I like routine. Prefer my life when nothing upsets my personal apple cart. I am loathe to change. I want things to stay the same. I like repetition. In this case, like many others over the years it’s something silly to trip up my mundane existence the wrong way.

It’s been 15 months since my knee replacement and I’m finally starting to feel like my old self. My legs are significantly stronger. All because I started walking again. Everyday. Walking is not new to me. I started in 1998 to boost my weight loss. I became addicted to walking. My outlook, my mood was better when I walked at least a half hour every day. You gotta be consistent, that’s the key for me. It’s too easy to get out of a good habit. (Prayer, church, studying the Bible are other good habits that once broken-fall by the wayside. Sorry God).

But there’s this thing called life which includes hiccups, causing my walks to stop on occasion. Surgery on my frozen toe, broke my left elbow-twice all requiring a lengthy absence from my daily routine. My weight fluctuated right along with whatever issue was in my life at the time. Never reaching the point where I started in ’98 but more than once it’s inched precariously close. My ideal weight is much harder to maintain and keep off the older I get. We rarely go out to eat but I cook good food, bake too often and eat too much. Yeah, there’s that. After 40 and I swear every calorie packs on a pound. Really, how can you gain 10 pounds from one pound of fudge? That should be impossible and illegal. Immoral even.

I’ve worn New Balance shoes for my walks since I started. Had to switch styles several times because they discontinue the shoe you prefer rather quickly. The move to Jackson 5 years ago messed up my daily walk. Hurt my leg which took a year to heal, started working early mornings which messed up my walking habit. Face it, I’m lazy, tired and 20 years older. The last straw was a fall in 2018, hurting my right knee which didn’t help my non-existent cartilage, and I had to have it replaced in the spring of 2019.

I’m not one for resolutions because I don’t keep them, but when 2020 rang in I was determined to start walking again. And keep walking. Making it one of my (only) good habits. To make that happen I needed new shoes. Started out the year at a New Balance shoe store being properly fitted with a comfortable-plenty-of-toe-room-shoe.

I’ve not said this very often in my life. In fact I don’t recall ever saying it before. Ah-hem: we had a nice winter in Michigan. Odd, that wasn’t as hard as I thought. Think Hubs used the snowblower 3 times. All winter. There’s been winters when he’s used it 3 times a day. But not this year.

So I started out walking a mile and a half a day in February. As long as the street and walking path were dry-I walked. I kept extending my walking time, but there’s a fine line I’m trying to balance. Getting stronger to achieve the maximum benefit from walking but not doing any further damage to my left knee, which is not in great shape. Two friends recently mentioned (trying to pound some sense into me) their take on what’s important about walking. Not necessarily the length of the your walk, it’s the simple act of walking every day. Being consistent.

I strive for 10,000 steps a day and for the better part of April I did just that, but my left leg ached for the rest of the day. Ok, that wasn’t working, so I backed off from the 4-5 miles a day and found a sweet spot for me which is just over 3 miles which amounts to about 7,800 steps. If I sit on my butt for the rest of the day, the only way I can hit 10,000 steps would include a shopping trip to the grocery store. While I love Meijer I don’t want to go everyday (shock, right) so I’ve studied my movements in the house after my walk. Not a pretty picture. I sit too much and too long. I’m trying to change that. Learning that it’s not the end of the world if I have to go up and down the stairs 5 times a day. It’s actually a good thing.

I became inspired from a walking challenge in Sioux Falls, SD. The goal was to walk 100 miles in 100 days. No problem. I hit 100 miles at the end of the third week, but then realized 33 miles a week wasn’t doing me as much good as the total indicated. That’s when I backed off to 28 miles a week, but never skipping a day. Any day I ran errands, I walked less in the morning, knowing I’d get my steps in because I didn’t have my butt in the recliner. Until mid July my lowest daily step count was just below 5,000 steps and that was only for one day. Many were between 7,000-8,000 but the majority were still over 10,000 steps a day.

A few weeks ago we were in the middle of a unusual heatwave. I was walking as soon as it was light out just to beat the heat. I have a chronic spot on one toe which tends to blister. No surprise a blister formed during the hot spell. I wrapped a couple bandages around the toe and walked the next day. As soon as I got a mile from home I could feel friction on the toe next to my bandaged toe. The pain caused me to stop several times. (I don’t like stopping-or talking when I walk. Wonder if I look as unfriendly as I sound? Meh. I do wave and say good morning. Grudgingly pause to remove my headphones when I see somebody’s mouth moving in my general direction).

The upside to all these stops during my painful blister walk was actually seeing many ‘things’ I’d never noticed in nearly 200 days of walking the same path/routine. For the first time I nudged my phone out and took some pictures. Of weeds. Who knew they were beautiful in their own, unique way? On one 50 foot stretch I noticed hundreds of lavender flowers on clumps of weeds. Because I was so early as I approached 40-50 American goldfinches would scatter heavenward as I came around the bend. Black and yellow (go Hawks) fluttering everywhere. It was dramatic and delightful. Another stop a half mile away, I looked up and saw 3 gorgeous heart-shaped leaves just as the sun peeked through. One of my favorite pictures.

Probably the most surprising weed is what I refer to as a bull thistle, which I thought got a foot high. They’re not very attractive and have prickers like a freaking cactus. But alongside my walking path they grow very tall and have stunning, vivid fuscia flowers.

When I finally made it home, I was sporting 3 painful blisters. No way could I walk the next day. My walking streak ended after 85 days. Because of a stinking blister. I really wanted to make it to 100 days. I was bummed. But after taking one day off (6 tenths of one mile was all I could muster just limping around the house on my day off) my new walking streak is up to 15 days.

I’ve got the strangest tan lines all over which is a hoot. I’m really only walking a half hour east towards the sun, and it’s barely up. All my shirts are V-neck and short sleeved so my neck is really brown but my upper arms are white like an Iowa farmer’s! My capris fall a couple inches past my knees, so below that line is very brown but just for a few inches, then more white from my short socks so I’ve got a golfer’s tan. Looks like my calves are dirty.

Still using my walking stick everyday. It’s prevented several mishaps. Sure wish I could do something to improve my balance, but I’m grateful each day I make it back to my driveway unscathed…

The best months of the year were just beginning. Endless summer days, filled with Iowa’s bluest skies and brightest sun. The new fall school year was so far off in the distant future, we never gave it a second thought. I was 11. No more yelling up the stairs from Mom, “Denise, it’s time to get up for school. You’re gonna be late!”

My lazy days were semi-filled. I could take swimming or baton lessons. My home town of Rock Valley had recently stopped using a germ laden swimming hole and built a state of the art swimming pool. It was amazing. A separate ‘baby pool’ which was only a few inches deep and an enormous pool with a shallow end, deep end and 2 diving boards (I never went off the high dive. It peaked beyond heaven I think). So most of my afternoons were spent at the pool. I rode my bike, (about 8 blocks away) donning my swimsuit, flip flops and a butt ugly, rubber swimming cap with a strap under my chin, already snapped. My beach towel was tucked in the basket. Mom bought me a season pass but I usually had money for a treat. I didn’t bother with a locker unless I was wearing street clothes and had to change. It wasn’t politically correct but Mom always used to say by mid-June, “Denise is as brown as an Indian!” And I was.

Although northwest Iowa experienced an over abundance of plus 90 degree days, I only swam during the day. Seemed like evenings at the pool were geared for older kids and adults. I had other stuff to do anyway. After supper (when the town’s whistle blew-I’d better be in the kitchen, ready sit down, pray and eat) there were still hours of daylight left and I put them to good use. My bestie Char had completed whatever chores were on her list for the day (mowing the yard, working in the garden, baking, dusting, dishes. I had/did no chores). A bike ride was a welcome relief, no matter how hot. You always had a breeze while you were peddling. Up and down the streets, avoiding the houses we deemed too scary to ride past lest we kidnapped and/or killed ha-ha. It was all in our heads but that’s the way kids think.

When we got too sweaty from riding, we’d park our bikes at Char’s. She lived alongside our public school. The school’s playground was enormous. A big section had been black topped for basketball and the summer it was completed we walked, ran, chased each other. On stilts my Dad made for us. By the end of that summer our armpits were calloused from constant friction from the tops of the square stilts.

But there were other choices on the playground to keep us busy during the waning hours of a long summer day. Swings that could be pumped high enough to equal the high diving board at the pool. Why wasn’t I scared of swinging high enough to pass out from the atmosphere’s thin oxygen level? Dunno. The monkey bars were a good time. Back and forth, trying to hang on with sweaty hands. The drop to the ground wasn’t bad by the time we were 10. Our slide was legendary. Two freaking stories tall. They still have the same slide 60 years later. We used to sneak some waxed paper from Mom’s kitchen and plant our butts on the paper before we pushed off. You were flying by the time you got to the bottom. The slide was something to avoid when Iowa temps soared. You could do serious damage to your hind end and the backs of your legs. That slide was hotter than Mom’s oven.

But as dusk descended on the day, it was the merry-go-round we were drawn to. The number of kids gathering varied between just the two of us (Char & me) or a dozen kids. Maybe a sibling or 2 from Char’s clan, but just as likely to show up was a kid or two from the Bunch, Flanagan, Burgers, Wynia, Kosters, Plueger, McGill, Vande Velde, Reinke families-or several others. This was not the time of day where someone pushed the merry-go-round so hard the rest of us clung on for dear life to avoid flying off in a heap of broken bones.

No, this was the time of day where we wanted to be terrified. Why? I have no idea. I’ve never been a fan of scary shows. To this day. And the more unbelievable the plot, the more frightened I am. Makes no sense. I can watch psychological thrillers which certainly could be true, but the impossible, implausible plots scare the living shit out of me.

So we’d tell scary/ghost/monster/serial killer stories. Yikes. The one I still have issues/recurring nightmares about is a tale of a couple. (So a few years older than the kids who were now sitting, loosely scattered on a slowly spinning merry-go-round with the last of day light disappearing. You couldn’t appear scared shitless because you’d lose your street cred. Yeah, it was a thing. No matter how scared, this 5th grader had 2 agonizing, terror filled blocks before I made it back to safety. Some nights I was so scared, I sang hymns on the way home, thinking God was gonna protect me. Guess what? He did. Thanks God). There was nothing wrong with our imagination.

Ready to be spooked? This teen couple are old enough to drive. They’re on a date and want some serious make-out time, so it’s imperative they find a secluded spot (pronto) to ‘park.’ Luckily for them (and all of us merry-go-rounders in a few years) Iowa has an over abundance of corn/soybean fields. Literally hundreds of thousands of acres. (Rumor has it ha-ha-ha, like I wouldn’t know every single parking spot-in the county in a few years). All fields have a dirt entrance off their gravel road so the farmer can do whatever needs to be done with crops before harvest time. Weeding and fertilizer? Don’t judge, I was a townie.

Every car (except the 2 my parents owned) had a radio. No 8-track, cassette, or CD’s. No Sirius, iTunes, Spotify. Just a radio. An AM radio. At night you got a better selection of radio stations from farther away. So this highly hormonal duo are listening to romantic/early/classic rock songs (Stand by Me, Runaway, Wooden Heart, Crying, Runaround Sue, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, Walk Right Back, Crazy) on their AM radio station in a deserted cornfield. Their only company was a star filled black sky. Or so they thought.

Suddenly the girl breaks away from a hot and heavy, part pleasurable/part torturous two minute filled tongue-fest. “Did you hear that? What was that funny noise?” (Oh good Lord girlfriend, not now. Please not now). Him: “Um, I didn’t hear anything. Maybe some cornstalks hitting each other?” She frowns, “no, I definitely heard something. Sounded like metal scraping on something. Are you gonna tell me you didn’t hear that noise?” Him: “No Neese, (just using a fabricated name here) I honestly didn’t hear anything.” (The kissing and petting resumes, much to his delight).

Scrape, scrape. Me: “Stop! You must have heard that. What’s making that noise? Could it be the radio?” (Sigh, mood is heading south at an alarming rate). Him: “No it can’t be the radio. I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no noise, nothing to hear and we’re all alone. Isn’t it great?” Me: “Yes it’s great except for that scraping, scratching noise. It’s scaring me. I think we should leave. I wanna go home.”

Him: “FINE!” Starts the car, rams it in reverse, drives like a maniac. Neese (again just happenstance with the name) puts herself back together, snuggles up and tries to make amends. But the mood is ruined and it’s back to the town with streetlights, stop signs and our one stoplight. They arrive at her house. He’s a gentleman, gets out, walks around to the passenger door and stops. Swallows a scream before it leaves his throat. On the handle of her door is a hanging apparatus. A pirate’s hook! Attached to some bloody flesh from a surgically repaired amputated arm. Gulp! (He’s gonna have to find a different corn field if this romance is headed to the next level).

Now how was I supposed to serenely walk home in the dark, after my head was filled with this unimaginable horror? Couldn’t be done. Not without some serious hymn (Him) help…

Given the location where I grew up, just a few miles from the South Dakota and Minnesota border, Rock Valley was tucked in the northwest corner of Iowa. I never realized or appreciated our proximity to a world famous institution. Bigger than the Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha. More famous the The Grotto in West Bend. More important than the Falls in Sioux Falls. Ok, not as awesome as Mount Rushmore or The Black Hills but this place was in a very different category, not a vacation spot or sight seeing destination.

It was Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, about 200 miles northeast of Rock Valley. The world renown hospital/clinic where people from all over the globe sought medical help for their complicated health issues. The facility where kings, queens, movie stars and athletes went when they had a serious medical problem. If our local doctor was stumped, (believe me, Dr. Hegg could fix about anything) he referred you to a specialist in Sioux Falls or Sioux City. If they couldn’t come up with the right diagnosis, they sent you to Mayo. Because they were the best. Still are. But Mayo didn’t limit their expertise to just royalty or the rich and famous. They treated the Gerritson’s too. Who knew? Although I don’t think Dad ever was a patient at Mayo. He went to the Veterans hospital in Minneapolis for back surgery when he had a ruptured disc. But Mom and I utilized Mayo Clinic on occasion.

My first experience at Mayo Clinic was in 1966. I was dating John (later he would change his name to the Hubs). We were at a party at Denny Hamann’s, who lived a few blocks from my house. In Rock Valley everything but the farmer’s spreads were within a few blocks. It was late fall and John was shifting from football season to wrestling season, meaning he had to lose a few pounds if he hoped to reach the weight division he was striving for. (A normal struggle for him. Wanted to be heavier for football season but slimmer for his best wrestling weight. He made it every season, and often could be seen wearing a rubber suit while he jogged around Rock Valley, dropping weight at a very unhealthy clip. But he got down to his desired weight and was strong as an ox).

So we were at this party and he was showing off a little. He was describing this wrestling move and eager to show me how it worked to his advantage. He used this move called a cross face. When both wrestlers were in the down position but John was on top. Right as the ref blew his whistle, Hubs tried to distract his opponent by slapping his own forearm (up to his elbow) across the other wrestler’s chin/mouth and cheeks. Then John would grab the guy’s left arm and pull hard, causing him to collapse. That’s the way it was supposed to work. At least in his own head. Uh, ok, I’m game. I’m not chicken (umm, some of my peers were watching) and I know he won’t hurt me. He’s still in the ‘trying to impress me’ stage. (Had I been wearing my thinking cap instead of a mini skirt/flirty face I might have known where this was headed). As he artfully (gently) applied the cross face to my face, I turned my head, (talking) right into the move, leading with the part of me that stuck out the farthest (on my face, work with me here people). My nose. Which made a sick crunching sound that caused my eyes to water profusely. Ok, part tears but mostly water cause that’s what happens when you have your nose smacked really hard. Not a fan. Don’t try this at home.

Without a doubt it was the easiest move Hubs had ever successfully planted on another wrestler, (I use that term loosely). Although in retrospect he might have tried this teaching moment on someone other than the girl he really, really liked. Can you imagine how he felt? About as bad as this chick with the watery eyes, swelling, snotty nose and fat lip. Yup my nose was broke. Unbelievable. My boyfriend broke my freaking nose. In front of a crowd. Even though it was an accident, witnessed by several kids, my folks were not pleased. Not much John could ever do would please them. Then or in the following decades after we got hitched and had adorable kids they both doted on.

Mom initially took me to Dr. Hegg, but he was getting on in years and a rhinoplasty (what a perfect description, rino, which pretty much summed up my new look) for a deviated septum (nose job) wasn’t in his repertoire. He rattled off several eye, ear, nose, throat specialists from Sioux Falls, Sioux City or Mayo Clinic to have my nose tweaked (re-broke). Ugh. I was scared and looked like shit. Until that incident, I don’t think Mom had considered Mayo Clinic for anything, (more on Mom and Mayo later) but her interest was piqued. She jotted down a couple names of oral surgeons and simply called Mayo for an appointment for her teenage daughter’s broken schnoz.

After we arrived in Rochester, we learned surgery would be at St. Mary’s and I’d be staying for a couple days. (Now you have knee replacement and go home the next day) Mom was not keen on hotels and spotted a beautiful home nearby which rented out rooms to family members or outpatients so she reserved a room. My surgeon was young and cute. Very. Goodness but I looked grim. Nothing says a great first impression like a heavy-mouth-breathing-teen-with-a-crooked-nose. A couple bones in my nose which weren’t in the right spot. They took a lot of pictures and x-rays. I still have the pictures somewhere since Mom never threw anything away.

While the actual operation is hazy, I totally freaked out when the cute doctor said I’d be awake during surgery. (He promptly lost a lot of appeal. Not really all that cute). No. Not in this lifetime. Really, no. Seriously, no. Absolutely not. However my vote counted for diddly squat and I remained awake throughout. They injected (too many to count) my nose/forehead/cheeks with a numbing agent, maybe novocaine or lidocaine. I vaguely remember the doctor discussing where and how he was going to use a chisel/screw driver type tool. UP MY NOSE. WHILE I WAS AWAKE. I opened my eyes just a slit for a couple seconds. And saw him grabbing a small HAMMER. Tap, tap, tapping on the end of the chisel handle near my mouth. I could feel nothing but the sensation of tiny thumps. But not much of the chisel/screw driver was visible anymore. So unbelievably gross. Had to be up in my brain. Squeezed my eyes shut for the rest of the operation.

To this day I don’t like my nose touched. Ever. By anyone. I’m pretty sure if I need to be tested for Covid, it will not be with a foot long Q-tip. Take blood, take a biopsy or knock me out but do not touch my nose, or stick anything up it.

After surgery I had two black eyes and a fat face. Which lingered forever. My nose was swollen and covered with an enormous splint I wore for 6 weeks, causing all the skin underneath to peel off like a sunburn. Not really a cute phase I was going through during school that winter. But my handsome, young surgeon did a great job, (he was totally forgiven) putting all the pieces back in place. I could finally breathe through my nose again. My surgically repaired nose was awfully sensitive to touch and smells for the longest time. Now it was time for payback. I needed to practice some cheerleading moves. Kick my leg high enough or hard enough to inflict a bit of damage to someone’s face. Or another part of his (I mean their) anatomy. Not that I was vindictive or anything…

They grew up about a mile apart. Had the girl not moved in 1955 (at age 4-1/2) to the center of town, by 1958 they would have been neighbors when his folks built a new home around the corner from where she was born. (And yes she was literally born at home. On the kitchen table. Blech. Her Mom had changed doctors late during the pregnancy to avoid going to a hospital 15 miles away for her world changing birth. She jests. About her world changing birth-not about the kitchen table).

She knew nothing of him or his family until 1963 when he was involved in a terrible accident a couple blocks from her house, although she did not witness the accident. His pinto mare reared up and the bulk of the horse’s substantial weight landed on his 15 year old foot. But she does remember hearing about it through our own small town social media grapevine outlet. Back in prehistoric times it was called-Word of mouth.

In many ways their families were a lot alike. Middle class, 2 parent households, no divorces, or illegitimate children in their pasts. His mom joined the workforce sooner than hers (his parents were roughly 10-15 years older than hers). Both sets of parents had Dutch ancestors, all born in Sioux County, Iowa. The unlikely duo (us) were born and raised in the same small, fairly isolated, Dutch community. Both mom’s cooked supper every night, both dad’s were used to hard physical labor. Both families worshipped EVERY Sunday without fail. Different denominations but she likes to think they could agree, they all worshipped the same God. Maybe. Maybe not.

Any major family differences mushroomed during the fall in 1958. One family (hers) would suffer a tragedy from which they would never recover. Much worse than the boy’s terrible horse accident (still a few years away in the future).

Her family total numbered 5, his was 7. Her total fell to 4 one Saturday in 1958 when her older brother was struck by a car and killed instantly. His name was Larry and he was 12. She was 7. Until that day, the differences in the two families, their way of life might have been interchangeable. But grief does so much undetected damage to those who suffered the loss. She’s often wondered who’s the idiot who coined the phrase, ‘good grief?’ Through almost 7 decades of life she’s suffered grief from the loss of her brother, mother, dad, sister, grandparents, countless fringe relatives, friends and those she lost when working as a Parish Visitor. Not one minute of wading through her miserable grief could ever be construed as good. Devastating, heartbreaking, life changing yes, but ‘good grief,’ never.

The differences/changes in the girl’s family after the death of Larry were not all bad, just dramatic. But many of them were hard to accept, at least for the young girl. Her Mom turned inward, preferring her own company to that of others. Her Dad turned outward, accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as his personal savior. His mission in life thereafter was to bring others to know the same joy he had found. He was rarely home after that. Saving souls was time consuming.

Thus began the subtle dynamic shift of the two once similar families. His family remained outgoing. Card playing, beer drinking, boisterous, seeking out other couples/families with similar interests and tastes. Her family folded up tight. The hurt and pain were just too much.

A couple years after the horse/foot accident, the boy who swore to the orthopedic surgeon he absolutely would not maneuver through life with a limp, and the girl from the tragic, unhappy family started dating. The girl never realized just how different their 2 families were. His parents enjoyed sitting on their front lawn after supper. Honest, right out in front. Weird. Townsfolk going for a ride would stop, letting their car idle (gas was a quarter a gallon or less) while they talked/gossiped for a few minutes. With her Dad gone every night after supper, her Mom would pull down the front window shades and lock the door. Closing off the outside world. Trying to cope. Accepting life on the new terms of unimaginable pain and loneliness. By herself.

In his family, holidays meant one thing-celebrating. Potlucks, cookouts, fireworks, Pinochle marathons, 25 people gnawing on turkey/duck/goose, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and a half dozen homemade pies to choose from. (if there was room for another bite). After her sister married in 1960 (she too joined a HUGE-ER family) the 3 remainers went to The Normandy Restaurant in Sioux Falls for turkey dinner at Thanksgiving.

Although the laws were never explicitly written down, there was a code, a set of rules that his family adhered to if you were interested in joining their merry band of misfits.

1. You had to have an above average working knowledge of the game of Pinochle. Card games were sacred in their family. You’d better be capable of remembering what suit had been called trump during every hand and never renege. Ever. Seriously.

2. It might not be written down on paper but the message was clear, at least part of all major holidays were spent together. They might fuss, fight and yell occasionally but through thick & thin holidays were celebrated as one a big family unit. Together. With lots of food. And cards before and after. Using the lame excuse of turkey tryptophan which made you sleepy/dulled your senses, even for a minute was null and void in their abode. Bid your hand and no table talk.

3. You’d better be an above average cook/baker. (The girl’s downfall right here folks. How they ever let/welcomed her in, lacking every basic cooking concept known to womankind was a miracle. She did not know how to boil water. Honest). His mom saw/felt she had potential, his dad thought she was hopeless. Had she not been able to avoid ‘going set nearly 100%’ of the time in the game of Pinochle by the time the boy and girl were seriously contemplating marriage, she certainly would have been blackballed. During their first decade, every trip to her in-laws included some type of cooking/baking lesson. His mom was patient with her 3rd daughter-in-law. And like remembering what suit was trump and never reneging, the young woman/new mom absorbed what her mother-in-law was trying to teach, otherwise she might have been ousted. (The mother-in-law was a great cook and terrific baker).

Though there was a considerable amount of disapproval/discouragement/denial from one set of parents (hers-duh) the boy and the girl simply took the plunge without their blessing (or knowledge on either side) and eloped when they were still of a tender age. No one and I mean NO ONE thought it would last. They were too young, too dumb and too different to establish a long-lasting relationship. Oh ye (all) of little faith.

Through the years the man and woman embraced some of their family’s traditions but forged ahead, determining their own trail too. Mistakes were frequent, spats less often (still they kept moving forward-together). Their strong, idealistic bond, uttered during a hasty 5 minute, unromantic ceremony in a judge’s chamber in Elk Point, South Dakota during the fall of 1969 never wavered much. And the journey continues…