Guert Wanningen was born in Negeloo, Gendwingelo, the Netherlands in 1860. Jantje Frantzen was born in Steingherworld, Overijssel, the Netherlands in 1867. Both immigrated to the United States in 1888 (were they on same boat, did they already know each other? I don’t know) and were married later that year after settling in the mostly Dutch community of Sioux Center, Iowa.

These immigrations were well thought out by former immigrants, now living in the states. After they became established, found housing, jobs and started learning the language, they in turn would sponsor someone else from the Netherlands who was interested in starting a new life in the states. The most recent immigrants were welcomed with open arms, helped with finding work and a place to live. The newbies would offer their profound thanks and bring a small gift they brought over from the old country. Mom talked about these ‘sponsor’s gifts’ often because she had several in her possession. Not from the immigrants themselves but her grandparents who had sponsored several people from the Netherlands over the years. Now I have a couple of those gifts.

Geurt and Jantje had their first child, a daughter named Jantje (pronounced yon-chee, Americanized to Jennie) December 1st, 1889. A son (my grandpa, christened Gerke-Americanized version-Gerrit) followed on January 17, 1896. My Dad, (who would later become Gerrit’s son-in-law, shared my grandpa’s January birthday. Gerrit was 21 years older than my dad-kinda odd). The Wanningen’s lived on a 20 acre farm north of Sioux Center. In 1918 they sold the farm. The Sioux Center Nieuwsblad (local newspaper) posted this snippet of utmost importance: Geurt Wanningen is going to build a large new house. Joe Van Deest will be the carpenter and lumber has already been purchased. (Ha-ha, I love this).

Tongues were wagging, heads were shaking about the Wanningen’s new house since there were only 3 of them living there. Geurt and Jantje’s daughter Jennie got married in 1915, then became pregnant and very ill at the same time. She developed cancer in her eye during her pregnancy. Jennie’s husband Paul brought her to the hospital in Sioux City where she had a stillborn baby boy they named Peter. Jennie died the next day at age 28. Jennie and Peter were buried in the coffin together. Tragedy number one for the Wanningen clan.

Gerrit had adopted the nickname’ Lakey.’ (How he came by this nickname remains a mystery. Perhaps he was a great swimmer. Maybe the name fit because he was around 6′ 5″ and a ‘tall drink of water,’ or he simply wanted something different because Gerrit reminded him too much of his dad’s name)? He still lived at home and was considered a bit different. Awkward, very tall, gangly and often had ‘words’ with his parents, especially his father. He was not particularly good looking (unlike his dad, my great-grandpa Guert who was incredibly handsome) and somewhat unsure of himself. That would all change when Lakey, now 27 fell head-over-heels in love with a young lady named Coba Berghuis in 1923. She was from a large family and a senior in high school.

Coba graduated from high school in May of 1924. She immediately headed to Des Moines for 6 weeks of Normal Training to become a teacher. (Six weeks, are you serious? Yes quite). She started her teaching career in September of 1924 and taught for 2 years in West Branch # 8, four miles south and one mile west of Sioux Center. She married my grandpa Lakey on December 6, 1924. Lakey was working for the Sioux Center Phone Company. Coba taught until the end of the school year, May of 1926. She was expecting a baby by the end of the year. She gave birth to my uncle Floyd and my mom Florence on December 13, 1926. Sioux Center Nieuwsblad, December 15, 1926: Mr. and Mrs. G. Wanningen, Jr. were gladden by the birth of twins, a son and a daughter. (This was a big deal in a small town).

But my grandpa Lakey’s life was about to take a hit from which he would never recover. The introverted guy who came out of his shell after accepting the love and devotion of a beautiful woman he knew was out of his league, retreated once again. When the twins were 2 weeks old, the light of his world was extinguished. Coba died from birth complications (Mom said it was her kidneys). The twins were motherless and grandpa Lakey was heartbroken and bitter.

Sioux Center Nieuwsblad, December 29, 1926: Mrs. G. Wanningen, Jr died Monday morning on December 27th at age 20 years. Two weeks before she gave birth to twins. She leaves her husband and both babies. Additional, she leaves her parents, three brothers and three sisters. The funeral will be held Thursday, December 30, 1:30 at the house and 2 o’clock at the Second Reformed Church.

Sioux Center Nieuwsblad, February 2, 1927: Gerrit Wanningen, with his small babies have moved in with his father and mother. Lakey tried, he really did, but his heart was not in raising the two babies who snuffed the life out of his beloved wife. Lakey’s parents, Geurt and Jantje were not young when this second tragedy hit. He was 67, Jantje was 60-raising 2 month old twins. (Their friends and neighbors now however realized that the “large new house” was exactly what the Wanningen’s needed to rear their grandchildren). Coba’s parents pushed hard to raise their new grandchildren, but Lakey’s folks won this round. Since both sets lived in Sioux Center, the Berghuis bunch, who were younger and still had children at home shared many of the duties.

Lakey didn’t spend a lot of time with the babies when they were young. He changed jobs and worked in Rock Valley for IPS (Iowa Public Service). He married Mary Arendson in 1933. I think she was widowed and had a couple of kids. Lakey and Mary encouraged Floyd and Florence to join their ‘yours & mine’ family, but the 7 year olds cried constantly for their grandparents and the way of life to which they were accustomed. Soon Lakey brought them back to the large Wanningen house where they would remain. Guert passed away in 1938.

I have not found any pictures of Lakey with his twins and I have a ton of pictures. I have numerous pictures of the kids during various stages of their young lives with both sets of grandparents, but not one with their dad. Mom truly believed Lakey blamed her and Floyd for the death of their mom. It was just something he couldn’t move past until he was much older. Thus I believe Lakey’s rejection led my Mom to have her own self worth issues her entire life. Vicious cycle.

Mary passed away after a decade of marriage. Grandpa Lakey showed no interest in seeking female companionship after that. He got his pilot’s license and flew his own plane. Uncle Floyd joined the Navy, Mom got married and moved to Rock Valley, but still went to Sioux Center (15 miles) to visit both grandmas (grandpa Pieter Berghuis died in 1936) and her dad. I guess it was a case of time heals. Lakey became a lineman for Sioux Center Municipal after they bought the system from IPS. Jantje died in August of 1950, right before I was born.

Mom and her dad did get close the last couple years. As a family, we’d drive to Sioux Center to visit him (in his tiny 3 room house) and grandma Berghuis every Sunday afternoon, often bringing him a plate of food and something sweet. Lakey retired in 1955, grandma Berghuis passed away in March of 1958, six months before Larry was killed. I distinctly remember sitting next to grandpa Lakey at Larry’s funeral. His suit coat was wool and scratchy and smelled like moth balls, but I leaned my 7 year old head against his arm anyway during the service.

Grandpa Lakey got stomach cancer late in 1959. He was in and out of the hospital several times. Mom spent many hours and days driving back and forth taking care of him before he passed away in August, 1960. I know he felt resentment towards Floyd and Mom for the loss of Coba but he grew to love and appreciate his adult children and they loved him. It was just another notch in the Wanningen/Berghuis/Gerritson family tragedy…

It was one year ago today since I had knee replacement. I was scheduled to have my final check-up this week but that appointment was cancelled because of the virus. It took months to get the appointment with Dr. Carpenter, then another 90 days to get on his surgery schedule. If I had been scheduled for surgery this spring instead of last year, it would have been postponed.

So how’s the leg? Well thanks for asking. It’s doing pretty good. No pain unless I try and bend it farther than it’s willing to go. I still wrap a cold gel pack when I go to bed for a half hour but there’s no swelling or hot spots anymore. My other knee is doing just what Doc C thought it would (it doesn’t have much cartilage either, he asked which one I wanted done first? Such a card). He thought after replacement and therapy my left knee might feel better once I started walking normally. You know when some part of you is causing pain, you compensate for it, which throws everything else off kilter. Now that my gait has returned to something close to normal, that’s exactly what happened. I’m still mindful of lefty, can’t twist or pivot but I haven’t had much pain and hope never, ever to need surgery on that one.

I’ve been an avid walker since 1998, although since we moved to Jackson in mid-2015, walking’s been sporadic. I can visualize how I used to walk. Swinging my arms like a in-a-hurry pendulum, thrusting my momentum forward with nice long strides. Looked like a windup toy soldier. Nary a care in the world and didn’t have to watch the terrain. Who am I kidding? I’ve always been mindful of where I was walking. Since the onset of Meniere’s almost 2 decades ago, my balance has been seriously compromised. I’ve fallen several times over the years, breaking the same elbow-twice. A stone the size of an almond under my shoe can put me on the ground. But I wasn’t fearful/cautious like I am now. I know my age has something to do with that. In 1998 I was 47 and there was much less likelihood of me getting seriously injured if I took a spill. Twenty years ago, I could get lost listening to my music while I walked. Not literally, but I’d look up at the surroundings and be surprised how far I’d gone.

Hurt my left knee walking in 2016 which took a year to heal, then fell hurting the right one which eventually led to surgery. After surgery and therapy I finally started walking again last fall when I took another spill landing on my brand new ceramic knee, slowing my recovery and warranting another round of physical therapy. Oh my word.

For Michigan, this was one fantastic winter for those of us who despise snow. (Me-me) Temps weren’t bad and not much of the white crap. Think Hubs used the snowblower 3 times, which in a normal winter could mean 3 times a day, not a season. So I started walking outside again but our streets are just shit. Pot holes larger than where the Titanic rests. These are filled periodically with stinky black pebble stuff by city workers. Those smelly black jellybeans soon find their way everywhere but said pothole. Our large neighborhood has no sidewalks, thus I must walk on the street to get to our relatively new walking/bike path, which is 3 blocks away. But then it’s clear sailing for several miles.

My first goal was a tiny Nazarene church just over a half mile away. The last block before I get there is quite an incline and I was puffing by the time I stopped at their driveway to turn around. On the way is a McDonald’s which has a separate entrance and exit. Walking towards home the first dozen times I noticed the “s l i g h e s t” incline from the entrance surface to the sidewalk. More than once I’d look ahead and think, hope I can make it up this steep slope. I was really in horrible shape.

Next I pushed myself to hit the one mile marker before I turned around. During the next few weeks I added an extra quarter mile-twice, so on good days I was walking about 3 miles total. Not every day though. If the weather was bad I stayed home. On days where I was getting groceries, running errands or standing by the stove to cook for awhile, I’d shorten my walk to 1-1/2 or 2 miles. But on days where I wasn’t doing much besides walking (and eating) I went as far as I could. With the speed of slug.

There’s not much I do on my iPhone or iPad without getting tech advice from my go-to-guru-guy (middle kid Josh who’s now one of the leading statisticians on the Covid stats in the state). There’s about 100 apps on my phone and I use maybe a dozen. Tops. I’m leery, overly cautious, and skeptical. I know deep in my heart every one of those little bastards contain a virus. But being a hip, brave woman of the world, I threw caution to the wind and got an app without Joshua’s 5 minute approval/disbelief speech, his patient sigh, rolling his eyes until only whites are visible or his exasperated “Ma.”

Seeking said guru’s approval I texted him with, “guess what? I just googled ‘stopwatch’ and can you believe it, my phone has one already built in?” (Who knew? He sighed) “But I want to know more than how long I’m walking, I wanna know how many steps I’m taking, so I got a pedometer app by myself!” I’m deaf but definitely think I heard him chewing through his lip to keep from responding on the receiving end of the return text. I plunged further into the rabbit hole with, “once the app was installed I thought they sent me an example of how my daily steps total might look. Upon further inspection it seemed to be the actual record of what I’d really walked for a week because I missed a couple days for bad weather. How could my new app possibly know that already?”

He summed it up with his usual nonchalance, “mom, your phone already does that for you. You’d be surprised how much stuff they keep track of.” (I found that somewhat creepy) “It’s in health and fitness, in your settings.” Am I the only one who doesn’t pay attention to that never ending list in my settings? I manage about 4 of them. So now I’m tracking how many steps I take a day. On days where I stay in it’s pretty hopeless. Our house is small, I don’t carry my phone around with me as I maneuver this large facility. If becoming deaf has taught me anything, one of the most important is keeping my phone in a specific place. When it’s ringing I have no idea where that sound is coming from. For that reason I put it in a very specific place when I go to a room-and leave it there. Then I know exactly where it is.

Thursday was unseasonably cold and windy, but since we had snow showers on Wednesday I hadn’t walk and wasn’t eager to miss another day. Out with the wool long johns, scarf, gloves and winter coat. Again. Started my favorite playlist, grabbed my walking stick and away I went. (I don’t see me walking without my stick in the foreseeable future-but I’m ok using it for balance. Hubs informed me I wore a hole through the rubber tip on the end. This shouldn’t please me but it sure did. He’s already replaced it). Walking west was frigid but eventually I warmed up. Got to my 1-1/2 mile mark (the farthest away from home I’ve walked in several years) but did not turn around. There’s an important point that has some relevance here. You’re feeling good, walking fine, but every single step you take further from your house has to be repeated going back. Only difference is you’re already tired. (I have some issues with this but it’s vitally important to remember). I was looking for my next walking milestone. It turned out to be the vegetable stand where I buy cucumbers and tomatoes called Tyluki’s. And I did turn around and start back home but not without a wistful glance towards Sutton’s Road-my next goal.

Turns out Tyluki’s is just over 2 miles from my house, so my walk was 4.2 miles which includes another hill (dear Lord I didn’t need another one). I did some laundry (up and down the stairs several times) and made sure I took my phone with me, resulting in a little celebration on my pedometer app at the end of the day because I hit 10,000 steps. First time in over a decade. Yay me! My walking time is pathetic. Twenty minute mile but I can’t afford another fall either. However I would like to decrease it by a couple minutes per mile sometime this summer. And I’m determined to decrease some of my steps inside the house. My never ending trips to the kitchen cupboards and fridge have really got to stop…

I was born with an acute fondness for the ‘other white meat.’ Mom made pork chops every other week. We’d have bacon for supper with eggs, but more often in addition to lettuce, tomato and toast. But my favorite cut of pork she bought came in a large egg shaped tin with a metal key stuck on the bottom of the can. The ‘key’ unlocked the ultimate prize. A ham. She’d carefully strip off the lid, turning that unique key, which got thicker with every crank. Slowly winding its way around that odd shaped can. Snugly nestled within (amongst globs of gelatin) was a pink ham, ready for the oven. One of my favorite meals.

With Mom’s affinity towards homemade pea or bean soup, I assumed she would have preferred a shank or butt ham with a nice bone for added flavor, but as far back as I can remember she usually bought the ones stuck in the egg shaped can with the hidden key. A couple nights after our ham/baked potato supper, she’d dice up a goodly amount from the leftovers and make scalloped potatoes. A single layer of potatoes sprinkled lightly with salt, pepper, dotted with butter and chunks of ham, repeated several times. Then she’d pour a can of cream of celery soup that she’d mixed with a can of milk and plunk it in the oven. Another favorite meal of mine. (How in the world did I marry a guy who doesn’t like scalloped potatoes and ham)? So we pretty much had 3 suppers from that canned ham growing up, and I loved them all.

Naturally when I got married, I clung to the age old Gerritson tradition of canned hams to feed the family. I distinctly remember having a 5 pound canned ham as the featured entree for Shannon’s baptism celebration. This was the first time we invited a large group of family from both sides over to our 3 room rental house in Hinton, Iowa in 1971. We were 2 years into our marriage and I had finally moved past the ‘can’t boil water’ stage, though not by much. The canned ham was the only part of that expensive meal (we lived on Starkist tuna most of the time) I was responsible for at the baptism dinner. My mother-in-law Mag made potato salad, my Mom brought baked beans and I don’t know what was on the menu for dessert but I was not to the point of making cream pies or German chocolate cake yet.

For the first few years, a canned ham supper was my go-to meal for company, until I learned how to make homemade spaghetti sauce and roast a stuffed turkey. Just as suddenly, canned ham fell near the bottom of my menu repertoire. I still liked ham, it just wasn’t special anymore. The ‘other white meat’ had literally been replaced by the other white meat.

This change happened coincidentally when we moved to Michigan. It was no longer a six hour road trip to visit our parents for every holiday, the drive time was doubled, requiring us to stay home for certain holidays and start making some of our own traditions. One of those traditions was replacing the ham supper for special meals. It just sorta happened. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn or green bean casserole, cranberry sauce (served all year round at our house) dinner rolls became the meal I served when the whole family got together. At least 3 times a year. Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve and Easter. To supplement the nine dry months (where a scheduled turkey feed wasn’t in the forecast) I’d stuff a chicken occasionally or buy a 10 pound turkey and have it when one of the kids came to visit for a weekend. (I’m seeing a pattern here. I think I’m addicted to stuffing).

It’s not like my turkey meal is that much work. (Well it is kinda) It is a lot more work than sliding a ham and baked potatoes in the oven however. The turkey clean up though takes this meal to a whole ‘nother level. It’s the pots, pans, bowls, silverware, crockpot involved in the turkey dinner that makes it a lot of work. The cleanup just kills me. Freaking dirty dishes everywhere. And that’s before we eat. I stuff the bird before ‘he’ (always a Butterball. Not going through all that work and mess and try and gnaw a tough piece of meat) goes in the oven, then put the rest of the stuffing in the crockpot about 2-3 hours before we’re ready to eat. Gives me extra oven space.

Since we moved to Jackson almost 5 years ago, our traditions have another slightly different twist. We did a major downsize, giving up a thousand square feet, so 15 people in our house (eating) at one time is really a stretch. All 3 kids have much bigger homes than we do so we just started rotating holiday feasts in their homes. I usually cook the bird and stuffing but they handle the rest of the meal. And somehow I’ve been eliminated from the cleanup crew. Yay me, not complaining. (The downside is not having leftovers! Major bummer. At our house I always make a couple extra meals on divided plates, which I look forward to so much that I hide from the Hubs. Don’t judge).

Lately our beloved country and our ordinary lives have been at a virtual standstill. This virus movement is kinda like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or this ominous cloud that’s hovering right above our heads and we gotta wait for it to pass over. Like when God said, “hey folks, mark your front door with some blood so this death/plague/destruction will pass over your household.” Um, I might not have that exactly right, you get the jest, right? That’s what the quarantine feels like to me.

Knowing none of the kids could come over I asked Hubs what he wanted to eat for Easter? (I silently began praying to myself, please, please say, “why don’t you make that little 10 pound turkey and let’s do it up right!”) ‘Fraid not, it was more like, “you’re not going to go through all that work making a turkey supper just for the 2 of us. That’s crazy. Let’s have ham.” (That’s what I get for praying to myself. This request demanded divine intervention. I blew it.)

I did have a shank ham in the freezer. But of course. Always be prepared for the likelihood of an apocalypse or pandemic. That’s me-the quantities provider. (No I haven’t bought toilet paper, paper towels, Clorox wipes, napkins, soap or coffee since this began. I only need the staples, fruit, vegetables, milk, bread, eggs like everyone else, though I did buy some extra flour and sugar since I have a lot of yeast on hand and enjoy making bread and rolls).

I baked the ham, made twice baked potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce and dinner rolls. Sigh. Gave some serious consideration to the baked pie shell I have lurking in the freezer. The logical pie choice would be lemon because I have at least a half dozen lemons in the fridge. (I don’t drink enough water for a cactus to survive in the Mojave. The only way I can gag it down is with a slice of lemon and gobs of ice). But there’s only 2 of us and a meringue pie actually lasts about a day. What are we gonna do with 6 slices of pie between us? Well besides take one for the team and each eat 2 slices and throw away the rest. Probably not the best idea. So I put the kabosh on that silly notion. (Though it stills sounds awfully tempting after Easter).

I’ve decided when the quarantine is over I’m gonna invite just the grandkids (and our great-grand, Jovi) over for a turkey supper. Feels like we all missed out, celebrating Easter by ourselves. Roast that nice 11 pound Butterball, (heck, 19 year old Landon is quite capable of devouring that much turkey by himself though he prefers dark meat. All of the dark meat. All.) Make a delicious cream pie which won’t have any leftovers for the weak who live here without willpower. That sounds about pritnear perfect…

First a disclaimer. Not positive about the year but it’s a moot point. This was the way my immediate family and my church family celebrated the days leading up to Easter Sunday in my small town of Rock Valley, Iowa during the 1960’s. Not sure how the First Reformed Church celebrates Holy Week some 50 years later but there’s no doubt much of the world has changed a lot since then, so my home church might have changed some of their Easter traditions too.

My family belonged to one of the larger congregations. I’m trying to remember how many churches we had in our town of about 1,600 at the time, (bigger when counting all the surrounding farmers). One each; Catholic (big congregation and beautiful church right by my house), Methodist, two Lutheran churches (one was about 4 miles south of Rock Valley but the pastor’s son was in my class, so they belonged to our town too) and then the rest of the churches where the Dutch folks worshipped. Netherlands Reformed (the strictest of the bunch, 3 services on Sunday, one in Dutch), Calvin Christian Reformed (the smallest congregation and the one we belonged to when my brother Larry was killed in 1958. They were amazing with my parents), First Christian Reformed (don’t know much about them although the church was only a block away from First Reformed. I think most of their congregation sent their kids to the Christian school) and First Reformed (we all went to public school, and our church was the least strict of the 4, lucky for me). (I think when 2 Reformers got into an argument, one just went off in a huff and started another Reformed Church). My family joined First Reformed in 1960.

The entire town went to one church or another on Sunday mornings. It was expected. Most people revered the Sabbath (although not even being allowed to ride my bike past the swimming pool on Sunday was extreme). Nothing but the swimming pool was open on Sunday. No stores, no restaurants. Christians seemed to be respected, admired, looked up to. Churches were packed, ladies belonged to woman’s groups, choirs, catechism, youth groups, prayer groups. I think Christianity has been in decline since I became an adult. So much change.

For me, these were the years of junior high and high school. I don’t remember it being called “Holy Week” but remember Maundy Thursday services. The church was packed and I vaguely recall the sanctuary was dim/dark through at least part of the service. I was in the youth choir and this might have been a service where our gang sang a couple special numbers. (Keeping the youth somewhat contained behind the pulpit and facing our folks, gulp).

The RCA (Reformed Church of America) served Communion 3 or 4 times a year. (I’ve held onto this belief my whole life-by limiting the number of times this ritual is held has always added to its significance for me). The Maundy Thursday Service was held at night and Communion was served. Significant because Jesus celebrated the Last Supper with his Apostles. I wasn’t partaking of Communion during most of these Maundy services because I had not yet made my Profession of Faith (a story for another day). And our church did not dispense Communion by lining up in the center aisle and dipping the bread (signifying the body of Christ) into the cup of wine (really grape juice, which signified Jesus’ blood). The Consistory, made up of Elders and Deacons served the flock. (Elders helped the minister with visitation/policies while Deacons took up the responsibility of the financial needs of the church).

Shiny round silver discs which resembled fancy tire rims were either filled with tiny squares of Wonder bread (crusts removed. I know this because my Mom, being an Elder’s wife had the job of cutting up several loaves of bread for Communion. She was probably in complete agreement with the Reformed Church’s policy in the number of times Communion was served every year. The rest of the tire rims had numerous small openings where minuscule glasses (yes real glass) were filled with grape juice. (Mom got the job of washing and drying those little glasses after Communion too).

These were passed down each long pew, an Elder or Deacon on each end. As a child I was never allowed to even pass the bread held discs, let alone the ones holding the glasses filled with grape juice. This was a very solemn occasion. The organist would quietly play hymns. It actually took quite a few minutes for the whole congregation to be served and no one (absolutely no one) ever partook of the bread or cup before the minister said the litany. Something like, “this is the body of Christ, broken for you. Eat ye, all of it.” After you quietly chewed and swallowed the morsel of bread, our preacher would hold up a cup and say, “the blood of Jesus, shed for you. This do in remembrance of Me. Drink ye, all of it.” (One of my fondest memories is right after everyone drank from their cup. A couple hundred (at least) tiny glasses would clink in unison as everyone placed their glass in the wooden cup holders attached to the pew ahead of you. Hundreds of clinks in unison. I loved that).

We had school on Good Friday. No long Easter weekends for us. Unless you had a note from your parents excusing you because you were attending afternoon Good Friday services. You could miss a half day of school with no repercussions (as if that made a difference, not for me). Big decision for teens, I usually opted for church. The service was about an hour and you were done with the rest of the afternoon free. I don’t think there was any special churchy thing on Saturday but Easter Sunday was huge.

Easter sunrise service held at the crack of dawn. Think I slept-walked through most of it (I could attend sunrise service with some of my friends). But I was always there and amazed how beautiful an Iowa sunrise really was. I think this service was held outside. The ladies of the church made a huge breakfast feast which was served in our church basement after sunrise service. Long tables lined up everywhere. It was wonderful. I believe most of the townies went back home for a bit before our 9:30 Easter service. Might have changed clothes too. I always had a new special outfit for our Easter service.

The best part of Easter services? Anyone familiar with me knows. It was the hymns. The old hymns we sang in unison. Say what you want about Advent (Away in a Manger, Silent Night) there’s nothing in this world that measures up to the hymns explaining the love and ultimate sacrifice that Jesus suffered to save us from our sins.

I serve a risen Savior, He’s in the world today. I know that He is living, whatever men may say.

I see His hand of mercy, I hear His voice of cheer, and just the time I need Him, He’s always near.

He lives, He lives, Christ Jesus lives today. He walks with me & talks with me, along life’s narrow way.

He lives, He lives, salvation to impart. You ask me how I know He lives? He lives within my heart.

Low in the grave He lay, Jesus my Savior, waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord.

Up from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph ‘ore His foes.

He arose the victor from the dark domain, and He lives forever with His saints to reign.

He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ arose.

On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame.

And I love that old cross where the dearest and best, for a world of lost sinners was slain.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, til my trophies at last I lay down.

I will cling to the old rugged cross, and exchange it someday for a crown…

My opinion matters very little. But I’m bored so you’re bearing the brunt. At first I read the caption wrong. I thought you were supposed to list your pet peeves (everyone should be in harmony with mine, right)? But the way it was worded, the actual gist of the survey is supposed to be ‘things’ I dislike but other people like. Can you visualize Richard Dawson, pointing his finger while he turns around and says, “top seven answers are on the board, survey says?”

Had this been listing my pet peeves-I could have written a book-under an hour, but this-what I don’t like but others do is gonna be harder-until I gave it some thought. You’re supposed to list 10 in no particular order. There were no instructions for listing any explanations/reasoning/justification/. But where’s the fun in that? And why stop at a 10? So here goes.

1. Taco Bell: several years ago I was stranded in an elevator for about an hour before the fire department was called for a heroic rescue. On the elevator with me was the Hubs and a sad sack (not the Hubs) of fetid, greasy, reeking Taco Bell. Can’t describe that nauseous segment of time any differently. My stomach still does flips (not the good kind) when I come within a block of their malodorous restaurants ever since.

2. Curtains: God didn’t invent windows so they’d be all covered up and I wouldn’t be able to see out. I used to hang curtains when we were starting out 50 years ago. Everyone did-curtains or drapes. (never had drapes, they remind me of a funeral parlor). Have to say moving to Muskegon Lake cured me of the curtain fetish. What’s the advantage of living on a lake with a stunning view if you’re not viewing the lake? Made no sense. I do have valances on some windows, shades in the bedrooms and family room for nighttime but nothing on my sliders or bay window in the living room. Nope, I’m no longer ‘drawn’ to hiding behind some dreary cloth covering up my windows.

3. E-books: I get much more enjoyment out of holding a book in my hands when I’m reading. It’s personal. Would if I want to go back 20 pages because I want to reread a paragraph or look up a new character’s name that I’ve already forgotten? I’m not going to that little swipey thing 30 times. I have 50 books on my iPad I’ve not read, yet I regularly shop at a used book site and order a half dozen books a month for a pittance. Same goes for my newspaper. I like holding the paper, hearing it rustle while I turn pages. (However I think newspapers will be extinct soon).

4. Peanut butter fudge: although I like peanut butter and love chocolate, the 2 should not be in close proximity of each other. Just chocolate fudge with nutmeats for me please.

5. Artificial SQUARE nails: ugly and disgusting. And that pointy stiletto shape isn’t any better. You’re quarantined at home with nothing to do after the kiddos are sleeping. Grow out, file and polish your own nails.

6. White gold: there’s just something so rich looking about yellow gold jewelry. White gold, silver, platinum, titanium all seem kinda harsh/cold/formidable.

7. Diamond clusters: as long as we’re on the subject of jewelry, those cold, white gold engagement rings with 100 microscopic sized diamond chips clustered closely together to give the illusion of one large stone sucks big time. Looks like one big cluster-well you know where I’m going. For the first and only time in your life-man up. Buy her the biggest, best quality solitaire you can afford. Dude. On this topic, size really does matter.

8. Beer: smells like shit and tastes worse.

9. Yogurt: surely we can make and keep our ‘gut’ happy and healthy without this horrible, bland, thick, icky paste stuff.

10. Praise worship: I’m not worshiping God by singing a monotonous, repetitious modern tune with my arms flapping in the air, side to side causing a stiff breeze. I yearn for traditional hymns, reciting the Lord’s Prayer/Apostles Creed in unison. Using a hymn book and a Bible for the scripture lesson. No big screens. Repeat. No. Big. Screens.

11. Dresses: just say no. Always. For the rest of your life.

12. Scary movies: occult, horror, I know they’re not real, I know it can’t really happen but I just can’t watch these genres. That’s odd because I like psychological thrillers which really can happen. I change the TV station if the floor creaks during a Hallmark commercial. No explanation, just how I’m wired.

13. Snow: do not succumb so easily to the misinformed who falsely believe big, fluffy white flakes are in any way, shape or form-beautiful. They lie. Every year. That stuff is pure evil. It’s horrible and much worse than scary movies. I. Hate. Every. Flake.

14. Peanut butter and jelly: who ever thought of putting this odd combination together? Warped mind right there.

15. Dress shoes: men’s or women’s. Narrow, pointy toes, several inches of pain inducing heels which add strain to every step should be outlawed. The feet God gave us for the ‘sole’ purpose of walking around for decades should not ever be submitted to this kind of torture. Ever.

16. Sour cream: a glop of this crap on top of anything, soup, potatoes, Mexican is a sin. And a shame. (I do use it in a couple recipes though-the taste however is masked by other good stuff).

17. Buffets: all of them, breakfast, lunch, supper or the worst offender-Chinese. First off I’m worried the foods are not being kept up to the appropriate temperature. That alone can curb my appetite (which really is a good thing right)? There’s too many choices and I want to try all of them so I overeat. Chinese buffets present a whole new set of issues. One of things I like best about Chinese food is how crunchy the veggies are when they come piping hot out of the wok after a couple minutes of cooking. So let’s plop them on a buffet table with a questionable heating device until they’re completely limp like a noodle in overcooked soup. No thanks. I always ask for a menu.

18. Gender reveal parties: not much of a fan, but I can see some advantages. Sure you can paint the nursery, buy appropriate clothing, toys, furniture when you’re still 6 months pregnant. But those months of wonderful anticipation throughout your pregnancy (back in the day) were second to none. When someone gave you a shower, the gifts were consistently gender neutral. Pale yellow, mint green, snow white soft sleepers and receiving blankets. Baby rattles, teething rings, cloth diapers, bottles, bibs, crib sheets. There were lots of choices for gifts which weren’t dedicated specifically for a boy or girl. Those gifts you got after giving birth in the hospital or when you were back home. And you had to pick out boys and girl’s names, making it twice as hard. I did know the sex of one of my babies before they were born-by a couple hours. I knew a month ahead that the baby was breech-feet first. So when a little foot poked out during labor, a nurse checked to make sure the cord wasn’t causing problems she blurted, “I feel a little scrotum, you’d better pick out a boys name.”

And yet another snippet of what goes on in the mind of Neese. You’re welcome (or apologies)…