do with the melody. That definitely can suck me in. And don’t forget the beat. To a hearing impaired person the thump-thumps of the beat determines if the song is worthy of spending my money and something I’ll enjoy on my walking playlists.

Now about those crazy questions on memes. It’ll start out like this: What’s your favorite song by The Beatles? Or CCR, The Doors, Johnny Cash, P!nk and so on? Ok this is where I usually take a sharp right turn when the majority of comments are headed down another avenue. I’m just gonna blurt it right out. My favorite songs by groups or individuals are rarely the most popular choice of the masses. Anybody else feel this way? You have a favorite song by a group but it’s definitely not as well known as their top 10. Many times my pick is not even in their top 20. And if the group or solo artist are clearly recognized by a certain song, (Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler comes to mind while my favorite of his is Ruby), it’s never the one I particularly care for.

What does this mean? I’m an individualist? I swim in the opposite direction of the masses? I have odd taste in music? Don’t know. Here are a few of my picks. Ok, start shaking your head.

1. Neil Diamond: Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show/Desiree

2. Johnny Cash: Sunday Morning Coming down/I Walk The Line

3. 3 Dog Night: The Show Must Go On

4. Simón & Garfunkel: Richard Cory/Cecilia

5. Everly Brothers: Walk Right Back

6. The Beatles: Ob la di/Ballad of John and Yoko (kinda ironic because I believe she ruined him)

7. Wings: Mull of Kintyre (although it’s kinda slow for walking I love walking to it which is odd)

8. Abba: Angeleyes/Chiquitita

9. The Doors: LA Woman/Roadhouse Blues

I still select a few old favorites for every playlist, but also use a wide variety of music on most of them. There are a few tunes that are on every playlist such as Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s Somewhere over the Rainbow, 3 Dog Night’s, The Show must go on and Snoop Dog’s, I just wanna make you sweat (I know, I know, Snoop Dog??? but you’re not gonna make me feel guilty, it’s my favorite walking song. The only one I still hit repeat numerous times while it’s playing).

I haven’t walked “with purpose” (bad knee) for a couple years, so I’m just getting back in the swing of things. Since I only play music when I walk, hearing my old favorites is like a surprise visit from an old friend. I smile as the words come back to me and life feels fantastic. Those dang endorphins, gotta love ’em. On the other hand, I have not bought any new music in 3 years and in dire need of some new tunes. Really. Same old, same old. My granddaughter Peyton has been given the task of finding some new song suggestions so I can buy some tunes to add to my library. This old favorite from ABBA explains it best…

I’m nothing special, in fact I’m a bit of a bore,

If I tell a joke, you’ve probably heard it before.

But I have a talent, a wonderful thing,

‘Cause everyone listens when I start to sing,

I’m so grateful and proud, all I want is to sing it out loud.

So I say thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing,

Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing,

Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty?

What would life be? Without a song or a dance what are we?

So I say thank you for the music, for giving it to me…

I use a nearby road when I need groceries or head into Jackson. My new walking path runs parallel to this road which also runs parallel to interstate 94 (busy-busy). While I don’t encounter many walkers/bikers/joggers when I’m on the path, I’m amazed how busy both roads are as I lumber along. It’s common for me to sit in my Jeep at the Ann Arbor stop sign for a couple minutes while cars zip both ways doing 50 before I get my chance to sneak in. Until about a week ago. Now neither road is busy. Semi’s yes, cars-not so much.

Limbo. Not a word I like very much. I prefer my life to be in an orderly fashion. I’m not comfortable when my life’s in limbo. I don’t think many of us are. I tend to wear a perpetual frown trying to figure out how to get myself right. Waiting on word whether your offer on a new house was accepted or if your loan application was approved. Waiting to hear if you got the job. Passing the time praying about your test results. Waiting. Transition. Uncertainty. Limbo.

Our lives changed dramatically recently-all beyond our control. Others are making decisions about my welfare, (and yes I’m still of sound mind) what’s best for me. Social distancing, self isolation, quarantine. I can’t really get any less social unless I find a cave to live in on a deserted island. Life in limbo.

It’s been kind of unsettling. Never in my life have I experienced finding empty grocery shelves. Why that’s so unnerving I’ve not figured out yet. Streets without traffic, special allotted times for folks my age to grocery shop. Cars in the driveway during the day for the young couples living (now laid off) in our neighborhood. Restaurants with a few workers tending to the orders of their drive through customers, but without people milling around inside, enjoying their friend’s company, getting refills, running after kids. Not anything I’ve ever given a passing thought about-until recently.

Anyone who’s familiar with me or my blog knows I’m a loner and big time homebody. I love being home. My home is my sanctuary. Three or 4 days into a vacation and I’m so ready to come home. I want my own bed, my own bathroom and my own cooking. I have no problem being here for days on end. I bake, read, blog, stare into space and putz around. Clean when the dust gets too thick. But there’s something mildly sinister/foreboding about someone ordering me to, “stay home for cripe’s sake. You’re old and vulnerable.” It’s creepy.

I’m home 75% of the time, but after so many days I’m hit with an urgency compelling me to get out of the house. I’ve found 2 cures for this dilemma. An easy remedy is wandering through Meijer for an hour (which I’m now strongly discouraged from engaging in, although I am encouraged to shop from 7-8 a.m. two mornings a week so less people are in the store). My other fix is walking. An easy way to rid myself of the doldrums. I smile and sing funky songs as I walk. It’s highly unusual if I don’t return home in a much better frame of mind than when I left. A cheap, healthy upper for me.

You know if we’d been born back in the pioneer days, slowly making our way west across the country, isolation and social distancing would truly be our way of life. Whatever family was with you in your wagon before you staked your claim was pretty much your social circle too. It might be months before you made it to the nearest town or see your neighbor. Now that was some serious isolation right?

Hard to compare living in the 1800’s to this Corvid 19 virus driven isolation. But just check some of the benefits of being home quarantined in today’s world as opposed to ‘wagons ho’ isolation. Literally everyone I know has: a house or an apartment, heat, electricity, food, hot and cold running water, indoor plumbing, shower, toilet, refrigeration, appliances to cook on, readily available healthcare facilities, doctors, cars, TV’s with hundreds of channel access to help pass the time, Internet to stay connected with friends, family or shop, grocery stores, a variety of takeout food from restaurants, pizza, tacos, when we don’t feel like cooking. The list is endless.

When I was growing up in northwest Iowa during the ’50’s and 60’s, Sunday’s reminded me a little bit of this recent isolation. No stores or restaurants were open. We got up, ate breakfast, went to church. When we got home we had a big dinner. Then Mom and Dad took naps (so boring, I couldn’t watch TV or go swimming). When Mom and Dad got up, we’d go visit my grandpa Lakey in Sioux Center, about 15 miles away. (Dad’s parents lived in Rock Valley and he’d stop in to see them every day). After an hour visit we’d drive back home and have a light supper or I’d head over to Char’s house. They had a huge family with a lot going on and probably didn’t notice me most the time. After a big supper and cleanup, it was time to head to church again. Youth group in the church basement then up to the sanctuary just in time for the sermon.

As far as self isolation goes, not much in our daily lives has changed. We were comfortable with our lifestyle, now it’s simply a requirement for a few weeks. Our weekly supper dates with Ari and Jovi have stopped. That’s been a definite downer but it’s an unnecessary risk.

Until a couple of days ago, I did not know one person with Covid 19. I still don’t but my son Joshua does. He texted me one of his poker buddies had contracted it, has been in the hospital for several days and was not doing well. He had no other health issues and had not been traveling. He died yesterday. He was married, 43 years old with 2 small children. It just puts in perspective how deadly serious this spreading virus is.

Still I remain hopeful and optimistic. I’m more careful (don’t touch your face-do not touch your face), far more cautious staying farther away from people (not in my realm, so anybody besides the Hubs) but I’m determined not to let this temporary way of life totally control every aspect or make me unreasonably fearful about my future. We’re gonna get through this and be stronger for it. But please don’t be lackadaisical about washing your hands. Frequently. With gusto.

Here’s one of my favorite walking songs by American Idol winner Phil Philips called Home…

Settle down, it’ll all be clear,

Don’t pay no mind to the demons they fill you with fear.

The trouble-it might bring you down, if you get lost you can always be found,

Just know you’re not alone-cause I’m gonna make this place your home…

We were living on the farm near Cascade, Iowa. There was nothing about us which remotely resembled farmers. Just a decent rental house, one of many during our decades of drifting. We moved there when Joshua was almost one, so it was spring, 1976. The house was empty except for a very dead Christmas tree with a few sparse, dull green needles still clinging to its branches. The rest were hard as steel and just as deadly, strewn all over the carpet.

Farm living wasn’t easy for this life-long townie. We were miles from anywhere and our one car was driven to Cedar Rapids (45 miles-one way) daily by Hubs for his job. I was 26, mother of 2 and stuck in the boonies. On the positive note, I learned how to cook pretty good, and discovered I loved baking. We didn’t buy a loaf of bread for 2 years because I made my own every couple days. Along with cinnamon rolls and pies. Once I mastered pie crusts I simply could not stop making (and eating) pies. All kinds, but the farm’s orchard supplied the best green apples I’ve ever made a pie with-to this day. Yep, we each gained about 20 pounds on farm living.

It was a lonely life though. Days slid by without seeing anyone beside John and the kids. Shannon was in kindergarten so for most days it was just toddler Josh and me. We walked the long driveway at least twice a day (I pushed Josh in a cheap stroller. We literally wore the wheels off, the driveway was nothing but rocks) to get Shannon to and from the bus and fetch my priceless mail. The mail was my lifeline. I wrote and received letters daily from Mom and my friends.

I think it was spring, 1977. One night when Hubs got home from work, he coyly said he had a surprise for me. Tickets. For a concert. Our very first concert since we’d gotten married (we were 8 years in and thought it might last by then). I don’t know where he got the tickets or if he paid for them. We were pritnear destitute and our discretionary fund sat at a constant zero. Zip. Nada. I think someone from work had a conflict and couldn’t go so John snatched them up.

I was beyond excited. Oh happy day. But the next issue was what to do with six year old Shannon and Joshua 2, while we were out for a long overdue date night. The thought of leaving our 2 kiddos with a teenage babysitter out in the sticks gave me the willies. The number of people on the eastern side of Iowa I trusted implicitly could be narrowed down to my ring finger and pinkie. On one hand. Both were married and had kids of their own. One was a former neighbor in New Vienna about 20 miles away, (the wrong way from Cedar Rapids) the other couple lived in Cedar Rapids. The husband worked with John and we knew them well. They had one kid Joshua’s age, so it would be much easier to drop off and pickup after our concert. Yay, I was going to a concert.

Ruby…

You painted up your lips an rolled and curled your tinted hair.

Ruby are you contemplating going out somewhere?

The shadow on the wall tells me the sun is going down,

Oh Ruby, don’t take your love to town.

Poor Hubs. He had to drive 45 miles to work, drive home to pick up his little family, turn around and go back to Cedar Rapids, drop off the kids at the Thomas’ home while dealing with a giddy wife who had not been in the presence of any adults besides him in weeks. Then try and make the concert on time, drive back to the Thomas house to bring everyone home for a very short night. No wonder our 1969 Chevy Nova was in the shop constantly. And by shop I mean Hubs had to work on it himself-nightly (outside) just to keep the beast running. But that one special night, all the miles just didn’t matter. A real date and a live concert. Goosebumps.

Lucille…

You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille. Four hungry children and a crop in the field.

I’ve had some bad times, lived through some sad times, but this time your hurting won’t heal.

You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille.

Kenny Rogers was on tour with a stop in Cedar Rapids. He had recently broken up with The First Edition and was going solo. I was kinda stuck on Rogers, Glen Campbell and Neil Diamond for awhile after the Beatles broke up and The Doors’ Jim Morrison died. Different music that what I was used to but I enjoyed all 3 and none were too twangy for me. But Neil’s always been my favorite. FYI: remember the television series, Fantasy Island with Mr. Roarke and Tattoo? I was insistent with anyone who would listen that if I was ever flown on “Ze Plane, Ze Plane,” my fantasy was a Neil Diamond concert- with one fan in attendance-me.

The Gambler…

You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away,

know when to run. You never count your money, when you’re sittin’ at the table, there’ll be time

enough for countin’, when the dealings done.

Opening act for Kenny was-unusual. Anyone remember Gallagher? He was a comedian but relied on props for his humor. He did this spiel, including corny jokes which spoofed some cheesy commercials featuring products made by ‘Ronco’ called the Veg-O-Matic which was a legitimate non-electric vegetable slicer. Only Gallagher called his (sledgehammer type tool) the Sledge-O-Matic. He’d start with small items like apples but by the time he was in the heat of the moment, the people in the first 6 rows were covered with watermelon slush/seeds/juice. What a freaking mess. Probably the only time I was thrilled not to have front row seats. But he was pretty funny.

She Believes in me…

And she believes in me, I’ll never know just what she sees in me.

I told her someday, if she was my girl, I could change the world with my little songs, I was wrong

But she has faith in me and so I go on trying faithfully, and who knows, maybe on some special

night, if my song is right, I can find a way, while she waits, while she waits-for me.

The Kenny Rogers’ concert was fantastic. With his endearing down home charm, warm voice and fabulous storytelling songs I was drawn in, hook, line and sinker. He sang several songs with a female singer that night but I don’t remember who she was. Just who she wasn’t. My concert didn’t include Dolly Parton.

Lady…

Lady, I’m your knight in shining armor and I love you

You have made me what I am and I am yours.

My love, there’s so many ways I want to say I love you

Let me hold you in my arms forever more.

Kenny grew in popularity over the years. He starred in several made for TV movies based on one of his more popular songs called, The Gambler. No matter what Kenny dabbled in, people were drawn to him, including me. About the last time I can drum up anything on Kenny it was a magazine article when he got married for the I-lost-count-how-many-times and his wife just had twin boys.

Reuben James…

You still walk the furrowed fields of my mind, faded shirt, your weathered brow,

Your calloused hands upon the plow, I loved you then and I love you now-Reuben James.

I’m saddened by his death and sorry I hadn’t given Kenny Rogers much thought lately. Grateful I saw him in concert and appreciate his legacy of great music. I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t have any of his songs in my iTunes library, but that’s about to change. Kenny, in your own unique way, “you decorated my life.”…

The Quad Cities. Davenport and Bettendorf are located in southeastern Iowa, Moline & Rock Island right across the mighty Mississippi in northwestern Illinois. (sorry East Moline, you DON’T COUNT. Otherwise the long-time clever name of Quad Cities would have to be changed just for you. Quint Cities just doesn’t have the same ring) Davenport, the largest of the quad was our home for 6 short years during the 80’s. We chose to live on the southeastern side because we wanted our 3 kids to remain in Iowa schools. Duh.

We did not realize our house was famous once a year. (It was located in an older neighborhood with large, single dwelling homes). The whole metropolitan area of Davenport was about 100,000. The significance was all about the street (boulevard actually) on which our 2 story stucco house was built.

There was this health-conscious dude from Bettendorf who ran the Boston Marathon in 1974 (and liked it). After he came back to reality (Iowa) he decided running alone throughout the year wasn’t much fun. He wanted to encourage other runners and cap it off once a year with a special event. Now hang on a second. John Hudetz (marathon man) knew it would be easier to sell this idea/plan if it was incorporated with an already successful endeavor.

That’s where Leon Bismark (Bix) Beiderbecke came in, (now why isn’t my middle name something cool like Bismark? I like Bismarcks) although he had already been dead for 45 years. Bix was born in Davenport in 1903. He became a renowned jazz cornet/piano player during the 1920’s, teaching himself to play mostly by ear. But his uncanny ability with long improvs and jazz solos were a God given talent. Bix died of alcoholism at the age of 28 in 1931, but he left a mark on the music world forever. (We named our dog Bix after the musician). Davenport celebrates the life and music of Bix Beiderbecke with a week long music festival every summer. Marathon Man decided to use the festival’s success by adding a race, but not a marathon.

The year it began was 1975, the number of runners signed up totaled 84. The 7 mile race started in downtown Davenport at the base of the Brady Street hill, (a killer) heading north then turning east on Kirkwood. The Boulevard was perfect. Both sides of the boulevard were fairly wide, with gentle up and down slopes for the runners heading for the Village of East Davenport, then looping around while remaining on Kirkwood. The racers headed west back to Brady Street, then south down the steep hill. Guess who lived on Kirkwood?

By the time we moved to Kirkwood Boulevard in 1982 the runners applications for the Quad City Times Bix 7 had risen significantly. Why? The Olympics. What? Yup. When the US boycotted the 1980 Moscow summer games, the world’s top distance runner, Bill Rodgers decided he’d run in the Bix race. Frank Shorter, a Yale graduate and Olympic gold medal marathon winner in 1972 and silver medalist in ’76 chose to participate in the Bix too. Those guys brought notoriety to the race but also cemented the validity of The Bix being an actual race sought out by many of the world’s most elite runners every summer. When we were enjoying The Bix, the number of runners was about 8 thousand. (I believe the number of runners has doubled again since we moved away in 1987. The Bix is now the largest non marathon race in the Midwest. Wow) The race as well as the Bix Beiderbecke music festival has proven to be quite lucrative for Davenport. News outlets, including the 3 major networks, plus local television stations were a common sight (anyone near our house always stopped in for food. I don’t know if the reporters dipped into the Bloody Mary’s or beer but they often asked to use our bathroom-so probably.

The front lawns on either side of Kirkwood, the sidewalks, parking and curbs were swarming with thousands of spectators. Several small roaming bands played while they walked the route on the sidewalk, stopping in yards to play a couple songs (and eat).

Long garden hoses were hooked up to spray the runners with fine mist. The serious racers didn’t like getting their feet or shoes wet so our kids would aim the hose up towards their chests and heads. They also set up small tables with plastic cups filled with water (before the insanity of the bottled water craze) which were handed to the runners as they zipped past us on the first leg of Kirkwood. The runners often dumped the water over their heads or the back of their necks as they ran. The weather in Iowa at 8 a.m. on the last Saturday of July was eerily similar to the heat and humidity of hell.

We had huge parties for The Bix race every single year we lived on Kirkwood Boulevard. John worked at JI Case which employed hundreds (and I think the Hubs invited them all). John’s responsibility was the yard and everything alcoholic to drink, beer and Bloody Mary’s. My job was baking for a couple hundred people. Blueberry muffins, homemade bacon, egg, cheese biscuits and our own version of sub sandwiches plus fresh fruit, cookies, coffee and orange juice. You just never knew who was gonna show up. One year the Hubs and Ron, his good friend and coworker stopped at one of their favorite hangout bars called The Station on the night before the Bix Race. Ron always encouraged John to arm wrestling contests (because he always won). During the Bix party the next morning Mr. Universe (who they had met at The Station the night before) and some of his buddies knocked on our door because they had gotten an invitation from John and Ron.

The list of reasons to stay in the Quad Cities was as long as my arm for our whole family, but it was not to be. Farm equipment manufacturing was on a downward spiral and the layoffs were massive, meaning we had to move. We were heartbroken leaving Kirkwood Boulevard, the neighborhood, Case, the great schools, our friends and especially Iowa. We never thought we’d move out of our native state, yet here we are. Still in Michigan since 1987-and not one of the kids has left the mitten state, so here we stay…

The Hubs grew up as an avid hunter as did most boys from our small farming community. There were probably more pheasants than people in Iowa during the 60’s. Although he had 3 brothers, John often hunted alone. They were quite a bit older and didn’t appreciate the runt of the family tagging along.

When John wasn’t actively participating in football or wrestling, he’d often haul his hand-me down 20 gauge to school and keep it in his locker for the day so he could hunt after school. During the winter, Iowa starts getting dark by late afternoon. If he wasted 45 minutes walking home to get his gun there wasn’t enough time/light left for hunting. No one, absolutely no one-students/teachers or administrators gave the shotgun leaning in his locker a second thought during the day. It simply was not a big deal. Just a kid who hoped to shoot a couple of pheasants for the freezer at home. A different world we lived in.

After we got hitched, pheasant hunting remained as important as watching the Minnesota Vikings every Sunday afternoon. His older brother Jim got him a deal on a new 870 Remington (although the price was right-maybe 75 bucks, we honestly couldn’t afford it, but the old 20 gauge had been handed down again). John was so proud of his new gun, I think he cried when he got the first scratch on the stock. He still has his 870 almost five decades later.

John had gone hunting through the years with several men who had hunting dogs. One of his friends, a guy named Barry had a black lab and swore by the breed as the best hunting dog. Hubs had researched all breeds and was leaning towards a German Shorthair Pointer. The Sioux City Journal was full of a variety of hunting puppies. John drove to Cherokee and bought a darling male Shorthair he named Ben. John bought a book he memorized on how to train a good hunting dog. Bought a canvas dummy (about the size of a shock on your car) he’d throw so Ben would learn to have a ‘soft mouth’ when retrieving birds. But Ben was difficult. He was lovable and sweet but didn’t listen and never came when called. So Hubs took him to the vet. Ben seemed in good physical health so the vet suggested a test at home. Let the pup fall asleep and quietly set an windup alarm clock nearby ready to go off. Well Ben snored right through the loud clanking noise. He was totally deaf. Devastated, John returned the pup and was too bummed to think about hunting dogs for awhile.

But I wasn’t. I was flush with money. (Really can’t even type that with a straight face. We were in debt and broke our first few years. Easy to smile about it now, but it was anything but fun back then). I was working at Zenith Corporation on a production line with at least 100 people (90 of them women) happily slapping together the country’s best color TV’s. Starting out, I earned a bit more than the federal minimum wage plus a maximum of 30% incentive pay, I was making just over 2 bucks an hour.

I started my own hunting dog research without Hub’s knowledge. On the outskirts of Sioux City was a dude who had kennels like I’d never seen before on a huge acreage. He owned an insurance agency but was past the point of having to work regular hours. His name was Dean Kerl. He had imported some German Shorthair Pointers from Denmark and had won some pretty prestigious international awards with his hunting dogs. So Shannon and I drove our 1972 shit green Chevy Vega out to Kerl Acre Kennels, and promptly fell in love with a pup Dean was training and planning on keeping for himself. Luckily, Dean was just as smitten with our 2-1/2 year old Shannon (he couldn’t believe how long Shannon’s hair was for 2-1/2 or her vocabulary, which was already bigger than mine) as we were with the little female pup who was maybe 3 months old. She was already pointing and starting to stalk.

After a couple of, “oh she’s not really for sale,” (the pup, not the kid) we struck a deal. I would make weekly payments until she was paid for and John would have his hunting dog by pheasant season, although she (pup again, not kid) would not yet be fully trained (the kid was). But I went above and beyond for the Hubs on this special gift. Dean employed a professional trainer for all his Shorthair/show dogs and agreed to let John and the pup take weekly hunting lessons for nothing until she was fully trained. (I know, I rocked it back then)! Hubs still insists this was the nicest, sweetest, neatest thing I ever did for him. Yes, he can say that with a straight face after I birthed all 3 of his children, one of which was breech. Geez.

A few weeks later the 3 of us drove out to Kerl Acres and met the newest member of our little family. The pup was instantly taken with John and it took me all of 3 seconds to realize I’d been replaced in John’s life by 25 pounds of fur and 4 paws. Dean had some pretty strict rules about the dogs he sold. They were not like regular pets but hunters. No chains, no running loose, and we had to build a kennel for her. We loved her like a pet but she didn’t come in the house very often except when the weather was dangerous. For not being a house pet, she had better manners than most people when she was inside.

Hubs thought long and hard about her name. Pedigree means a lot so he wanted some of the sire’s name in her legal name. He named he Kerl Acres Anja Ib Dee. King Ib was her international award winning father, Dee was for me. But simply Anja (meaning Angel) was her name.

Anja was one remarkable dog. She’d notice John’s carrying his gun case and go absolutely CRAZY with excitement. She’d leap into the back of the truck, ready to go. By the time they’d get out of the city, she was hyperventilating. John would stop the truck, make her get out and he’d drive away slowly with Anja running behind the truck for a half mile. Getting rid of that nervous energy so she could focus once they started walking the field. I can’t tell you how many times John had her out hunting and she’d CATCH a pheasant. She was such a pro at stalking birds, she’d literally be on top of the bird and just scoop him in her mouth, bring it to John, unharmed. Well, no b-b’s in that one.

Anja had one AKC litter of 9 pups when she was about 5. Boy that was a trip. She was a huge part of our family for 13 years and hunted every one of those years. Hubs was so heartbroken when he noticed she had stopped eating and drinking, he couldn’t bring himself to take her to the vet, so I took her in. Only fitting I guess, since I fell for her first. She loved all of us but to Anja there was only one man in her life and that guy was John…

I could lament the fact that I spread the prep work tasks of making ONE meal over the course of 3 days. Dang after I wrote that I realize that’s pretty pitiful isn’t it? Three days-really? It could have been 2, then again, I used to do the whole enchilada in one afternoon. Let me explain.

I have loved chicken pot pies since I was 10 years old. Gravy, chunks of chicken, veggies and lots of crusts. What’s not to love? Mom’s discovery of this delicacy was secondary. She worked every other weekend and Dad and I were on our own for meals. TV dinners were relatively new and by golly we both liked them. When Mom was home she’d usually put a roast in the oven before we left for church on Sunday. But when it was just the 2 of us, we’d opt for Swanson’s (I was adamant, it had to be Swanson’s Brand) Salisbury Steak (Dad) and a turkey dinner for me. I’d carefully remove the tin foil cover off the cranberry compote compartment before sticking it in the oven and waiting the long half hour before it was scalding hot. Clean up was our silverware and glasses. Then Dad went somewhere for the afternoon to save souls and I headed over to Char’s house. The Schelhaas’ had their big Sunday meal at supper time and I was usually invited to join their family before heading for another round of church.

Anyway, not long after my new found fondness for TV dinners when Mom bought a couple of frozen pot pies at Koster’s Market. Not as filling as the TV dinner but I liked them. A lot. Beef, chicken and turkey. From then on, Mom kept a couple in the freezer for lunches or if she was doing some time consuming chore after she got home from work like going to the laundromat which took all evening. I wouldn’t say TV dinners or pot pies were a normal occurrence at the Gerritson home after that, but I ate them with some regularity and gusto through my teens.

Even after the Hubs and I eloped there was usually one or the other in our freezer for our first few years of marriage. The Hubs tolerated the fried chicken dinner. But heck, I eventually learned how to cook and by the anniversary of our tenth year we had blossomed into a family of 5 and the TV dinners and pot pies had been replaced with cheap frozen pizzas for after school snacks. Swanson’s brand turkey dinners and chicken pot pies disappeared from my life.

It didn’t take me long to appreciate the fine art of bulk cooking. If you’re gonna have a mess in the kitchen, might as well have something to show for it. After I learned how to make spaghetti sauce (thanks Wilma Duits) I don’t think I ever made just one meal’s worth. I’d make a triple batch and freeze 2 for nights when I was busy, didn’t feel like cooking or everyone was home at a different time to eat. Same with meatloaf, meatballs and soups.

You’d think my tactics would have changed once we were empty nesters but it hasn’t. I still cook in bulk-just not AS bulky. Whereas I used to cook 50 pounds of split chicken breasts at a time, (they have to have skin and bones to get flavor for the broth) deboning, dicing, vacuum sealing, freezing in quart bags to be used in soups, casseroles, quesadillas or creamed chicken. Then I would strain, freeze the broth for soups. Now I do about 10 pounds at a time. Which brings me to my comfort food. Comfort foods are different than my favorite foods.

Favorite meals: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, cranberry sauce or spaghetti with garlic bread.

Favorite foods: popcorn, pies, pizza, pretzels (soft like Auntie Anne’s), Penuche & Pepsi (diet). It’s all about the P’s.

Comfort foods: beef stew, vegetable beef soup, bean soup, chicken & dumplings, hot beef sandwiches and chicken pot pie.

I’ve reverted back to my childhood. Just without Swanson’s. Chicken pot pie has been a staple on the menu again-much to Hubs chagrin. I could easily eat my chicken pot pie a couple times a month-him a couple times a year. Same with spaghetti or turkey and all the fixings. He prefers hamburgers on the grill at least once a week. Sigh. Who is this guy?

I have found some clever ways to combat our differences in food choices. Take pot pies for instance. My recipe is big. (Of course it is). Many of the foods which I consider a pain in the butt to make are of the larger size so I’m not making it all the time. (You all know I’m lazy right?) The pot pie recipe makes 3-9″ pies, so we’d eat one and I’d freeze 2. I’m very fond of leftovers, the Hubs is not. But I’m not crazy about leftover pot pie. If you zap it in the microwave, the crust isn’t flaky and the oven tends to dry it out and there’s not enough gravy. Much like my childhood I now make pot pies-one serving at a time. Bought some 5″ pans which has solved a lot of problems. If I’ve got a hankerin for pot pie and John is craving Beef Stroganoff (not my fave), we each eat our own choice. Doesn’t happen very often, he’s amiable about most dishes I fix for supper, but on those rare occasions when my craving gets the best of me, I just take out one little pot pie for me.

Now about this one stinking meal which took me 3 days. Started by cooking 10 pounds of chicken breasts and dicing the meat up on Thursday. I used 3 quarts of the broth and made chicken soup in a half hour for supper. Took some of the diced chicken, mixed it with some seasonings, divided and froze 4 small packages for quesadillas. The rest of the chicken was for pot pies (I do this once a year). Froze the remainder of broth, leaving out a quart for my recipe.

I asked Ari and Jovi if they were available to come over for pot pie? We settled on Sunday noon. Friday I did nothing and we went out for a fish fry at Our Lady of Fatima. (Pretty cute story about Our Lady of Fatima called, Friday night fish fry’s, 3-17-18). But I didn’t want to leave the rest of my prep work for the meal until Sunday morning because I’m slow-and lazy, so I diced the onion, celery & carrots and measured the flour, salt, Crisco for the crusts. I took out a cup each of frozen peas and corn to thaw in the fridge and measured the flour, salt, pepper and sage together for the gravy part. Set up my counter to roll out the crusts and called it a day. That was day 2.

Sunday morning I threw an angel food cake in the oven, mixed up my crust dough and started to sauté the onion and celery. Divided up the dough for one 9″ pot pie and 6 individuals. Finished my pan of pot pie fixings, filling the pie tins. Took out the cake to cool. Plopped on the 9″ top crust, threw it in the oven, rolled out 6 tiny top crusts and slid each of them into quart freezer bags. Cleaned and sweetened my strawberries, started a sink of soapy water. Looked at the flour spills on the floor, turned around, left the kitchen and jumped in the shower.

Swept the floor, damp mopped the worst, set the table and welcomed 2 of my favorite people in the world. Enjoyed pot pie and angel food cake together, then read some new books to Jovi. Cleaned up the kitchen, read the Sunday paper and have not lifted a finger since. Although I’m not thrilled many of the things I do these days are now done in segments, I’m grateful I can still do them and enjoy it. So no negativity about my 3 day journey to make a simple chicken pot pie…