I hardly recognize the person (it is still me, I’ve checked) who started “walking with purpose” in 1998. So much has changed. Apparently twenty-two years account for quite a bit of aging. Who knew? Back then, I had just started to lose my hearing, soon after was diagnosed with Meniere’s, and had no clue exactly how either would impact my life. I walked with fairly long strides, swinging my arms for momentum. Absolutely nothing hurt! Good times. Probably the biggest difference during my walks was the willy-nilly ease of simply letting my mind wander-unfettered. Listening to music, daydreaming, planning my day and watching 1,000 foot tankers loaded down with coal lumber past to the Cobb plant.

North Muskegon had an odd layout. Sandwiched between Muskegon Lake and Bear Lake, the small town was very narrow and long. There was one main drag which was the hub to everywhere, thus the majority of people used this busy conduit to & fro every day. I was a predictable and consistent walker so after several months (and the loss of numerous pounds, yay me) I recognized cars/license plates as they zipped by and knew where they were headed.

Oh yeah, there’s the guy who turns on Plymouth, second house on the left.

That mom (left on First Street and down the hill) must have stopped at the store, she’s late.

That beautiful Caddy sits in the driveway on Mid Oak. Wonder why they never park it in the garage? (Yeah, the mind is a terrible thing to waste).

There goes the guy from the W. Circle Drive who sets up a tent in his yard every fall for Irish Fest. Yeah there’s definitely not enough room in that 7,000 foot mansion for a party.

Wasn’t really house envy, just honing up on my sarcasm skills for future use.

I didn’t think much of my peculiar people/car watching habits and where they belonged for the night-at the time, just something to do while I walked. Alas times change, so two decades later I no longer have the luxury of studying cars as they race by. One big reason is the speed limit. With one main street and a 30 mph limit I had ample time to study cars and plates in North Muskegon. Here on Ann Arbor Road they’re moving right along at 50 mph and I would be hard pressed to read their license plate, let alone memorize it. Not nearly as much residential traffic here either. A huge portion of the traffic are semi’s heading to I-94.

The other problem is I can’t afford to take my eyes off the path right in front of me for more than 2 seconds. I use a walking stick because my balance is not good. I miss a lot of what’s going on right before my eyes because I’m vigilant about where each foot is stepping at all times.

One thing that has not changed in 22 years of walking. Listening to music to pass the time. Some of my music preferences are different and my listening methods have changed a half dozen times, but the fact remains-when I walk, I’m playing tunes. (Singing along, making a fool of myself). It lightens my mood, keeps my feet moving and makes me smile. Like a dork.

A couple of months ago I deleted all my playlists. I needed to switch things up a bit so I started over from scratch. I decided to go with the European calendar, thus Monday’s the first day of the week instead of Sunday, so I wanted my favorite 20 songs on Monday to start my week off on the right foot. Or left. No multiple songs from any one artist/group on each playlist but every list would include a song from: Neil Diamond, The Beatles and The Doors. (I have my standards). I have 3 exceptions. Since I don’t use shuffle, once the last song on my playlist has ended, my phone just pauses until I ‘do something’ to start it up again. So the last song on all ten playlists is one of three tunes, Jump by Van Halen, Somewhere by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole or Better be Good to Me, by Tina Turner. When I hear one of these songs and I’m not yet home I just push repeat until I hit my driveway because they’re some of my favorites that I can listen to repeatedly.

I always used ‘shuffle.’ (Shuffle randomly chooses a song from your playlist in a haphazard fashion). It’s like a little surprise, “wow I haven’t heard that song in awhile.” Not anymore. This time I’ve downsized my song total on every playlist by half. At least. And decided to use my daily playlist for a stimulating brain game instead. When the first song on that day’s list (Monday is-The One, Tuesday’s-Twice Baked, Wednesday’s-3’Sums, Thursday’s-4th’s B with you, Friday’s-5th of Oldies, Saturday’s-6th Sense and Sunday’s-7-Up. The 8th Wonder, To the 9’s & Perfect 10’s are extras) there’s about a 5 second gap of silence before the next song begins. My intention is to memorize the entire list so I know exactly what song is starting so I can start humming. Lofty goals I know.

I don’t have much hope for memorizing my 8, 9 and 10 playlists. I keep these handy for when I’m dinking around outside or I need a change of pace for the day, but I continue to be optimistic and hopeful about the remaining 7.

Since July there’s been 2 days where walking outside was impossible because of drenching downpours but I persevered and got my steps in roaming the aisles at Meijer. (Takes a long time and I’m so easily distracted). This fall has had some great weather for walking. But I’ve also lowered my expectations significantly. Sigh. 10,000 steps a day was causing my original knee all kinds of discomfort (and I really want to die with that crummy knee still in place). Another replacement is a year out of my life-at least. Plus I’m now that much older. Still, if my original lefty starts affecting my quality of life I’ll have to consider having it replaced too. Ugh. Really.

So I changed my daily steps goal from 10,000 to 9,000 and the dull ache in my left leg has cropped up with less frequency. I walk about 7,500 to 8,000 steps on my morning walk which is about 3-1/2 miles. The rest I do around the house. There’s been a few days (where I’m writing a blog and sit too much) and discover I need another 700 steps before midnight and walk loops in the basement. Boring, but I’m loathe to miss my goal. I’m shocked how competitive I’ve become with this damn step app. Out of the last 166 days, I’ve missed one day of walking because of blisters, but more importantly, have logged at least 9,000 steps every one of those days.

I’ve also realized my daily routine now mirrors the life of a top model on the fashion runway in Milan. (Well except for the lithe body, cheekbones you can rest your coffee mug on, diet of Altoids and monstrous paycheck). I sleep in shorts and long sleeves (my arms are always cold) year round. I wake up, start the coffee, use the bathroom, change into old capris or sweats and add a comfy flannel shirt. A short while later, I don my sports bra, New Balance shoes and walking duds. When I get home an hour later and a sweaty mess, I strip and wear something very old to cool off, until I shower. Normal day clothes after my shower. Change into sweats and my pj top after supper, then into my pajama shorts when I’m heading for bed. How can I possibly accomplish anything? All I do is change clothes…

Gonna tell you right up front I’m addicted to stuffing. Don’t judge. Try to be kind. It’s November and I’m working on my winter weight. There’s nothing fancy about my stuffing recipe. No giblets, nuts, fruit or cornbread mixed in. Basically it’s the stuffing mom made when I was a kid although I use chicken broth instead of water and a crockpot to cook the rest of it after I’ve stuffed the chicken or turkey.

I don’t know when store bought, prepackaged stuffing mixes (seasoned bread, uneven squares) were invented but mom never succumbed to this shortcut so neither have I. She would melt a stick of butter in a big fry pan, add diced onion and celery and sauté until both were translucent. She’d add some water, poultry seasoning and sage. She made sure the bread (had to be white, so probably vitamin packed Wonder bread, building strong bodies 12 ways) was at least a few days old and stale. She’d set the bread slices out on a clean dish towel and let them sit for a few hours to dry out a bit. Then she’d stack about 4 slices on top of each other and get out her serrated bread knife and slice them into quarters one way, then the other, making nice, even squares. I love bread crusts but when mom was cutting stuffing bread I always swiped some of the inside white squares before they went into the pan.

She cut the bread slices with the precision of brain surgeon because of Communion. Bet you wonder where this is going right? Just hold on.

Our family changed church affiliations around 1960 from Calvin Christian Reformed to just plain First Reformed (I really can’t tell you all the differences between these large church groups, maybe something about predestination. For me it was because my friends went to First Reformed and I was tired of being the only kid at Calvin who didn’t go to Christian school. Yeah I was selfish like that) Dad became very involved in the life of the church. Wasn’t long before he was a member of The Consistory. A small group of men, maybe 8 to 12 total (never any women on the committee that I remember which is too bad) called Elders and Deacons. The Deacons were the money guys, budgets, where certain dollars were designated and so on. The Elders’ responsibilities were geared more towards for the spiritual health and growth of the congregation.

There were literally 5 churches within a few block radius in my neighborhood. Should you become annoyed with a coworker or neighbor, you just parked your car a block away and attended a different (but pretty much the same) church. I’m jesting. Very little though. The whole town was in one church or another (about a dozen) by 9:30 on Sunday morning. Each and every Sunday morning. Every house was deserted and left unlocked. Most left with ovens on and potatoes peeled so the pot roast was done around noon.

Anyway the church nominated several men for the position of Elders and Deacons and an election was held. These terms were staggered, thus the whole Consistory never completely turned over so there’d always be a couple Elders and Deacons who knew what was going on. Dad was nominated for the position of Elder and elected several times. I think you had to sit out for a couple years then you were eligible to be nominated again.

Along with all his churchy duties, (the congregation was divided into sections, assuring each family would have a personal visit from an Elder every few months. Oh good grief, I HAVE TO STOP. I’m way off topic and done giving you a consistory-history lesson which I really know nothing about. My point was Mom had some duties as the wife of an Elder. One of mom’s jobs was Communion bread. About time. Amen.

I’m not exactly sure how many times Communion was held but I wanna say 5 times a year. Once every 4 months, World Communion Day and Maundy Thursday. (Don’t excommunicate me but that’s pretty close to what I remember). Dad would bring the Communion bread trays home from church. They were round polished silver bowls, quite shallow with a lip for gripping and easy passing from pew to pew. I don’t know how mom got the bread, if it was provided or if she just bought it Koster’s. Mom’s job was to cut perfectly sized squares after trimming off every visible crumb of crust. (I snagged a lot little squares while she was cutting) Our congregation was huge so I’m sure she wasn’t the only Elder’s wife with this task but she cut a lot of bread cubes on the day before Communion. She didn’t want the bread to dry out like stuffing bread, so she gently put it all back in the plastic bag until Sunday morning.

The Communion plate used for grape juice signifying Jesus’ blood…

Dad would take Mom’s dainty-same-size squares, which had been emptied in the Communion bowls (which actually resembled the collection plates) and zip them over to church early on Sunday. After the solemn service dad would bring the bowls back to our house so mom could wash and dry them for storage until next Communion. But with a bonus. The wine (grape juice was served in tiny, maybe 1/4 ounce glasses. (Yes, real glass. After the minister said and I’m paraphrasing here, “this is the blood of Christ, shed for you. Drink ye all of it.” There would be scores of tiny glasses clinking the wood holders resting on the back of the pew in front of us. I smiled when I heard all those tiny clinks. Neese, for the love of Pete, just stop). Each one had a lip print and one leftover drop in the bottom. Mom had to wash, rinse and dry a couple hundred of them. After she was done there would be a half dozen dish towels hanging from our countertop and table drying until being tossed in the hamper on Monday. What a memory!

Mom’s Sunday afternoon chore was washing and drying numerous communion glasses…

This goes to show how out of touch I am sometimes. My granddaughter Ari and great- granddaughter Jovi come over every week for supper. I cook a hearty-comfort meal. They both love mashed potatoes so that’s served most Tuesday’s. I’ll throw a beef roast or pork chops in the oven, sometimes spaghetti (no spuds that week) or chicken, which of course would not be a complete meal without cranberry sauce. Jovi does not realize that cranberry sauce is merely a condiment to accompany our meal. If she sees it on the table, that’s all she wants to eat (definitely from my blood line cause I eat it year round) so I sneak some on my plate and leave the bowl on the counter until she’s almost done with her meal. Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

Jovi and I share our delight in eating cranberry sauce on Tuesday’s…

But I’ve just come to the realization that while I’m serving one of the best homemade meals every couple months-I’M THE ONLY ONE EATING MY STUFFING! Jovi ate stuffing for 3 years, now suddenly decided she doesn’t like it. Ari doesn’t eat stuffing, nor does she eat cranberry sauce or fresh tomatoes, which Jovi greedily scarfs up just like me so that can’t be the reason. Adding insult to injury, Hubs adds a token tablespoon of stuffing on his plate to stay on my good side. What’s wrong with these people I love?

My favorite Tuesday guests, Ari and Jovi who are missing out on my great stuffing…

Not that this makes any difference in the way I cook for the girls. They both love white meat, topped with gravy, so Hubs gets all the dark meat and I get all the stuffing. Kind of lopsided but it’s the way we roll. And yes we all agree, dinner rolls are a nice touch on Tuesday’s. Plus while I’m cutting up stale bread for stuffing during the afternoon, it’s a wonderful time to reminisce about being a kid on Saturday and eating Communion bread in the kitchen with mom…

Everyone excels at something. (I’m still looking for my super power). I’m mediocre at several things, piss poor at others. My mom had her own set of gifts where she knocked it out of the park consistently. Anything that included a crochet hook or a set of knitting needles she was truly gifted and handcrafted some beautiful projects. It was something she thoroughly enjoyed. She thought she had passed this amazing ability to me, but try as I might, I could not follow the complicated patterns she breezed through. If she literally showed me how work the pattern I had no problem, but reading and applying the directions by myself proved I was not a knitting wizard like her.

I’m a little tea pot, short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout.

When I get all steamed up, then I shout, tip me over and pour me out.

I did inherit her sewing talents though. When given the tough task of replacing a button (no not a zipper, just a button) she would often contemplate how this difficult job might come to fruition. Okay, she’d just hang dad’s shirt on a doorknob for a lengthy period until he needed a dress shirt for consistory meeting in a half hour. She kept a sewing needle with a bit of thread stuck in one of the living room curtains. Her goal was to see how long that tiny needle would remain in exactly the same spot without actually using said needle. She was more likely to wash those curtains several times or buy a new set of curtains for her windows than she was to use the needle to replace that dang button. She would prick her finger a half dozen times getting that button securely in the right spot. Yeah that’s the sewing gift I got from her which I’ve carried through my adult life.

Oh I went down south to see my gal, singing Polly, wolly doodle all the day.

Oh my Sal she is a spunky gal, singing Polly, wolly doodle all the day.

Fare thee well, fare thee well, fare thee well my fairy fae.

For I’m goin to Louisiana, for to see my Susie-anna, singing Polly, wolly doodle all the day.

I was so hopeless in my Home Economics class, my frustrated teacher ended up completing about 75% of my sewing project or I’d still be there pulling out stitches from sewing the sleeve in wrong for the umpteenth time. I was a little bit better at the cooking/baking portion of the class and remember my Baked Alaska turned out pretty good. Mom was a good cook and better than average baker but didn’t enjoy my company in our tiny kitchen when I was growing up and she was working on a dessert. I think I made her twitchy in the kitchen. I was messy. She was not.

Mom was a lot neater than I’ve ever been. Shook out her rugs daily, dusted her oak hardwood floors on her hands and knees every morning before she went to work. I mean, really. She was dedicated to a house that was kept spic and span. Always. I’m just spic, sans the span.

Ada Mae where are you going? Upstairs to take a bath.

Ada Mae was like a toothpick, her neck like a giraffe.

Ada Mae stepped in the bathtub, Ada Mae pulled out the plug.

Oh my goodness, bless my soul, there goes Ada down the hole. (Hahaha)

A couple of weeks ago I did a story about sitting next to mom at church when I was little, waiting for her to dole out a pink peppermint to help pass the minister’s long prayer. I figure I sat next to mom in church for about 15 years for at least one service every Sunday. In all that church time togetherness I can’t remember ever hearing her sing. Oh she had the hymn book open and I could see emotion on her face when we sang certain hymns that meant a lot to her. But she never sang. She might move her lips, syncing in a convincing manner (like Milli-Vanilli) but no musical notes escaped her lips. Why?

Oh dear, what can the matter be, dear, dear what can the matter be?

Oh dear, what can the matter be? Johnny’s so long at the fair.

He promised to buy me a bunch of blue ribbons to tie up my Bonnie brown hair.

Oh dear, what can the matter be, dear, dear what can the matter be?

Oh dear what can the matter be, Johnny’s so long at the fair.

Mom couldn’t carry a tune. Just like me. Yup, that’s another gift she managed to pass along to her youngest kid. No lie, we were both hopeless in the music department. But here’s the great thing about our shared singing incompetence. It never stopped us from singing where it really mattered. No, we didn’t flaunt our lackluster ability in front of others who would cringe or cry out in pain. By others I mean people in nearby pews who wanted to keep us on their Christmas card list and not sue us for pain, suffering and acute hearing loss.

But mom sang to me all the time when I was little. She loved to sing and felt no embarrassment when it was just the two of us. It was mostly off tune, part monotone with a good sized helping of glass shard eardrum piercing. Still, she kept on singing.

Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone, oh where, oh where can he be?

With his ears cut short and his tail cut long, oh where oh where can he be?

(Ouch, how come I never cringed at those lyrics when I was little or sang them to my kids)?

Between the two of us caterwauling on 15th Street during the 50’s, it’s a miracle the cops were never called or charges filed. Mom loved singing but was selective about her audience. She figured those listening had to be pretty attached to her so no one would flee and never return. I loved listening to her rendition of the oldies but goodies. So did my kids.

Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you.

It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carriage.

But you’ll look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle built for two.

One of her favorite songs.

I don’t feel bad because mom never sang in church. For those who’ve never heard me should be thanking their lucky stars they were never subjected to the horrors of my squawking attempts.

I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

A hug around the neck and a barrel and a peep, a barrel and a peep and I’m talking in my sleep.

I love you a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around your neck.

Thanks for singing the oldies to me mom. Even if it was just the two of us…

I was born with a soft spot for the elderly, probably because of my mom. She was raised by 2 sets of grandparents, then worked as a nurse’s aid in our local nursing home through most of her career, plus did some caregiving around town. I occasionally traipsed along when she worked for the Dearborn’s and visited the nursing home frequently when I was young.

Not surprising when the kids were getting their (higher & higher) educations I became Parish Visitor for a large congregation. My job description was literally visiting the people who no longer attended church on a regular basis. Either still in their own homes, assisted living or a nursing home. You’d be surprised how attached you become visiting the same 50 people each month. I know the job (calling really) was far more rewarding and a bigger blessing for me than it ever was for them. They were very appreciative but all they really wanted was my time. Not to rush in and out but just sit and listen. They were starved for quiet conversation. Only downside to parish visiting were the deaths. Wouldn’t have time to grieve and cope with a loss of someone I’d visited for years when I’d get a phone call that another person on my list had passed away during the night. The losses mounted over the years and were incredibly hard to process.

I had no agenda when we moved 5 years ago. We bought a smaller house/yard, closer to our adult children and grandchildren. The house needed a lot of work as did the yard so my days were busy. A few months later a friend mentioned a job opportunity at a nearby daycare and my interest was piqued. The other end of the spectrum. Babies. Should be a nice change.

But I grossly underestimated how much I would LOVE taking care of babies. Part of the appeal was my validity for working. I wasn’t working because I needed to make a house payment. I wanted to be there. It was good for me (and for the babies). Another plus was my coworkers. As parish visitor I was responsible for making my schedule/hours and visiting alone. At FCC although our conversations were interrupted a thousand times a day, working with this awesome bunch of gals was a huge perk for this hearing impaired loner.

The comparison between babies and the elderly are strangely similar. For their time allotment both really want to be the center of your universe at least for a few minutes. Babies are more demanding and can become quite cranky when their needs are not met, still it was hard not to notice the similarities. Although I held hands, prayed for, hugged, cried over my elderly church family, there was something equally as inspirational when a four month old fell asleep on your shoulder, with their unique squeaks and tiny breaths hitting you on the neck.

I thought I’d still be snuggling babies and changing poopy diapers, but after 3 years both of my knees were giving me trouble. My knee cartilage had disappeared. It was almost impossible for me to get up and down off the floor (where the babies want you and where you need to be). Wasn’t fair to the little ones or to my coworkers, so I took a leave and scheduled my first knee replacement, fervently praying I would be able to return to a new batch of babies in a few months after surgery and therapy. That was 2 years ago. Sigh.

Recently a friend ecstatically posted she had accepted a job at Felician’s Children’s Center which made me think about my days with those adorable babies. Reflecting back I realize many of the most mundane times during the day stood out as spectacular for me. Maybe not as high on the list for some of the caregivers because they’re still performing those tasks day after day. But high on my list because those moments for me are gone.

I sang to the babies everyday. When they were in their highchairs for a meal or snack (On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, My bologna has a first name, it’s O-s-c-a-r). When there was an imminent threat of a meltdown and others were encouraged to join the soirée (This little light of mine, Old McDonald had a farm). And when I was rocking them to sleep. And no I can’t carry a tune to save my soul. My coworkers whom I admired and respected begged me to refrain from bursting into song for the sake of their hearing and sanity, but the babies did not care one whit I sounded like fingernails on the chalkboard. Who was I trying to please here? Oh right, the babies. Now those babies are between the ages of 3 and 5. I’m friends with most of their moms on Facebook and still enjoy watching them grow. But for me, they will remain my babies who made a wonderful difference in my life, for which I’m eternally grateful. Here’s my top 3 ‘good feels’ when it came to caring for these tiny tots.

1. The pat-pat. An adorable 7 month old is hungry and tired (hangry), and the detailed posted hourly schedule indicates her timing is impeccable as usual. I know she’s going to fall asleep (she desperately needs an hour nap) when I give her a bottle. While the bottle’s warming up, I change her diaper (this is a telltale sign of my ancient age, I usually said ‘change her pants’ instead of diaper), wash her hands and mine and hope she doesn’t poop while she’s drinking (nothing like putting a damper on her nap time if I have to change her pants when she’s drowsy). She’s starting to get vocal about the list of chores I’m trying to complete before we find a rocking chair. Check the bottle’s temperature and find a new burp cloth. (She looks at me with her little scrunched up face, kind of red and mildly disgusted like, “Geez woman, get your shit together. Let’s roll.”) We finally sit down, I tuck the burp cloth under her second chin and listen to her gulp (which is really cool) an ounce or 2 before I feel her little body relax. Ahhhhh. She’s laying sideways in my arms with her right arm and hand going behind my back. I break into, “Oh where have you been Billy boy, Billy boy? Oh where have you been charming Billy?” Her gaze is so intense, it’s like she’s memorizing all my facial features (including a detailed nose hair count I think) when suddenly I feel this tiny thump-thump on my back. She’s patting me on my back-literally. Still makes me cry.

2. The head butt-er. During my 3 years at FCC there were about 6 babies (all boys) who loved to head butt. Not my head but my leg. These little guys were all scooting, crawling and starting to pull themselves up. Honestly, I’m convinced this was their way of showing affection. And letting me know just because I was (pre)occupied with someone else, that was no excuse to forget how important they were to me. Did I really have to feed another kid? They would crawl towards me while watching everything going on in the room, and not get easily distracted. Each of them would slow down, lower their head and gently ram it into my calf-whether I was standing or sitting. I’d look down and he’d seem to say, “don’t forget your homeboy granny type person. Are ‘ya done yet?” It was so stinking cute.

3. Bubbles. Absolutely my favorite little weird moment with some of the babies. Never happened with newborns, mostly the 7 months to a year old. We would get comfy in the rocker with a bottle (which they thought they needed at least 5 minutes prior) so there were no interruptions for the first ounce or 2. But when some of the milk finally hit their tummy and their gulps slowed was the perfect time to sing a lullaby. I can’t tell you how many times this happened. It’s the best feeling ever. I’d began singing, You are my sunshine, Sing a song of sixpence or Oh where have you been Billy boy, Billy boy? For one second the baby would be absolutely still, then look up at me. Suddenly the suction on the bottle’s nipple was close to being compromised. What? Oh no! They tried valiantly to stay focused, but soon I’d see a few bubbles in the nipple and the suction would let loose as they cracked a huge, milky smile. (Oh, it’s the granny person who likes to sing to me. I love her). Only lasted 5 seconds until they latched back on and got serious. But it was the best five seconds of the day for me. Thanks for the memories babies….

I’m an Iowa girl-not to be mistaken for an Iowa FARM girl. No comparison. I couldn’t tell the difference between a corn crop and a soybean field until I was married and went road hunting with the Hubs. By late fall Iowa crops are a bleak beige color when harvested, leaving a short stubby field in their wake. The preferred snacking grounds for pheasants.

After becoming a mom, I became more of a loner, usually pretty content with my own company, home raising kids. But I was in for a huge cultural shock when we moved in the middle of rural Sticksville, Iowa in 1976. Talk about isolation. We had one car and that junker had to make it to Cedar Rapids, 40 miles away, lugging the Hubs back and forth to work five days a week. So there I was, in a farm house so far off the beaten path that it wasn’t visible from the gravel road. Without wheels. With a five year old Einstein (Shannon) and one year old Joshua. The prodigy was doling out wisdom to her teacher which left Joshua and me to our own devices. He was the best baby. Even tempered and easy going.

I was 25. Couldn’t call anyone because long distance calls were too expensive, so I wrote letters. I finally mastered cooking and baking during those long days on the farm. Halfway decent suppers after eight years of wedded bliss. Yeast and quick breads, cinnamon rolls, cookies, scratch cakes and something I would spend years trying to perfect. Pies. I blogged about the best apple pies I’ve ever made on that farm. There was this one particular apple tree in the grove (never knew what a grove was before). Really firm, tart apple that I’ve not found since then-40 plus years ago. While the apple type is vitally important to a good pie (I prefer Northern Spy or Winesap), my secret weapon for delicious apple pies was using Crisco (and not over working the crust) and a bit of nutmeg along with cinnamon. Bam!

After finding my newfound passion for baking, I had amassed nearly 7 dozen various fruit pies (raw) in our freezer for the coming year and long Iowa winter. Hubs was dinking in the basement and plugged in a power tool for something. After he finished his project he unfortunately forgot to plug the freezer back in to the only outlet down there, something neither of us would catch until day 3. The chest freezer was now a gigantic bowl of gooey raw pie crust dough and juicy, marinated fruit starting to ferment.

And Neese wept.

Including some gnashing of teeth.

With a major shitstorm to follow. After all, none of this was my fault.

Hubs felt so bad and knew it was his responsibility to clean up the mess. The farm was full of livestock (not ours, we could barely afford a pound of cheap hamburger). Some cattle but mostly hogs. The pigs used their snouts to lift the lid of their circular feeders. Hundreds of hogs, performing this high decibel ritual, thousands of times a day. And night. Sigh. Enough to drive one mad (where is that hearing loss when it would have been beneficial for maintaining one’s sanity)? John threw all the uncooked pie fillings and crusts (this little life altering incident cured me of freezing raw pies. From that day forward I would always bake pies before freezing) to the swine, who went batshit crazy, I mean hog wild over my culinary prowess-baked or unbaked.

Hubs home away from home after the pie incident on the farm, 1976…

My spouse (the shithead) convinced me a day later after walking in the door that several of the pigs were dead in the hog yard. Farmer Bob was visibly upset and had called a veterinarian, specializing in little known hog diseases to find the source of the deadly outbreak. Bastard (spouse, not the farmer) convinced me I would probably be arrested and serve some time for causing multiple deaths after the hogs went on a binge-fest, eating raw Crisco crusts with fermented infused fruit filling, causing immediate cardiac arrest (although they died drunk and sated). Happy days on the farm. Freaking nightmare. (He was just yanking my chain about the dying swine, none of them succumbed to my pie party. I still say God will get him for that one).

But my days on the farm gave me some much needed cooking skills and a real sense of accomplishment and joy from baking (my obsession with home canning would be another decade away). In the plus forty years following I don’t think a missed a year of summer/fall pie baking sessions for my favorite dessert (baked then frozen to be eaten later). Until 2019.

I had knee replacement in late spring last year and months later found standing in one spot by the counter, making multiple pie crusts, or peeling/slicing fruit was no longer in my kitchen repertoire, which wasn’t as devastating as I thought. And that saddened me. One of my favorite pastimes.

This year I was determined to ‘make some pies.’ Oh the totals (and size) have fallen off drastically. Gone are the days where a nine inch pie was consumed after supper from the family of 5. But I wasn’t ready to give up my-bulk-pie-baking-days yet, I just needed to make some adjustments. Smaller pies and not as many. Sounds good. Found 6 inch glass pans (4 small slices or 3 nice size ones). Instead of 1-1/2 bushels of Spys, I settled for a half bushel. Any leftover apples would go into crisp or sauce. I thought a half dozen 6 inchers, a couple of 8 inch and one or two 9″ for gifts, that’s it. Doable in a long afternoon.

Although those 6 inch pies take less apples, they’re just as much work as a big pie. Still have to use a top crust, flute the edge, top with a bit of milk and sugar, wrap the edge with tinfoil so the crust doesn’t brown too much. Time consuming little shits, but they’re so good and a better solution for 2 lazy, older adults who should not be eating pie-ever. Our cross to bear.

Had all the necessary equipment ready and resigned myself that I would sit while peeling apples. I simply double or triple the recipe for a 10″ double crust pie, then roll out several bottom crust plates that will fit in the oven at the same time. (Remember they’re not very big, more like a giant pot pie). Thought I could get 8-10 pies baked in 2 batches. Then I measure enough sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg and a dash of salt for 2-ten inch pies, which calls for 16 cups of peeled, sliced tart apples. Combine the apples with the dry ingredients, then fill the pie plates till I run out of apples, topping each with a couple pats of butter. I make slits in the top crust for the steam to escape, then do all the rest of the kanooey work, crimping, milk, sugar and foil. Told Hubs to set the oven to 425 and lay a sheet of tinfoil on the bottom for any juices trying to escape through the slits. (Terrible mess. Once the drips land on the bottom of the oven, they burn stinky until you clean up the blackened mess).

When the times goes off 45 minutes later, I slide a paring knife into one of the top pie slits to see if the apples are done when I notice none of the 4 crusts are as golden brown as I like, yet the apples are almost perfect. Soft, tender but haven’t broken down from their nice slice shape. I crank up the oven a few degrees and set the timer for 4 minutes. Finish the remaining itty-bitty apple pies which are now ready to go in. It perturbs me something fierce that the apples are done but the crusts are still too light but I don’t want applesauce pie so I take them out and put in the last batch of four.

About a half hour later the smoke alarm goes off. Usually means something’s dripped on the bottom and causing copious amounts of smoke. Hubs checks the first one, it’s not the culprit. He thinks the second one in the hallway might need a new battery but that’s not it either. It’s got one of those lithium batteries that last ten years. And it’s not the smoke alarm after he resets it. It’s the carbon monoxide alarm that’s going off for the first time since we’ve lived here. We open all the doors, windows and he takes the alarm off the wall so he can read the instructions. It finally stops serenading us when he’s out on the deck.

Something’s bothering me but I can’t put my finger on it. (no I’m not addled by carbon monoxide poisoning yet). Snap! And just like that it hits me. Why my crusts won’t brown today. It’s my oven. No, it’s the tinfoil in my oven. Grab a potholder and snag the long tinfoil sheet covering the bottom of my gas oven. There in raised letters is a small warning, “Do not place tinfoil on bottom.” Duh. I always used foil in my oven in North Muskegon. The difference was it was an electric oven.

We kept the doors open for a spell and nervously waited with bated breath after John rehung the alarm. The pies were done, (though still not golden brown). I turned the oven off. Absolute silence. What a great non-sound. I was upset about the pies. A lot of work for nothing. They’re supposed to turn out perfect (when you’re not trying to do great bodily harm). The next day I went back for another half bushel of Spys, allowed myself a day of rest and tossed out the piss-poor-pale-imitation-pies with the too done apples and started over for an afternoon of pie baking. This time lacking any murderous intent…