About 7 years ago we decided trekking across Michigan every week to visit one of the kids, attend our grandkid’s sporting/school/dance events or babysitting was just too much driving. We hadn’t outgrown our neat lake home but it had outgrown us. The rest of the family were clustered in an area about 175 miles east while we were stuck on the western shoreline by ourselves. Traipsing up and down stairs, no longer utilizing or enjoying the dock or lake. So we listed the house-and waited. And waited. Won’t go into the long drawn out saga trying to rid ourselves of said nice lake home. Suffice it to say we finally moved 5 years ago.

We were not set where we’d hang our hats next, just somewhere much closer to the bulk of the family. We stored our belongings, moved in with Shannon and her family (I felt sorry for them during our stay-we were a huge nuisance) and started house hunting. We wanted something smaller, on one level and didn’t think we were very fussy with our list of needs.

We were familiar with Jackson where our eldest lived. When we moved to Michigan in 1987, Jackson was our home for 7 years before we moved to North Muskegon for 21 years, so that’s where we started looking. But not the same side of town. Our 2 boys were still 45 to 70 miles farther east, so we concentrated on the east side of Jackson, towards them a bit, in an area we were not very familiar with.

We found a large, quiet subdivision with modest sized homes about 12 miles east of the rambling ranch we bought the first time around. Needed some work (actually a lot more than some) but fulfilled our needs. Our offer was accepted, we closed but moving in would require some work first. New floors, paint, appliances, (can’t even talk about the bathroom yet) some elbow grease and we were ready to have our things delivered six weeks later.

Hubs and I worked on the joint everyday during those 6 weeks. Learning where the big box stores/lumberyards were on the other side of Jackson. In our previous 7 years in Jackson, I’d only frequented the east side a few times, mostly for Sunday breakfasts with friends. Basically there are a couple main drags through town and one of them comes within a few blocks of our new abode so I wasn’t worried about getting lost. Besides we were now within an easy access to I 94, but it was like moving to a city I’d never been to before.

We tried new ways of getting from here to there when running errands and buying gadgets for the house. I had in my head if I stayed on 94, I would be able to see the exit for the east side Meijer, but I’d always ended up at the exit for our new neighborhood which was 3 miles too far. Yet had not caught a glimpse of my favorite shopping Mecca. Finally had to break down and ask the Hubs (he worked on the east side for a couple years). Turned out I had to get off 94 one exit before our house and my beloved Meijer was within spitting distance.

Wasn’t long before we noticed Consumers Power was working on Ann Arbor Road, which runs along a stones throw of I 94. They were adding huge street lights at regular intervals on either side for a stretch of 4 or 5 miles. Once in a while something would niggle my brain as for the purpose of these lights but most of me was consumed with whipping the house into shape before winter. A large section of Ann Arbor Road runs alongside I 94, so many working folks simply stay on AA Road until they merge on 94. Speed limit is 50 which is slower than 94 but there’s less accidents, less semi’s, less construction woes.

I believe all the street lights on Ann Arbor Road were for a new walking path constructed 4 years ago. Runs along the south side of Ann Arbor Road, sometimes within just a few feet of the road. A narrow shoulder puts me precariously close to traffic at times as I walk. I watch semi drivers and worry about their retreads, thinking one flying through the air at 50 mph could be a death sentence, but it’s the texters who concern most.

During my walks in North Muskegon there was only one main drag, so it was used by everyone in the mornings. Gals applying makeup, a guy eating a humongous bowl of cereal propped right beneath his chin, book/work/newspaper readers while the rest diddled with their phone. On the plus side the speed limit was 25 and pretty much enforced. Ann Arbor Road’s speed is twice that with 10 times as many semi’s as North Muskegon.

I get it. Ann Arbor Road is basically a highway with several fast food stops, and a lot of people feel no remorse for tossing garbage out the window. So I’m not surprised when I see half filled, melted slurpee cups, limp cheeseburger/French fry wrappers, plastic water containers and masks of every size, shape, color and material. A worn out tire here, a dead couch there, a broken basketball hoop propped against a stop sign.

For a couple months this spring a section of my walking path added another harrowing feature. An obstacle course, as if walking a straight line isn’t hard enough for this off kilter/balance deficient grandma. Remember those adorable 4 baby Canadian geese, along with their monogamous parents had claimed ownership of my walking path in front of the pond as their permanent summer residence. As long as I was quick with the compliments about their brood, all was well. But when I started complaining to mom and dad that they needed to train their kids not to poop all over the path 463 times a day, I became enemy number one. Snotty enablers chased and tried to goose me every morning. I used my walking stick for protection daily. Yikes.

One of the geese tweens got hit in July. (I’d been harping to them the pond across the road was safer, less hectic, but they covered where their ears should be and screamed, “la la la la.”) The family mourned for a couple days, then disappeared. Poof. Just like that. About a week later I drove to the pond, parked my Jeep and spent an hour sweeping up a ton of poop, broken glass, stones thrown in my direct path from the shoulder.

Since I’ve only utilized the path since the end of 2019, the first time I spotted something beyond ‘strange’ in my walking path I was perplexed. However, this same issue crops up every couple weeks since so I can no longer think of it as an unusual occurrence. What, pray tell-you ask?

Tis vomit. Multiple splotches of vomit. Every couple weeks. Usually I see a small splotch first. Just a teaser. Several yards away there’s another clump, with a final curtain call within a quarter mile. I just don’t understand. If you’re on the path and feeling sick, why wouldn’t you just stop, lean over in the grass/weeds/wild flowers and upchuck? There are several lovely resting spots along the path. Two expensive benches sit primly on a large section of cement. Next to the benches are black wrought iron trash receptacles with a garbage liner. At least a half dozen times this year someone’s sat on the bench, within 15 inches of the trash barrel and vomited all over the sidewalk in front of the bench. So sick they can’t turn their head? Honestly I have no sympathy for them.

One day a few weeks ago, it was pouring down rain when I got up, so I didn’t walk. I used to love walking in the rain, but now I lose my grip on my walking stick and the rubber base slides on the wet blacktop. Finally cleared up around supper time, so I went for a short walk to get some steps in before dark. Not my best walk, it was humid, no breeze and the sun was in the wrong place since I always walk in the morning. Monday morning dawned perfect and I went for my usual walk around 7. A mile from home turns up several new ‘splotches’ since the night before. I wonder if they were high, got bad fast food or just drunk? You know how many times it has to rain (hard) to wash that crap away? And the stains stay linger for months. It’s just so disgusting.

Years ago there was a gal in North Muskegon who was the most dedicated jogger I’ve ever seen. A no nonsense runner. Many days when the weather was inclement, ice and snow covered sidewalks with accompanying 30 mph hour winds, she’d be jogging along Ruddiman. Alone. She was painfully thin and well over 6 feet tall. She never waved or acknowledged my existence. Not even when we ran into each other in Meijer as she was buying her weekly ration of one celery stalk. There were several times over the years I’d see her stop suddenly, run into the grass/bushes and get sick. But I never saw her or anyone else vomit all over the sidewalk that we all used and shared. I don’t know what exactly this says about my fabulous new walking path but it troubles me for some reason…

My parents, Rich & Florence were married for 62 years. Mom died when I was almost 54 so my knowledge/observations/opinions were based on approximately 50 years of my life. Now I’m pushing 70 (wow, that’s even hard to write) and have witnessed various marriage/relationships observing other couples, friends and family during my life. But my parents long marriage remains in the top spot for one of the most unique.

How their marriage fared during the first 15 years from what I saw was kinda happy/normal. The radical change came after they lost their middle kid Larry in a freak accident in 1958. My sister got married in 1960 so I was basically an only child after that. Mom and Dad slowly drifted apart, he flourished, she became an introvert.

Mom gave divorce some serious consideration after losing Larry. She actually talked about it to me several times before I hit my teens, but Dad never considered it. The loss of Larry ended up saving Dad. He became an enthusiastic believer/born again Christian. He made a radical change. Mom however suffered with some depression. They still took vacations, ate out regularly, went to church together twice on Sunday’s, but a lot of it was for outward appearances.

After the first 15 years of my marriage, we moved to eastern Iowa. Five years later we moved another 350 miles east which added a new wrinkle to their unusual lifestyle. They developed a quirky competition with each other. I almost typed “over us” but it really was a competition about our kids.

Seems like the farther away we lived, the more there was at stake. When we moved to Michigan, Shannon was 16, Joshua was 12 and Adam was 8. It wasn’t as if the kids forgot their grandparents when they didn’t see them for a few months like when they were babies. Mom and Dad somehow got into this odd competition over the kid’s attention and affections.

When we lived closer to them I can understand their visiting us at different times. Mom might have a day off during the week and wanted to see us. But after we moved twice as far away and they had both since retired, they continued this odd way of visiting us. Bragging rights after returning home. Embellishing the stories of their adorable grandchildren. Don’t know why.

Dad always had an ulterior motive. Don’t get me wrong, he loved my kids and tolerated their parents, but driving to Michigan meant one thing-a speaking engagement (preaching) at the prison. Utmost in his mind, he planned and timed his visits accordingly. Still, he always had a great time attending whatever sport the kids were participating in while he was staying with us.

Deb, one of my friends from Rock Valley remarked recently on a blog post she was surprised my Mom (in her 60’s at the time) drove back and forth to Mayo Clinic by herself. I thought heck that’s not half as bad/dangerous as driving to Michigan, which I think she did at least a dozen times.

Mom just wanted to be with us. She wanted to fill Dad’s head with wonderful stories, conversations she had with the kids, repeated verbatim. Where we went shopping or out to eat. Her trips were scheduled more by seasons. She didn’t want to travel 750 miles (by herself) when the weather was dicey.

Just off hand I can come up with 3 instances during their solitary trips back and forth to Michigan where something very serious could have happened. Two instances involved Mom and her 4 cylinder Fords, driving back to Iowa. She had stopped for a meal, gotten back on the interstate when she realized she had not put on her seatbelt. She pulled off on the shoulder, stopped and belts herself in. The semi’s are whizzing at 70 mph plus, practically blowing her little Escort over. Mom, being courteous simply puts on her left blinker and pulls out on the interstate. Goodness she could have been killed. There’s never a long break in traffic to squeeze back in, but she should have shifted that little 4-banger a couple of times while driving on the shoulder and getting up a little speed before trying to ease back into the sea of cars and semi’s. Her little Ford was totaled when she was rear ended by an 18 wheeler. Mom was unscathed.

These trips back and forth from Iowa to Michigan were before cellphones, Mapquest, Siri, and GPS. She might have had a paper map in the car, but that was it. There weren’t many ways to actually get lost though once she made it from our small home town in northwest Iowa to a major interstate. Unfortunately Mom was born without any directional map app. When she made it to I 80 East, she stayed on that until she got to 94 E, which brought her right to Jackson.

Driving back through Chicago was hectic, yet not all that bad if you just made sure you were still on 94 W and didn’t miss the 80 West signs. Which she did. Completely. She hooked a right before she came to the 80 west exit (also a right turn) in the middle of Chicago traffic, which happened to take her to Wisconsin. Well she had never been to Milwaukie before so there’s that. She lost a couple hours both ways before getting back to 80 West.

Dad had a much better sense of direction when he traveled. We had moved to North Muskegon so Dad’s dangerous trip was after I 80 turned into 94 east. He didn’t continue on it as long but veered north along the east side of Lake Michigan. On this fateful trip he was about 25 miles south of us when he stopped. His feeling was he might have accidentally passed the North Muskegon exit and gone too far already. So he stopped at a “party store.” A mini-market of sorts, with gobs of junk food, beer, pop and usually gas if you need it. (Or get gas after all the junk food). He wanted to stretch his legs anyway and ask someone how far off he was from his final destination. So he casually saunters up to a couple guys holding an animated conversation in a pickup truck in the parking lot. Dad taps his knuckles on the passenger window. Both guys are talking and studying the lap of the passenger. Naturally Dad looks down too. Passenger is holding a huge handgun. And Dad just startled the living shit out of both of them.

Luckily none of the three panicked and cooler heads prevailed. Gunslinger slowly rolls down his window. Dad, not looking in the dude’s lap anymore says, “ah-hi. I might be lost. I’m going to my daughter’s in North Muskegon and think I might have passed her exit already. Do you know how far away I am?” Helpful gun owner (or at least the one in possession of the gun) replied, “No sir, you haven’t gone too far. You’re still about 20 miles south of the North Muskegon exit, and it will be on your left off 31 North. Have a good day.” Dad said, “thank you for your help. God bless you both!” (Holy shit that could have turned out badly. Thanks a lot for that one God).

When I think about some of these scary events, I’m in awe of God’s grace, watching over my folks as they tooled along, all alone on some of America’s busiest roads. And these are just the stories they bothered repeating. Heaven knows, there might have been other instances they didn’t dare talk about, for fear I would not let them drive out of Iowa again. If I’m being practical I suspect there might be a conversation between one or all of our kids concerning our traipsing around through the states. But not yet. Nooooo. I’m way too young and a far better driver than 75% of the yahoos on the roads these days. Truth. Of course it’s not my driving I’m concerned about, but those unpredictable yahoos, right?

I’ve been on Facebook since 2013, practically still a rookie. Every few days when I check Facebook first thing, something in my ‘memories’ that pops up. Which means at one time from 1 to 7 years ago I posted that before it became a memory. Boring food stuff usually, something I’ve canned, baked or a goofy craft project I did with my grandson Graham, who was very young.

I posted fairly often, mostly on “if you grew up in Rock Valley” or shared my blog posts which I had recently started writing. But never memes from other sites. I read what others posted and usually laughed. Who are these crazy people who think that stuff up? I’m in awe of their cleverness and creativity, but seldom tempted to post and share the memes on my own newsfeed.

But as the years ticked by so did some of my infatuation with Facebook. Not gonna lie, the campaign before the 2016 election almost did me in. Naive Iowa gal foolishly thought once the election was over, no matter what the outcome, Facebook would right itself and become fun again. Au contraire. Worse than ever. So I checked it less often, commented less, posted less. If not for my grandson Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) prolific high school basketball career, food or my blog, there just wasn’t much I wanted to share with others.

I still looked at what others posted. Laughed when it was funny, nodded when I agreed and shook my head at some of the spiteful posts on my newsfeed. Realized that’s how folks felt, one way or the other and arguing wasn’t going to change their mind or mine. But they still were my friends, most of them from when I was a kid growing up in Rock Valley.

Rock Valley was a small, predominantly Dutch town. My parents were Dutch. Mom was raised by her Dutch immigrated paternal grandparents, who continued to wear wooden shoes their whole lives. One would think I would have grown up speaking Dutch fluently, yet I did not. Mom and Dad both spoke Dutch with ease, yet it was rarely spoken in daily conversations. When they preferred their youngest, nosey child not understand what (or more likely who) they were talking about, they spoke Dutch exclusively. I asked Mom to teach me Dutch and she did to some extent one summer, but I sure regret not learning a lot more of their Dutch language, history and customs.

They did use a fair share of Dutch slang on a regular basis. Many of these terms, phrases and quirky words have stuck with me throughout my life and I still use them on a daily basis. If I were in the Netherlands I doubt many natives would recognize any of my oft used slang words. They have probably been so Americanized they’re no longer close to what was originally taught to Mom and Dad almost a century ago.

I posted a blog story on my family’s use of Dutch slang 6 years ago called, Hut-fa-Duttie. (Are you kidding me? Six years! I thought I’d be done writing after 3 months). I know what you’re thinking-she is done writing but she can’t help herself and just keeps blathering on. Just not quite ready to put down ‘the mighty pen.’ There are serious considerations here-namely my 2 loyal readers. Can’t just leave them in the lurch now can I? Don’t answer. Please. Don’t.

There’s a word my Dad favored when he felt I was being inappropriate about the sacredness of God and religion. The word is ‘spuut.’ Hard to explain how it’s pronounced. I’m not sure of it’s spelling either. (Obviously you’re not here for a learning experience of odd Dutch slang words because I’m clueless). It’s not ‘spot,’ but rather close to the first syllable in ‘sputter,’ but with a titch more ‘o.’ But if I write it out like spout, that’s not right either. So I decided to add double ‘u’s because almost every word in the Dutch language has double letters in it at least once somewhere so it looks legit to me.

My friend Angie (a devout Christian-full of faith and hope) posted these memes on Facebook a few days ago. I felt a little guilty laughing, then laughed harder after reading the captions. The harder I laughed the more guilt I felt, which told me I probably shouldn’t have been laughing in the first place. But I laughed, giggled, gasped until I couldn’t breathe. Not as much when I pictured my Dad’s stern look decades ago. Shaking his head at how disrespectful I was.

Gonna ask for some forgiveness here.

Dear Heavenly Father,

I am grateful for your patience Lord. I am a sinner and still You love me. Please continue to watch over and bless this great nation. Fill my heart with kindness and forgiveness. I ask You to bless those who are sick, hurting and mentally weary. In Jesus name, amen…

P.S. Lord, 2020 has been challenging and a bit of a downer. Might I make 2 small, insignificant requests which have nothing to do with our (elephant in the room) 2 bothersome P’s, namely politics and pandemics, but would result in minor happiness for our mundane lives, at least momentarily?

1. Could you might make the tiniest change from the season finale of The Good Doctor. Every woman on the planet sincerely hopes Dr. Neil Melendez is still alive. Maybe make it a dream sequence (just trying to help).

2. Please, please don’t let anything bad happen in the Rip/Beth storyline on Yellowstone this year. Especially Rip. There’s only 2 more episodes, not that big of a task. Remember, my main concern is Rip. Humbly yours, Neese

I really don’t mean to belittle God or make light of the gospel. I have been blessed in my life far more than I deserve. Not trying to offend anyone, just trying to add a little humor to my life because there hasn’t been much in it lately.

PP.SS. Last ‘ask’ I swear (not literally). Been a fan of Will Yun Lee since Witchblade. If you could keep his character, Dr. Alex Park safe and give him a bigger storyline I’d be grateful. Too much? Sorry God…

Ironic. Nearly a decade after the Hubs (my boyfriend then) accidentally broke my nose showing me one of his signature wrestling moves, Mom tripped over the vacuum cleaner cord upstairs-in the dark-smacked her face on the edge of the footboard of Dad’s twin bed-and broke her nose. A decade before she had researched where to have repair work done on my schnoz and chose Mayo Clinic, so it was a no brainer she’d have her beak tweaked at Mayo too. Awww. Mother/daughter share rhinoplasty stories.

It was several years later as we were getting ready to move from Davenport (350 miles from Mom and Dad) to Jackson, Michigan (750 miles away) when Mom started experiencing a few disturbing symptoms. Itchy patches on her arms, bottom, stomach and legs. Small painful cracks on her hands and feet. She went to her primary care guy who sent her to a skin specialist in Sioux Falls. He and Mom talked it over and decided Mayo Clinic would likely come up with the right diagnosis and treatment plan for whatever this was.

Mom drove to Rochester after being referred to a dermatologist at Mayo. After running some tests, the results came back with a diagnosis of Mycosis Fungoides (my-koe-sis fun-goy-deez). A T-cell lymphoma caused when white blood cells grow out of control and move from the blood to the skin. Mom would need to stay while they came up with a treatment plan.

About the same time we were gearing up for the Michigan move, we had a friend with a serious health issue. He lived on the Illinois side of the Mississippi and did business with JI Case selling coolant. His name was Creigh and he was a little older than us. He was an ardent Los Angeles Dodger fan and gave me boatloads of static about my Cubbies. When the Cubs were on a road trip on the west Coast, the games started about 10 pm Iowa time. If (when) the Dodgers went ahead, he’d call me to brag, harass and gloat. We were like the only 2 people still awake at 1 am, watching baseball. When Creigh was about 45, he was suddenly diagnosed with acute leukemia. He would spend many weeks at Mayo Clinic researching any options to slow down his cancer.

I really dropped the ball here, no excuse. Mom was going through something traumatic and I just wasn’t around enough. Hubs had a new job, we had just moved to a new house, in a new town and state. Three kids, 16, 12 and 8, I was busy and overwhelmed. But I should have paid more attention to what was going on with Mom.

Over the span several months, there would be more trips to Mayo for Mom, and her Mycosis Fungoides, most of them by herself which was a couple hundred miles away. At the most serious, there were black tar treatments which is exactly like it sounds. They used copious amounts, slavering all the bumpy patches and cracks with stinky stuff that smelled like pitch and was as black as onyx. Mom was bedridden at times. The tiny cracks had morphed into huge fissures on her feet which were so painful she crawled around the house until they healed. Just awful.

One of the trips I made to Mayo with Mom was while Creigh was hospitalized there too. I wanted to visit and maybe watch part of a baseball game with him. (Mom was a Mets fan. What’s with these folks from the Midwest who like teams on either coast? How about supporting the Cubs, Twins, Cardinals (ick) or the Royals? Dad was even worse. He was a Yankee fan) But Creigh was experiencing terrible side effects from the chemo and wasn’t allowed visitors besides immediate family. Creigh’s leukemia journey lasted only a matter of weeks before he passed away. Never got another phone call rubbing it in how well his Dodgers were doing compared to Chicago. I missed my avid baseball buddy, even if he rooted for the wrong team.

After more than a year of misery, the tar treatments had eradicated the worst of the Mycosis Fungoides (MF, appropriate enough don’t ‘cha think?) and no longer needed. Now Mom was able to be treated in Sioux Falls with checkups every few months at Mayo. The new treatments were similar to standing in a tanning bed for 3 minutes. She went a couple times a weeks for several months. But it was definitely radiation and took a toll on her skin (burned) which was ironic. She was trying to heal her skin.

So they prescribed this skin cream called Vanicream. I’ll never forget this side story of Mom’s illness. Mom was so impressed with the doctor’s pitch for the use of Vanicream. It had been developed by 2 pharmacists-working at Mayo Clinic in the mid 70’s! They were searching for a better lotion than what was available. (It looked like Crisco and had no smell-weird). Since Vanicream was more than regular old Jergens Lotion it was a prescription. Mom got it in small tubs. I tell you it was a cure-all. I can remember a dozen times when she’d scoop up a dollop of Vanicream and put it in an old pill bottle for me and my ultra dry face or itchy patches. (Imagine my shock a few years ago as I was wandering around a Walgreens and spotted a tub of Vanicream! No longer a prescription and now had several products in their line. I’ve been using Vanicream as my face moisturizer ever since).

Mom continued to get regular checkups at Mayo Clinic after her bout with Mycosis Fungoides through the 90’s. In fact she’d been given a clear bill of health a few months before she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma in the late 90’s. A fast growing cancer in her chest that responded well to chemotherapy. After a few treatments though she suffered a stroke. Not totally debilitating but she would never walk alone again. The lumps on her arms and head subsided and for a couple years she did pretty well, then the lumps returned. A couple more treatments held them at bay for a bit. When the massive lumps reappeared with a vengeance for a third time, she said, “no more chemo,” and lasted less than a year. I’ve often wondered if Mom’s Mycosis Fungoides was a precursor for the non-Hodgkins she suffered a decade later…

Long about 1960 my family fell back into a rhythm. Often painful, there was no argument that significant changes had begrudgingly settled in our home. Our numbers had been whittled down from 5 to 3. We lost Larry to a tragic accident in the fall of ’58 and my older sister Mona got married in 1960. Henceforth it was just Mom, Dad and me. The leftovers.

Mom cooked 5 nights a week, Monday through Friday. The usual fare for small town living in the Midwest-with a Dutch twist. Meatloaf, spaghetti, goulash, pork chops, Taverns, tuna casserole, Tater tot casserole, fried chicken, roast beef, Saucijzbroodjes, scalloped potatoes with ham and soups up the wazoo-vegetable beef, chicken with rice, Navy bean, whole pea and chili. During the summer these menu items were added, BLT’s, hamburgers (fried-not on the grill), an occasional rib steak (also ‘done up’ in the fry pan), iceberg lettuce salad with spicy Western dressing, fresh stuffed tomatoes (with tuna salad in the center) and a summer salad using that soft butter lettuce from the garden.

The three of us went out for supper every Saturday night. Usually some nearby town within 30 miles of Rock Valley. There was a standing invitation for my bestie Char to join us. Her parents obliged most Saturday’s which added much to our evening. Char was comfortable with my mom and dad (she came from a big family and thought it was heaven to be singled out for a quiet night, no chores afterwards and a restaurant meal).

If Mom was working the weekend, Dad and I had Swanson’s TV dinners (turkey for me, Salisbury steak for him) after the morning church service on Sunday. If Mom had the weekend off, she’d usually start a roast in the oven as we headed out to church at 8:55. Services didn’t start until 9:30, we were only 3 blocks away, but it was imperative we arrive at church by 9. (We sat on the same side, in the same row and exact same spot every week. No one would dare sit in someone else’s real or imagined assigned church pew. Goodness, we weren’t barbarians). If dad was in the midst of serving another term as an elder in the consistory, they always met for a few minutes before church started. Either way Mom didn’t cook on Sunday night. We ate what was left from the previous week’s suppers.

Mom cleaned the house on Saturday morning. That place had been spit shined by the best. Her. Oak floors were polished and buffed to a blinding high gloss finish. Not one dust mote tarried in our abode. If Mom had invited folks from church over after Sunday night’s church service, a dessert was already made. (My favorite? Angel food cake with her 7 minute frosting which tasted like soft divinity) I’ve never been able to duplicate hers, which was perfection. Dad was usually gone all morning. He did odd jobs around town, mostly for widows. Painting a room, shingling, putting up storm windows or screens. This was extra income for him to spend however he chose. 99% of the time it went for tracks, Bibles and other religious reading/study materials to share with prisoners or the mission.

If Dad was in town, he made a point of coming home to share mealtime with us. Saturday’s dinner (noon meal) remained a constant in our house for many years. It wasn’t anything special yet we did the same thing every single Saturday. I can just picture our small rectangular table in our tiny kitchen as if it were today. Since there were now only 3 of us, one side of the table butted up against the south kitchen wall. Dad practically sat in the doorway to the dining room, Mom was nestled pretty tight between the table and the cupboards. I sat between them with my back fairly close to the stove.

On a saucer, nothing fancy, maybe even sporting a chip or 2 (similar to one with the round groove to place your coffee cup) was a chunk of butter (Hull Creamery)? Mom cut a wedge off the solid pound package and it always sat in our dish cupboard. She hated cold butter thus it was kept at room temperature unless it got up in the 90’s. Then it resembled a yellow oil slick. A loaf of Hillbilly bread sat near the butter. On another small plate were several green iceberg lettuce leaves, still damp from a good dousing from the best tasting tap water known to mankind, then patted dry. We each had a smaller version of our supper plates, a knife and a fork. Saturday meant I was allowed pop, most likely it was an ice cold glass bottle of RC Cola sitting by my plate. There might be a 39 cent bag of Lays Potato Chips leaning against the wall on the table.

Smack dab in the middle of the table was a small bowl. Although she was terribly busy with her Saturday chores, this was not a step to be rushed. In the bowl were the remains of a large can of Deming’s Red Sockeye Salmon. She was fiercely loyal to the Deming’s brand and it had to be red sockeye salmon, never pink. Mom used the same skill set as a top notch brain surgeon when dissecting a can of Deming’s. She flaked apart every morsel looking for parts that were not up to her high specifications. First she poured off half the liquid. Then deftly removed every minuscule piece of silver/black, slimy skin. Each and every tiny spine bone with attached rib like bone were skillfully deemed unworthy, until all that remained was perfectly flaked red salmon. (But it was really orange).

Since the salmon was sitting in a bit of its own juice, Mom taught me to put a lettuce leaf on my Hillbilly buttered bread. Carefully add flaked salmon pretty thick to completely cover the lettuce. But here’s the kicker. Now I added another full leaf of lettuce per Mom’s instructions. (This prevented the soggy salmon from soaking into either slice of my bread). Genius Mom! I still do this religiously with salmon, tuna salad and BLT sandwiches. These 3 sandwich varieties are about the only ones which the Gerritson family partook. Once in a great while I might have peanut butter sandwich but never with jelly. And Mom put the butter on top of the peanut butter so it wouldn’t stick to the roof of my mouth.

I boiled some eggs yesterday for the Hubs’ egg salad (note: not on the menu in the Gerritson home), so I opened a small can of Deming’s for me and dutifully followed Mom’s Saturday’s ritualistic detailed, exorbitantly high standards of maneuvering her way through a can of salmon of its hazards before eating. Which reminded me of my first full day (after a 2 day honeymoon in Sioux Falls) as a married woman 50 years ago. (If you’ve not read some of my stories on the perils of Neese early in our marriage, it’s your loss. I did not know how to boil water. Seriously.)

Hubs and I were back at the grindstone (after eloping and being on the hot seat for it). I told him we’d have sandwiches the first night. (those days I was still trying to impress him) I bought Deming’s, Hillbilly bread, butter and a head of iceberg. Put the salmon under a microscope in my search for the inedible additives, so I’d get it perfect. He was less than impressed with my efforts. “Who eats plain salmon on bread? No one. No. One. And where’s the clump of little bones?” (I would soon realize, no, not the person who eats ketchup slathered on eggs, roast beef, pork chops and meat loaf. Yup some mighty particular taste buds you got there Hubs).

Marriage is all about compromise. I finally learned how to cook. He finally learned to leave the ketchup bottle in the fridge for most meals. He still thinks I’m weird for eating salmon on buttered bread. With two sided lettuce. This from the man who occasionally spots my hidden leftover container of salmon in the fridge, grabs a sleeve of ‘dry as a popcorn fart’ saltines and plops on a healthy portion of bone free, skin free, perfectly dissected Deming’s Red Sockeye Salmon…