When we moved 6 years ago, we downsized considerably. Current house is about 1,000 feet smaller than North Muskegon’s and all on one floor. The biggest plus is it’s substantially closer to our three kids. Consequently, several of our antique furniture pieces needed to find new homes. We (it was me) picked our dearest treasures and the ones without a lot of family history intertwined in their refinishing, grain and scratches moved to family members who had years to go before they need to downsize.

The next few months were spent making this new, smaller space our own. New driveway, sidewalk, deck, central air unit, paint, flooring, appliances, landscaping, tree removal. The house was built in 1963. Part of a large housing development of reasonably priced, smaller homes destined to be either a starter home or a finishing one (the category we now find ourselves). Several years later, (but way before we came to call it home) the single attached garage was converted into a family room and a 2-1/2 stall garage was added a few feet in back of the house.

The smallest room ended up needing the most work (and money so far, but we’ve yet to tackle painting the kitchen cupboards, new countertops and sink). The bathroom needed to be gutted to the studs. With closet space and storage at a premium, everything we own needed to find a permanent place in this home. As you stood in the bathroom doorway, just to the left was a clothes chute. Goodness, that’s just so 1963. My first thought was to ask Duke (contractor and super all around guy) to eliminate the chute in the wall. But unless I wanted to hang a clothes hamper/laundry basket from the ceiling, there was not a handy spot within 20 feet to toss your dirty socks and undies, so we decided to keep the laundry chute. Keeping a laundry basket in the basement, everything landed about 3 feet from the washer. Well how practical is that?

Keeping the laundry chute was a good idea. Kind of reminiscent of a different era of family life. The chute door has its own little squeak, which originates from the springs to keep the chute door closed. It doesn’t snap shut, just slowly squeaks its way closed once the clothes have plopped in the basket. Once in a while a bath towel clogs the chute if it’s bunched up, only to have me discover days later half of a laundry basket filling the wooden trough. I can usually slink my arm deep enough to loosen the traffic jam of grungy duds.

Our granddaughter Ariana and 4-year-old great-granddaughter Jovi have come over for supper on Tuesday’s almost as long as Jovi’s been on this earth (thanks God, she’s just the best, ok, they’re both pretty great). Neither are fussy eaters and I’m all about comfort food. They’re both addicted to mashed potatoes, so often it’s stuffed chicken or a beef roast.

Invariably, Jovi will have to use the rest room sometime during the meal. She no longer requires one of us to be nearby, usually leaving the table with her own set of instructions, “I need some privacy please.” We can hear her singing or talking while she gets the job done. If I’ve not put the small step stool by the sink, she might ask for help with washing her hands, otherwise she’s pretty independent and needs no assistance.

About a month ago, on a Wednesday, I went downstairs to get some meat out of the freezer. Glanced at the laundry basket to determine if I needed to start a load and noticed a full roll of Northern toilet tissue perched on top of the soiled laundry. Jovi! The little stinker! Once upstairs I held the roll for Hubs to see. Raising his eyebrows he queried, “Where’d you get that?” “Umm, it was on top of the laundry basket downstairs.” “Jovi,” he asked with a laugh? “That would be my guess,” I said as we admired her ingenuity.

The following Tuesday during supper I said, “hey Jovi, did you throw anything down the clothes chute when you were bathroom last week?” Her eyes went from grandpa to mommy to me, wondering if or how much trouble she might be in. “Yeah, I throwed toilet paper down there,” she answered nonchalantly.

None of could disguise our smiles around the table and Jovi knew immediately she was not in trouble. I however, should have been given 30 lashes with a wet noodle for bringing it up in the first place. Because we have now created a laundry chute monster. I swear she thinks long and hard all through the week what can be tossed down the chute when she’s here on Tuesday.

The next week, 2 mega rolls were downstairs. I keep extra rolls of TP in a small antique wooden box. Again, because there’s not an inch of extra space to be wasted this box sets right next to the heat register in our narrow bathroom. The following week, I decided to just leave the wooden box empty and put the extra rolls in the linen closet until after Tuesday’s supper. Wednesday morning we found 2 long strips of loose tissue (which appeared unused-at least I hoped so) and my new TV guide (which is kept in the family room, not the bathroom).

Two weeks ago my nighttime sweats (I hang them on the outside shower door railing) were no where to be found (haha, I knew where they were-all crumpled). Last week Tuesday, as I was changing from my (now clean night sweatpants) to my pj shorts, I discovered they had somehow disappeared during her new supper ritual would be my guess.

I know sooner or later Jovi’s going to tire or forget her Tuesday bathroom antics. Until she does I’m not sure how far I wanna take trying to eliminate the closest items she can grab to toss down the chute. If I get rid of everything within her reach, will she continue to search for something/anything to pitch into the squeaky door of darkness? Probably. So far, my toothbrush has remained unscathed and in its designated holder every week. A bit of a stretch for her near the back of the vanity, yet it’s remained in place (and dry) after she and Ari have headed home…

In 1969 we discreetly decided to elope. No one needed to know beforehand. (My folks, well my mom, had done her darnedest to break us up. Multiple times). There were a couple glitches we needed to figure out first. One was the dang newspaper in Sioux City. The Journal published all marriage licenses, making it impossible for us to get hitched at the Woodbury County courthouse because half of our home town 60 miles due south subscribed to that daily publication. Everyone would know by 7 am, after one person read our names. (Small town living). Luckily Sioux City bordered 2 other states, Nebraska and South Dakota so we could just get married in either one. But we needed to have 2 witnesses to sign our marriage license after the ceremony. We both had friends in Sioux City but really didn’t want anyone in on our little caper.

A few months prior, John (Hubs to be) was working at the television station KTIV. Most of his coworkers worked the night shift so they were not available. A friend from Rock Valley had just graduated from college and landed his first teaching job in South Sioux City. Since he’d hadn’t gotten paid yet he was planning on living in his car for the first month because he was broke. John rented a larger apartment and offered to share it with Dale, and pay all the bills until his big paychecks started rolling in. Dale paid him back immediately which took about every penny he had just gotten for a month of teaching. Many days after I got out of work and meandered to their apartment to find Dale sitting on the front porch railing, barefoot, wearing cutoffs, strumming his guitar.

We decided Dale was the most logical person to bring into the fold about our diabolical plan to wed under the cloak of secrecy before our parents found out. He said he’d be honored to stand up for us. Nothing fancy, 10 minutes, start to finish. Ok, one down, one to go. But who could we trust to not spill the beans until it was legal? Dale actually came up with a good idea. He knew another rookie teacher who would be happy to sign his John Henry on our legal document for a burger and a beer. Funny how those 2 guys came through as witnesses for our wedding ceremony (which is now working on anniversary number 52).

Hubs was instrumental into the way life turned out for Dale. They were having a beer together one night when John tapped a gal. Insulted she turned around and slugged Dale, thinking it had been him. One flirtatious thing led to another and not too long afterwards Dale and Beth got married.

It was the summer of 1971 and our new baby girl was 8 months old. We dropped Shannon off at my parents house and headed to Minnesota. Hubs and I had discovered a vacation hideaway that we were sharing with 2 other couples for the long weekend. It was Lake Shoakatan, a small lake and not many vacationers. We were joined John’s brother Arly and his new bride, Vicky and Dale and his new bride, Beth. It was kinda weird because I knew the guys much better than either of the girls. John’s brother Jimmy loaned us his boat which proved to be the fodder for jokes for years to come.

First Arly (a Navy man) was in the boat but the rest of us were not. Hubs threw him a rope which Arly promptly let go of and started drifting away. (To his credit, he thought he could just start the motor and back up for us). But Hubs had not put gas in the tank yet, so he slogged out to retrieve his brother and the boat. Then plopped down in the shallow water with his legs wrapped around the bow while he filled the tank, spilling about half of it on his crotch. He yelped like a junior high school girl and sprung outta that water like a Jack-in-the-box, trying in vain to soothe his nether-regions, while the rest of us howled on the shore.

Once we were all safely aboard and seated our goal for the afternoon was for all 3 girls to ‘get up’ on skis. Beth got up immediately. When they swung the boat around to pick her up Dale was full of praise on how well she did. Then he said, “now I’m gonna teach you how to swim.” (Holy shit). Vicky had a bit more trouble getting her long, slim body up but after a couple of tries she did well too. I was up next. It took me several attempts but I was finally sailing through the water-upright. I screamed at John, “don’t turn the boat, don’t turn,” but he eventually ran out of lake and I swung out doing about a hundred, flipping head over heels and lowering the lake by a foot after swallowing half of it.

What a great afternoon. We were all bushed but proud of ourselves. I remember looking at Vic and Beth. Beth was dark and petite, Vicky, an all American Dutch girl, blonde, lithe and leggy. Then there’s me. Brown hair, pouchy tummy from my 8 month old, yet thinking, you know for having a kid, I don’t look too bad. My tummy wasn’t any bigger than either of the newlyweds. So there. (Found out a couple weeks later, both were in their second trimester. My fragile high self esteem promptly deflated). Hubs turned off the motor and tossed the anchor overboard so we could just enjoy the lake and sun. Unfortunately the anchor rope was not tied to the boat. Hubs stood up with this shocked look on his face and immediately dove in the water after the anchor. Haha, another reason for peals of laughter at poor Hubs expense. (We knew we had to replace the anchor before we brought the boat back. An expense we absolutely could not afford but had to be done).

A couple years later Dale and Beth moved to Minnesota and Arly and Vic moved to Montana. Things always gotta keep changing. The weekend get togethers, card parties were a thing of the past. We tried so hard to move to Minnesota and came ever so close in 1980. Hubs applied for the engineering manager’s position at Artic Cat in Thief River Falls. We spent time at Dale and Beth’s before heading further north for the interview. Beth was kind enough to watch our kids for a couple days (by then we had 3, Shannon, Joshua and Adam, plus they had 2, Sarah and Beau). The interview went great and Hubs got the job with all sorts of great perks.

By the time we stopped to pick up our brood, their 2 had full blown cases of chicken pox so we knew what awaited us after we got back to Spencer. They all got the pox during Christmas break, Shannon and Josh much worse that 1 year old Adam. The job however was not to be. The economy was the pits and Artic Cat was on the verge of bankruptcy. They stood by their job offer and moving us but we thought it would be harder job hunting from the near Winnipeg than from Spencer, Iowa, so we turned the job down.

A few years ago we were invited to Dale and Beth’s home again. They were still living on the farm but had recently bought a cabin on Otter Tail Lake, not very far away, so we spent most of our visit at the lake. Pontoon boat rides, eating out and one of the fanciest homemade meals I’ve ever had. Fried walleye. For breakfast. I kid you not. One of the cutest details I remember about the cabin was Beth’s window coverings made out of birch branches.

While we were there we convinced them they needed to come to Michigan because we were 8 hours from Niagara Falls. (Neither had ever been there). A couple years later they drove to our house, rested up for a spell and off we went. We drove on the American side because Dale had never been to Cleveland. He wasn’t that impressed although driving around the city, we went right past the Indian’s baseball stadium at night while they were playing a game which looked kinda cool. They were awestruck (who isn’t) with Niagara and we enjoyed the biggest bucket of Buffalo wings the Anchor Bar offered.

During our lifelong friendships, this is a sample of the good times we shared with these amazing friends of ours. Last week, after opening the cabin for the season Dale was enjoying another sunset over Otter Tail when he suffered a fatal heart attack. From that laughable weekend in 1971 as 3 fairly newlywed couples just trying to figure out marriage and parenthood, three of our 6 are gone. My whole life I’ve heard older people complain that all their friends are dying. I can’t tell you how hard these constant deaths of my friends have hit me lately. Arly, Vicky and Dale. You are loved and missed more than you know…

I’ve never thought of myself as a women’s libber. I was never tempted to join a march or rally since the last time I was a drummer in my high school marching band. (Go Rockets) It was my choice to be a stay-at-home mom and not join the workforce until much later. It’s never been a goal of mine to be on a stage or in front of a microphone for any reason. Ever. That’s just not me. Definitely not a leader, but I don’t always follow very well either, and certainly not remembered or known for playing well with others. I am mostly content in my tiny group of one.

I read an obituary in a newspaper recently, which reminded me of my mom. Not the obit but the way it was titled. Something like Mrs. Bill Smith. What is it about the title Mrs. that bugs the ever lovin snot out of me? I don’t know but it always has.

I remember mom writing checks when I was a kid. Back in my hometown she didn’t have her own checkbook. My parents paid cash for most things so she never carried a purse (how could she survive? Really? She carried keys, a pack of spearmint gum and her wallet. If she was heading out of town to shop, a tube of lipstick. She preferred blouses and slacks with pockets or topped with a shirt jacket to hold her stuff I guess, otherwise how could she manage without at least a small clutch? But if she wanted to write a check in Rock Valley, she’d just ask the clerk who magically produced a blank check bearing the name of Valley State Bank. The checks from the store were not individually numbered, yet somehow mom kept track of that running balance total of their joint checking account in her head. I never recall them arguing about a bank overdraft. She would have been mortified. I think she just kept more in their account than she ever planned on spending.

When I was in school I watched mom sign the few checks she wrote out like this: Mrs. Richard Gerritson. That just seemed wrong. So wrong. Her name was Florence. Why would she write my dad’s first and last name on a check she was signing? Like she was more of a secretary or less of a partner by signing for my dad. I used to tease her about the signature (but it really rubbed me the wrong way). I think it was just the way married women of that era (mom and dad got married in 1942) signed their name. But it wasn’t her name. Why would she do that?

By the time I got married in 1969, I’d decided I would never write Mrs. before my name. Thought I did ‘good’ by taking his last name, I certainly wasn’t taking his first. My name is Denise (though I’ve been called many other colorful monikers, not all of them kind). Please don’t add anything before my given name. Not Ms., Miss or Mrs. Just plain Denise. Or Duh. Better yet, Neese.

About the same time I was taking such a firm stand on my own self-salutations, there was a gal (gal is probably insulting to her, sorry) who was taking on a much bigger platform on women’s issues. Her name was Gloria Steinem. I didn’t pay much attention to her (remember I’m not a marcher or joiner). Hubs and I were newlyweds, broke but happy. We were starting a family. But mom was suddenly taking a bigger interest in what was going on in the women’s movement.

Sometime during the mid-70’s mom dropped the Mrs. Richard on her check signature. She simply signed them Mrs. Florence Gerritson. But this was merely the first baby step in her evolution. There might have been a bit of defiance on her part or maybe just trying to be more independent. But I think her minor assertiveness that was brewing was mostly to honor her paternal grandparents who raised her since she was 2 weeks old when her mom died. She adored both of them. (Mom married in her mid-teens, so maybe she just didn’t get to use that maiden name of hers long enough).

We come from a long line of Dutch folks with lengthy last names. Many Dutch names have 2 words like my married name, Van Berkum. Neither mom’s maiden or married name had 2 words like mine but both names had double letters in them at least once. (Another quirky thing about the Dutch language, double letters appear frequently).

The line on a check blank where you scrawl your ‘John Henry’ is not quite 3 inches long, because many of us have longer, more complicated signatures than Jo Diaz. Mom gave her name and signature a lot of thought over the years. She finally chose to use her full, baptized name plus her married name when signing a check during the last couple decades of her life. That’s 32 letters plus 3 spaces. She filled up the allotted 2-3/4 inch line, then finished with a flourish on the invisible line beneath with almost as many letters on the second line as the first.

Florence Elaine Wanningen Gerritson. What a hoot!

Several years before she passed away mom was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. After a few chemo treatments she suffered a stroke which affected one whole side. She was unable to walk alone or sign her name because she was right handed. Dad had a suggestion. He often used ink stamps when he bought Bibles or tracks to pass out to the masses. If someone found one of his Bible’s he’d left (on purpose) somewhere, dad wanted to be available for them if they needed an extra nudge/encouragement before giving their life to Christ, so he added his name, address and phone number in the front or back. Simple and easy to use, the ink stamp sat in its own puddle (inkwell). He just grabbed the small handle and ‘stamp’ his name, sometimes with a small biblical quote like, “He Lives, or Jesus Saves.”

That’s exactly what mom did. She chose one of her cursive, ‘paragraph long’ signatures from a used check as her template when she still had beautiful penmanship. The stamp still took up 2 lines like before, long, tiny and neat. But this was a hit. No more Mrs…