Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.

Because a vision softly creeping, left its seed while I was sleeping.

And the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains,

Within the sounds of silence… Paul Simon

One of my favorite Simon & Garfunkel songs since it came out in the mid-60’s. At my age however I view the lyrics much differently than I did going through my teenage angst years.

During my late 40’s I faced my first real health issue, although in seriousness, it was barely a blip on the radar screen. My overall health was excellent, Hubs was starting a new business, and our last kid was in college. Finally. (When you space each of your children 4-1/2 years apart, having ‘one’ in college literally lasts forever. Still, better for me than having them a year apart and going stark raving mad).

A small crisis started taking shape around 1998 in the life of this busy 40-something, wife, mom, grandma and Parish Visitor. I began to lose my ability to hear. While this was troubling, I was unsure of how far the domino effect of my deafness would affect the rest of my life. Without a doubt, every facet. I didn’t recognize these changing nuances at the time, only in my rear view, years later.

Upon its inception, the loss of hearing was minor. Confined only to my left ear for a couple years until my right ear concluded it was a competition and tried to out-deaf my left. Sibling rivalry at its finest.

1. I had no real fear of darkness but suddenly I didn’t like the dark. As if I couldn’t hear in the dark, it somehow affected my sight. Crazy. Soon the house took on the appearance of a major airport runway. Strategically placed night lights gave me a better sense of security when I moved about.

2. I stopped blasting the radio when I was in the car. It was no longer carefree fun to sing to the oldies. I had to have it quiet so I could determine where outside noises were coming from like fire trucks and ambulances. I could hear sirens-but didn’t know what direction the sound was coming from-ahead or behind me until I spotted them.

3. Phone calls became annoying after being a favorite pastime. I missed a great deal of conversations and my usual response was, “what?” Luckily cell phones were making great strides with text messages, which has been a lifeline for me.

4. I didn’t ‘lose’ my sense of humor, just my ability to ‘use’ my sense of humor. I always had a quick wit (sometimes even clever) with a humorous, sarcastic, self-deprecating way with words. Now if I was with more than 2 people, I couldn’t keep up with conversations. I’d still be processing what was said 90 seconds ago, thus missing an opportunity to say ‘anything snarky.’ I can’t tell you how much I miss that. I really do. You lose a lot trying to add to a joke 2 minutes late. Believe me, I’ve tried.

But the biggest challenges/changes were just beginning. First I was diagnosed with Meniere’s, which sometimes accompanies a hearing loss. The minuscule inner ear ‘hair cells’ (affected by sounds flying past) were lying flat as a pancake when they should have been standing at attention and swaying in the breeze of sounds. Meniere’s causes fluctuation in the fluid of my inner ear which affects my balance. I get dizzy if I look up or down, don’t feel safe climbing higher than one step on a ladder. Any sudden/jerky movements of my head or laying down with my head flat makes me dizzy and nauseous.

Ever so slowly, (probably 3-5 years) with the stealth of a starving panther, my head started producing noise which goes against the very definition of DEAFNESS. When someone’s deaf, their world should be silent. My head was filled with annoying, obnoxious sounds-all the time. Wind tunnel, dentist drill, chain saw, aircraft carrier, the snowy sound of TV station after it went off the air, live electrical wires pinging off the pavement. The more hearing impaired I became, the louder the noises. My hearing specialist said it’s my brain’s way of substituting for the sounds it no longer hears, so it makes sounds up in their place. Believe me, it’s the only time in my life my brain has ever worked overtime. I begged the doctor for surgery to cut every nerve causing this incessant noise. I literally begged. Can’t be done.

Honest to God, it’s enough to drive one mad. That’s the gospel truth.

I became fairly proficient in blocking out the noise-during the day while I’m busy, working, cooking, chores, shopping. But late at night, my life becomes almost unbearable. Sleep is elusive. For a spell, the white noise from a fan helped. Now I can’t hear the fan, but Hubs has become so ingrained with that particular noise, he can’t sleep without it. Oh the irony.

It’s late, I’m tired and in bed. Thank God for my day, pray for my family and friends. Gave Him a quick heads up that I’m grateful it’s my ears affected and not my eyes. The house is quiet and dark (well except for the 20 strategically placed night lights, but none in the bedroom). The 747 in my head has not received the green light to land from the tower and has enough fuel to circle the airport (my head) all night. When I listen, really listen to the noise between my ears, I’m amazed I haven’t gone off the deep end. How can anyone live with this constant racket? It’s impossible. I’m depressed and isolated. The less I hear, the smaller my world becomes. I’m positive I can’t understand the words spoken to me because there’s so much interfering noise in my head. It now supersedes any loss of hearing. No doctor can convince me otherwise.

Sounds of silence. What I wouldn’t give if this were true for me. Almost anything.

The reason my whacked out head issues have been on my mind of late is because of a guy who made the news. A CEO of a chain of restaurants (he founded) that the Hubs and I frequent. This successful guy came down with COVID a few months ago. Since his recovery he’s encountered some debilitating side affects from COVID. The worst being tinnitus. Noises in his ears/head are so loud and distracting he thought he’d go crazy. (Inappropriate for me to say, “Dude, I hear ‘ya,” because I can’t, but I sympathize and know what he was going through). But not exactly. The difference is the way we came to be in the same boat, so to speak.

My profound hearing loss/Meniere’s/tinnitus has been a long, miserable journey, culminating in 2 decades-so far. Kent Taylor didn’t get that slow, subtle introduction. No pokey decline in his hearing, with little blips of distracting noises that increased over the years. I don’t know how long it took for his full, 130 decibels of mind blowing, gut wrenching noise that never lets up, but it hasn’t been a year since he had the virus. His head full of wretched noise was more of a wham/bam/thank you/ma’am/in your face.

If that ‘full frontal assault’ had been the case with me, constant, unbearable noise you cannot fathom that no one else can hear, I can say without hesitation, I too would have taken my own life. Absolutely no doubt. Sorry God. I feel terrible for Kent Taylor and his family for the loss of his life, but certainly understand his motives and his escape clause…

I’m a homebody. I’m in the house a lot. When I get twitchy, those feelings are released when I head to Meijer or the mall for an hour. I don’t have to ‘go anywhere with someone’ but it does me good to walk around other humans for a bit. Since everyone’s face is covered up, smiling is not mandatory. I miss that. The smiles and greetings to one another, often strangers.

But the pandemic’s ‘keep your butt at home’ felt different in 2020. Guess the old adage, you don’t miss something until it’s gone rings true. Once I was ordered not to go out, I missed the freedom of doing what I felt like doing-whenever-even though it wasn’t much different than my schedule since the fall of 2018. Still it goes against the grain of most of us being ordered to do or not do something.

I was looking for ways to fill the long hours of the day. Something with purpose. I’m not a good person without purpose. Last time I had real purpose it involved doing for others. I miss taking care of the babies. I miss visiting the elderly. I don’t like aimlessness. I’m heading up the creek in my own little boat but forgot the oars on the shore.

It wasn’t too many years ago when I got an enormous sense of satisfaction writing cards and letters to friends and acquaintances. Blogging satisfies this somewhat but I used to zip off a couple dozen cards and notes every month. Something I stopped doing after I retired as Parish Visitor. I thought it might do me some good and perhaps add a smile to someone’s face once in a while.

A couple of my classmates are facing serious health issues. While I can add them to my prayer list, I live a great distance away. It’s not like I can drop off a chicken pot pie, some Special K bars and visit them once a month. One dear friend lives close to me but has been quite ill. The other 2 gals-a bit older than me live within a couple hours, but visiting was not something I could do every 2-3 weeks. Besides the state was in lockdown.

Thought I should start a card ministry. Not a big thing, just make a point to write and mail cards to a few folks twice a month. Choosing what to write on an all occasion card to let them know I’m thinking of them wasn’t always easy. I’m trying to brighten their day, not morosely fill them with my mundane life. However, I was stuck at home most of the time, not going to sporting events, eating out or concerts. They would have to accept ‘a day in the life of Neese.’ It’s all I got. Luckily some of those days included Jovi, our great granddaughter. I could write a page about her any day of the week.

When I run errands lately I stop in the greeting card section. (Have you priced cards lately? Yikes, they’ve gotten expensive). Usually though, there’s a small section with value priced cards. Sure, not as nice card stock/linen feel or as clever rhyming ditties, but my days of buying high priced cards are over. The lucky recipient’s would have to suffice with my clever quips instead. Haha.

When a week has passed and I’ve not written my batch of cards, it’s time to set down at the table and write a few. I usually complete them in one sitting but if I’m feeling real chatty, I gotta stand up and take a break. My left leg does not tolerate being bent very long and often threatens not to support that whole half of my body upon rising to full extension, no matter how much teasing, cajoling, encouraging, begging, compromising I do in my head.

So I brought along a stash of cards/stamps in a ziplock bag while we were snowbirding in Alabama for 2 months because I didn’t want to shirk my commitment to my fledgling card ministry. I might have stretched the length of time in between cards over the duration, but still I wrote my small gang of 5 friends. It was easier to find subjects to share because there was no snow, ice and freezing temps. Instead I was watching the Gulf of Mexico as I wrote. I mailed some a few days before we hiked back north 1,000 miles (not literally, no big hikers here) so I would have a few days to get the house back in running order.

But the day we got back home, Diane, one of my five favorites passed away. While it wasn’t a complete shock (her daughter Tracy texted her mom was going under Hospice Care several days before) it packed a wallop. A sucker punch which I’ve not recovered from just yet. For days I went over the years of our friendship. Eating out, picking fresh Michigan fruit, canning together, painting t-shirts, long phone conversations. Perusing the gifts she gave me over the years.

Over a week at home passed and everyday I’d think, I’m gonna sit down and write cards today. (It’s not a chore, I usually look forward to it) But I avoided getting the ziplock bag of cards or even looking at the kitchen table. The biggest reason was a small note that was stuck in the bag. Ripped off a yellow lined tablet, in my half printed, half cursive scrawl were listed my 5 friends names and addresses. Now all these gals addresses are in my contacts on my phone and iPad but I don’t always have my phone with me at the table (and I’m too lazy to get up-which would probably do my left leg a lot of good, right)?

The repetition of choosing appropriate cards (or inappropriate one sometimes, sorry ladies) for the gal who’s receiving it, thinking about something during the last week of my life that was exciting enough to write about and addressing the envelopes would land another gut punch. Skipping Diane’s card. I wasn’t ready to eliminate her from my list. She was hard enough to put ON the list in the first place. Not really fair for the rest of my friends either though. I don’t know if they look forward to another chintzy card with a couple of short written paragraphs of misspelled words and crossed out mistakes, but I’m committed.

So this week I did something really hard. I wrote four notes on 4 cards and covered up my yellow (cheat sheet) note and used my phone contact list to address the envelopes. (You know, even 10 years ago these 5 simple addresses would be committed to my memory bank forever, along with the phone numbers, and not just these gals, but a hundred friends and family. Constantly depending on my iPhone for such things, (and aging another decade) I’ve lost that amazing memorizing ability I’ve had all my life).

As I was walking out the door, I scooped up my smaller bundle of assorted sized envelopes in hopes they continue to brighten someone’s day. It did my heart good getting back into my card writing groove again. It also made me ache not to include a card written to Diane. No part of me was ready to accept it was time to exclude her. It feels like I’m letting her down. Or letting me down. But hopefully, next time I write cards it may be just a bit easier…

It’s odd when I describe our years in Spencer or Davenport, Iowa. I end up saying, “we loved it there and didn’t want to move!” Those two towns/cities are as different as night and day! Spencer had a small town vibe with maybe 8,000 people while Davenport was 100,000 and the largest quad of The Quad Cities, (Davenport/Bettendorf/Rock Island/Moline) which totaled significantly more.

The reason we loved Spencer was family. We were 60 miles from both sets of parents (which was close enough). The Hubs, (youngest of 5) was born when his sister Elly was 18. She got married a couple years later, so he (we) never really knew her or her family. We moved to Spencer when John was about 30. Elly and Dewey had been there for years, thus began our incredible part-best/sibling/in-law/aunt/uncle-but more like grandparents to our kid’s friendship/relationship we could imagine. We had them over for supper once a week. They had us over for a meal just as often. We bowled on a couple’s league together. We went antiquing together as often as we could afford (or even when we couldn’t). I can’t count how many times we went out for Miller’s Bay Friday night fish fry up at the Lakes (think the fish fry cost $2.35 but even that was a stretch). I wouldn’t say we were inseparable-but it was mighty close.

More often though we didn’t ‘do stuff, go places or spend money’ with Elly & Dewey. Many times it was just supper and cards, take a ride after supper or stop for an ice cream cone. Watch the kids play in the park while we solved the problems of the world. These were lean years for us and we all knew it. We were constantly on the lookout for a bargain. It would take 2 decades of marriage before I bought an expensive antique (300 bucks) that didn’t need a ton of work done on it before it was presentable. For the most part, that discretionary spending didn’t happen until we moved to Michigan.

Hubs company in Spencer downsized 5 years later and he was laid, off which meant a move. We were devastated and I think Elly and Dewey were too. John found a job in Davenport, about 350 miles from Spencer. All the things we loved doing together were over.

Davenport was a hip, urban city which grew on us though. Situated on the mighty Mississippi it was a shopping mecca and had restaurants up the wazoo. Some of my closest and best friendships sprouted in Davenport, but it was hard because we saw Elly and Dewey infrequently. They had been such an integral part of our lives. This is the story about one of our fun, cheap adventures after we had moved away.

I don’t know how we first heard about St. Charles, Illinois. Located about 150 miles east of the Quad Cities, they boasted one of the biggest and best flea/antique markets one Sunday a month. Acres upon acres of miscellaneous odds and ends, vendors and antique dealers, plus carnival food! It opened at 7 am and you had to be there early for the good stuff. This was one place where hesitation or deliberation was a fault. You snooze, you lose. Dealers didn’t want to ‘hold’ a piece for a couple hours while you debated how badly you wanted, needed or could afford it. Want a sure way to sell an item 50 times over? Put a ‘hold’ sign on it. For buyers, it was that one unattainable piece which held more appeal. For the dealers, they kept seeing dollars slip through their fingers. “Damn, I coulda’ sold that piece a dozen times.” A no win situation.

Not being able to ‘mull over’ something before buying it though rubs me the wrong way. I’m not into impulsive buys, especially when ‘spending’ money was hard to come by, but at St. Charles, my brain needed needed to be retrained. If you spotted something that made your heart beat unfamiliarly hard, but you weren’t quite ready to commit and wanted to process while you walked a half mile aisle and circle back, forgetaboutit. Way too late. That piece had been sold, refinished and was now setting in someone’s home. This was the place for split second decisions.

Elly and Dewey had zipped across Iowa to stay with us in Davenport for a few days. This was not a last second decision. This trip was well planned out (but for one minor detail). It was St. Charles weekend and the four of us were leaving in the middle of the night to get there by the crack of dawn. Shannon was babysitting Josh and Adam (much to their dismay), but this is not the kind of flea market for little kids. Too easy to lose track of one and all that walking wasn’t much fun. Standing near a booth while boring old grown-ups looked at every stinking dish, tool, wooden box, hair pin and piece of furniture got old after 10 minutes.

We left extra early so we had time to stop in Dixon, Illinois (Ronald Reagan’s childhood home) for breakfast. By the time we hit the massive fairgrounds parking lot it was just getting light out. As well as we had planned out their visit, we had minimized something crucial. Hubs wasn’t clicking on all cylinders. As a teen he had taken a nasty spill from his horse, which had landed on him, crushing his foot. Lengthy recovery time in a wheelchair and crutches had taken its toll over the years. Twenty years later his foot was badly misshapen, causing pain and unable to wear most shoes. (The front third of your foot is supposed to face forward, not look like it’s taken a right turn on 2 wheels).

So the Hubs had just gone through some comprehensive, complicated foot surgery. He had 5 various sized, thin, razor sharp crochet hook type needles, each one sticking out of his bare toes for 5 weeks. (Then the doc just yanked them out with a pliers! Yikes)! The toe joints had all been removed due to arthritis. So John was on crutches (why didn’t we get him a wheelchair that day? My guess is he thought walking around 100 acres on crowded, uneven grounds were doable when you’re 35 and a tough guy). His pits were the pits by the time he called it quits after a long day. Dang crutches.

So 10 minutes in, he’s already a mass of sweat (it was very cool) and lagging behind the rest of us. I spotted a piece of furniture that piqued my interest so we waited for him to catch up and help me decide. The dealers were downright scary. Two brothers, wearing bib overalls (sans shirts underneath, remember it’s very cool) with one set of teeth between them. John was the better price negotiator, besides this piece was a mess. Not real big, 40 inches wide, 6 feet tall and dark oak. The technical name is chifferobe. One half is a door resembling a closet for hanging clothes, the other half are drawers. It was cute, but sagging, drawers askew, nearly tipping over. Had to see if Hubs could put it back together to be useful in a house with 3 wild kids.

The ‘toothless moonshine brothers’ were willing to dicker but not hold it for us. If we wanted it, we had to decide and pay. As John’s going over the piece, it nearly breaks apart and falls on him. It’s too wobbly to move. Hubs got them down to almost nothing and the deal was struck. One of the ‘good old boys’ grabbed a ball of twine from his pocket (I believe its real purpose was used as floss), and start circling the cifferobe a few times to hold it together when we lifted it.

Elly and Dewey go for the truck, slowly driving through a maze of thousands. We loaded the piece and Dewey heads back to park. Hubs takes a load off, sitting on a bench for a half hour, Elly and I keep shopping. She has more interest in glassware, I’m still trying to find antiques for our house. They’re at the point where they have most of the furniture they want or need. It would take us another 15 years of buying, trading-up, selling, fixing, giving away and refinishing antiques until I’m at that point.

Within a half hour I spot a rocker that shows promise. Pressed back, fancy spools, curved seat but has been painted multiple times. Ugh. So much work. John would think he was down to bare oak every time he stripped another coat of paint off, which included brown, red and John Deere green. Every time he stripped one side of a spoke, runner, arm, rocker, there’s more sides to do. But it was magnificent. And cheap. We end up buying it so our wad is spent. Elly has to cruise through another 30 acres, but Dewey and John are pretty much done for the day. We’re leaving just past noon with a few nice pieces of glassware. Some for Elly’s house and others she’ll sell. It’s been a good day for everyone but John. His armpits are sore and raw and he’ll feel this trip for the rest of the week. But there’s not much he wouldn’t do for me or his favorite Sis…

She wasn’t the first person I met after the boxes were shoved through the door of our rambling ranch on McCain Road in February of ’87. That was Pat Olsen who lived behind us, introducing herself and bringing us a pie. She invited me over for coffee to meet her next door neighbor, an older lady named Mildred who remained my dear friend until her death 20 years later. Pat and Mildred were hashing over the disparity in the ages between the 3 of us when Pat snapped her fingers and said, “I know who you have to meet. Her name is Diane, she’s about your age and lives a couple houses down on McCain. I’ll give her a call.”

Another coffee date was set so I could meet Diane. This was the first time in my life where I felt an instant connection. When I reflect on how different we were, it’s hard to believe how close we became. She had been married (to the same guy) for 16 years, Hubs and I were jogging towards number 18. She had 2 kids, I had her beat by one, but that’s where the similarities ended. I was the baby of the family and for the most part an only child since I was 10. Diane was second oldest (first girl) in her large Catholic family. And I do mean LARGE. There were 12 kids. Seems like several times a year, at least 2 of them were the same age for a couple months. Yikes. Diane did a lot of sib-raising while she was growing up. I was spoiled and did nothing.

During our 2 hour yak-fest, a special friendship sprouted and grew to epic proportions over the years. We were talking about our ‘new’ house and yard (house was about 30 years old, all shrubs and trees overgrown and unsightly). Every yard in the housing division was an acre and our acre contained 40 trees. The boys (11 and 7) couldn’t play catch without running into a tree. I told Diane it was gonna take us a couple years to get rid of half of them. Not only for the kids to play football but to grow some grass. Too much shade. She said to pick a night and Fred would come over to help.

A couple nights later Fred ambled over-driving a BACKHOE! He and John were discussing which trees had to go when Diane (the foreman) piped in, “none of the shrubbery around the house can be saved. If you trim to get below the windows, you’ve removed everything green. Just yank it all out.” Three hours later, our acre plot looked as though a category 3 tornado had graced our yard. Twenty trees plus every shrub had been toppled, ripped, shredded and lay completely spent by our mini-man-made-hurricane. Fred hopped on the big rig one more time, gave a little nod and headed home. Diane walked in to say goodnight, adding, “don’t worry, we’ll be back tomorrow with the flat bed and haul everything away.” (Who were these people)? Three months later we were planting new dwarf shrubs, bonsai’s and one weeping cherry tree.

We invited them over for a barbecue to convey our thanks for all their hard work in transforming our dated, tired yard into a showplace. Diane offered to bring dessert. It was rainy and cool when the Smith’s showed up for supper. As she waltzed in my eyes immediately strayed to the flower pot of tulips she was carrying. Obviously there had been a miscommunication. Diane brought a centerpiece when I thought she was bringing dessert. (Now what am I gonna serve)? Diane noticed my disappointed face and quickly explained. “This IS dessert. It’s called Dirt. Crushed Oreo cookies, layered with a pudding/cream cheese/milk/cool whip/powdered sugar mixture. Complete with gummy worms throughout and artificial flowers. Isn’t it cute?” (This woman was incredible)

She walked over to admire our landscaping choices and suggested some ground cover to trim the new sidewalk leading to the front door. “It’s called pachysandra. I got it from my folk’s place when they put in new landscaping. It stays green all year, has tiny white flowers in April. You will have to edge it or it will spread. I’ll bring some over so you won’t have to buy any.” (She brought pachysandra with her when we moved to North Muskegon 7 years later. More pachysandra 22 years later when we moved back to Jackson. All from her mother’s abandoned crop that had been waiting to be hauled away when Diane rescued it in the early 80’s).

That summer Diane carted me all over Jackson county. We picked strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries, peaches, apples and pumpkins. She loved fresh fruit and veggies and knew where and when every crop was at its peak. She taught me how to make freezer jams. During July she took me to a place called Gee Farms. She was picking up a specific size cucumber she had ordered. (Up to this point, in nearly 20 years of marriage, I had never bought one single cucumber-and I was ok with that). Diane asked if I would come over the next night and help make Bread & Butter Pickles because her sister Karen couldn’t make it. I had no idea what this pickle making business entailed but I was game. We canned 55 pints of pickles by midnight (we were both under 40 and didn’t require a lot of sleep back then to function the next morning. Besides, it was summer and the kids slept in. Ok, my ass was dragging. Didn’t this woman ever get tired? Was there nothing she was incapable of excelling in? No & no. These are the things I pondered, lugging home 8 perfect pints of the best pickles known to mankind). Make that 7 pints, I ate an entire pint before hitting the hay. This ‘by chance’ invitation to help with Bread & Butter pickles would inspire me to learn how to ‘can’ pickled beets, jams, fruit, meat, plus her signature bread and butters every year since 1988, and I have Diane to thank for that. She also got me hooked on Lladro figurines and Longaberger Baskets. She had great (but expensive) tastes.

Diane’s idea of decorating was different/unusual and she loved decorating for the holidays. Any holiday. She was never content to just put up a Christmas tree. Her whole house was decorated, laundry room and bathrooms included. Next to her stunning tree stood Mr. & Mrs. Claus, about 3 feet tall. Her mom was throwing them out so it was up to ‘Diane the Rescuer’ to find them a safe haven. They were made out of felt with hand painted, one of a kind faces, stuffed and standing-supported with a wire base. I thought they were adorable, so of course we headed for the store where their large Anna Lee inventory was whimsically featured. (Over the years I collected a couple dozen larger figurines for various holidays, and at least that many Christmas decorations. Not one member of my family think they’re cute. My cross to bear).

Diane was the most talented woman I have ever known. She sewed lined suits, dresses and drapes. She could knit or crochet any pattern, no matter how complicated. Her cross stitching pillows and framed scene pieces were really works of art. She made deer out of birch trees for lawn decor. She decorated custom wreaths, garland and did I mention bows? Fancy, frilly, small, large bows were her specialty. You never just got a gift from Diane. It was a decorated package that was too pretty to open, usually containing something she’d made herself. Ever know someone you love with all your heart, but were kinda jealous of and intimidated by? Diane literally could do anything. She worked in advertising, selling logos on pens, clothing, paper products etc. She could sell ice to an Eskimo. With all that talent oozing from her pores, it was hard not to question God, “are you kidding me? Bows? You couldn’t just let me have one small talent to make frilly bows?” And God said, “nope, sorry. It really is a God given talent and she’s got it all and you got zip. Go bake something. It’ll make you feel better.”

In 35 years of friendship there’s not many area restaurants where we haven’t met to share a meal in mid Michigan. She loved eating out for breakfast and our go-to place for many years was Jacobson’s (a local chain of pricey clothing/home stores in between Macy’s and Lord and Taylor). Diane’s cholesterol ran very high and she did everything she could to curb it, often ordering oatmeal which came with the tiniest 3 containers of brown sugar, raisins and milk. When she splurged and ordered an egg, it was over easy and always accompanied by 2 slices of bacon which she would dip into the yolk, for the good part.

In early November of 1987, John’s dad passed away so we were in Iowa for a week. We decided we would stay in Michigan for Thanksgiving and not make another Iowa trip until Christmas. When Diane found out we were celebrating without family she invited us to join hers for turkey time. (We did not realize the extent of their ‘immediate family’ which was the size of a small Iowa town). It was like renting an event center and filling it to capacity. I think we probably went unnoticed by at least 50 people.

Sad to say over the last couple years I’ve not seen Diane very often. She hadn’t been feeling well and had quite a few appointments with different specialists. We texted, talked on the phone and I wrote cards to let her know that without talking/canning/shopping/eating out, she remained an important part of my life and was thought about/prayed over and loved. We had breakfast for her birthday around Halloween. We talked and texted a few times about testing/biopsies/diagnosis she was going through. She sent me a birthday card and suggested lunch after we got back from Alabama. Her daughter Tracy let me know Diane went into Hospice care a couple weeks before we came home. Just after we got home Tracy texted her mom had been unconscious for a day and had slipped away during the night.

To friends and family in Diane’s life, the loss of such a wonderful, kind, dynamic, talented person cannot be replaced. But it’s our loss and heaven’s gain. Everyone knows she’s busier than a one-armed paper hanger (of course she could wallpaper) in heaven, adding beautiful baskets of hanging flowers, painted murals, decorations for the appropriate holiday and willowy bows to every Angel’s wings. Diane Marie Dunigan Smith, you are loved and missed…

Yes, you read that right.

On our last day down in Alabama we were busy packing, all helter-skelter, who cares as long as it’s in a bag and makes it to the Jeep. This shit will all get sorted out when we get home. Clothes will be one big mass of wrinkles and everything’s gonna get washed anyway.

I went to the fridge to see what needed to be tossed, put in the cooler and what we had left to eat. Slim pickings missy. A couple of tablespoons of Heinz, 8 ounces left in the French’s 10 ounce bright yellow plastic bottle. A couple of leftover roasted red skins from a tasty pork chop supper a couple nights before, 1/4 of a jalapeño, (seeds removed) 3 ounces of Land O Lakes butter, sans Indian Maiden (now that’s just plain wrong), a half bottle of shrimp cocktail sauce, 3 lemon slices, a baker’s dozen of hamburger dills swimming in tart brine, and enough orange juice to swallow my pills in the morning. Not looking good.

Decided we would go out to eat one last time, but not seafood. (This was mistake number 1. I shoulda just taken one for the team). I would have been happy with a couple of Krispy Kreme doughnuts but the Hubs thought we should partake of a something substantial, since we’ll be fasting until we got on the road the next morning. (We’d be going right past Krispy Kreme in the morning, he’d have to kill me not to stop). Actually there’s this place right across the road from Krispy Kreme. A famous institution in these parts. Dark building resembling a Cracker Barrel. Over the last 2 months we’d driven in the parking lot TWICE but it’s been so packed, people standing in line out the door so we opted for shrimp elsewhere.

Ok, no matter what, we’ll wait it out and see what all the fuss is about. The place is charming in a down home, southern kind of way. The bathrooms are found under the neon “Outhouse” sign. Wooden plank floors, the large entry has a wall of framed pictures in memory/tribute to the owner’s family who have all ‘throwed their last roll,’ The wait proves to be about 40 minutes until we’re seated. Waitstaff all wear red suspenders and jeans, ye-ha.

We both order diet Coke’s which are served in insulated handled cups the size of Hubs’ head. While we peruse the menu, a thin gentleman pushing a 4 wheeled kitchen cart walks past, yelling, “hot rolls, get your hot rolls.” He didn’t exactly ‘throwed them,’ but he didn’t hand them to us either. You’re gonna have to catch it or it’s landing on the floor. It’s their signature catch phrase and ‘throwed rolls’ is big part of their history. Huge, golden brown, all yeasty smelling, they looks simply scrumptious. I set the hot monstrosity on a paper towel, get my knife out and look for the butter. No such item. (Mistake number 2. Deal breaker. There is no forgiveness for this atrocity. How can you serve homemade supper rolls and not offer real butter? There is no logical explanation, has to be cost alone. Bunch of hooey. I tried but couldn’t finish it.) Topping this incredible roll with a lame imitation of Land O Lakes real butter, assuring this consumer of a real ‘buttery taste spread.’ If only I had thought to take along my 3 ounces of real butter from my nearly empty fridge!

Because I am a brave girl, always willing to try new things (haha, even writing this makes me laugh), I say, “yes, thank you,” when the next roving server of ‘all the free sides you can eat,’ stops by our table offering fried okra. They’re half the size of a tater tot and she spoons a dozen on a paper towel in front of me. Each leaves their own grease spot. They’re pretty good.

Hubs orders the fried chicken dinner, I order a favorite and one of my weaknesses, chicken pot pie with cole slaw and chunky apple sauce. Another server of the masses walks by offering apple butter and molasses (to mask the butter less taste on the rolls). Our food comes in just a few minutes. Both plates look great. A spoon has been stuck in my pot pie to let some steam escape. Hubs digs into his crispy chicken after he peppers his slaw for 3 minutes. I stir the pie a bit to let the gravy thicken up. The black eyed peas server (I gotta feeling-woo-hoo, that tonight’s gonna be a good night. Not hardly) offers a couple scoops to accompany our entree. Never had them before either, but I liked them. Kinda like smokey pork and beans.

The chunky applesauce is good, so is the slaw. After 3 bites of pot pie I’m wondering when I’m gonna find that first big bite of chicken. It is a chicken pot pie, where’s the chicken? I add salt and pepper for taste (not something I normally do) and keep plugging my way through gravy, soft carrots and peas up the wazoo, searchin for that tender bite of white meat. I’m now avoiding the crust because it’s soggy and still searching for a speck of chicken. I give up, finish the rest of my applesauce and push my plate away. Then server # 47 sashays up and asked if I wanted tomatoes and noodles. (Is that a thing)? The ‘roll man’ has been past a half dozen times, and I reach the forgone conclusion, the rolls were the best part of the meal-IF ONLY THERE WAS REAL BUTTER. Not that my opinion matters, but Lambert’s servings are substantial but taste/flavor/appeal is sorely lacking. Definitely quantity over quality. Would not recommend.

Forty bucks and I ate like a picky toddler. My saving grace was the knowledge that snuggled deep in the condo’s freezer was a whopping helping of Cherry Nut Ice Cream. Now that would break my heart if one teaspoon got ‘throwed out’…