When my parents started a slow decline during the late 1990’s, I went home more often. Mom was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma which responded well to chemo but the side effects caused a stroke. She was not in very good health after that. Though dad was 10 years older, he was doing well. My visits were the quickie variety, usually from Thursday until Tuesday. I’d run errands, cook their favorite meals, fill the freezer with appropriate size portions, soups, sweet breads, cookies and candy. (She had such a sweet tooth).

Since Mom was no longer driving, I could borrow her car if I wanted to go somewhere for a couple hours. Sometimes a trip to Sioux Falls or Le Mars, both about 40 miles away in different directions. One day I headed out to Le Mars which had a handful of nice antique stores. It wasn’t that I needed ANYTHING, my house was packed but I still liked browsing for an unusual piece of furniture, which is exactly what happened.

It was a nice store near the railroad tracks, a couple blocks from the famous steakhouse called Archie’s. Carried a good assortment of antiques, a little something for everyone. I probably bought a piece of Blue Delft or an old cookbook. But then I spotted this oak clock that made my heart start thumping. There’s no reasoning when you covet something from the moment you lay eyes on it. It’s happened a half dozen times over the years and I usually just give into these intense feelings of “needful things.”

It was a clock advertising the wonders of Calumet Baking Powder, which had been invented in the late-1800’s. (Finally giving some competition to the Royal brand). Unlike any clock I’d seen before. ✅ It had advertising on it. ✅ It was big, maybe 40 inches tall, 18 inches wide, so it hung on a wall. ✅ It was oak, my favorite wood. ✅ It was running. ✅ Oh man, I was ✅ing all the boxes like crazy. My mouth was dry. This clock had to come live with me. Period. It was perfect.

Except for the price. Out-rageous. I certainly didn’t need it and they were asking way too much. No way could I justify paying that. I offered a hundred dollars less than the tag read. No, he couldn’t take less than the asking price (which drives me insane). When I’m antiquing, I gotta feel like I’m getting/making a deal. That means dickering/dealing a little. For any antique dealer, if you insist on a set amount, then jack the price up so you can come down and your customer thinks she’s getting a deal. Logical right?

Got my heart rate slowed down and left the store. But I never stopped thinking (ok, coveting, sinner that I am) about that neat clock that was supposed to be mine. Over the next 4 years, every time I was in Le Mars with ‘time’ on my hands, I went to the antique store to see if the clock was still there. And if it was, had they lowered the price? Yup-it was still there, nope-same ridiculous price.

Shortly after Mom passed away in October, 2004, dad asked me to come help him for a week to sort/save/donate some of Mom’s things. I drove that trip because I would be bringing some of Mom’s stuff home with me. That trip was a game changer in a couple ways. Dad, now 87, told me he didn’t want to live in their house anymore (the place he and mom called home for 50 years). He no longer wanted to mow, shovel or pay property taxes. I convinced him to move to Michigan, a mere 750 miles east. And he agreed. Yikes! This was a surprise for both of us. We’d never been close.

We decided to get the house ready to sell and in a month Dad would come visit us for a couple weeks to look for an apartment. When I was ready to leave Rock Valley, I thought about that unique clock in the antique store. Boy this would be the perfect time to bring that beauty home. If they were still in business and it hadn’t been sold. So I started my trip home by going through Le Mars. If the clock was still there, it definitely was a ‘sign’ it should be mine. Finally.

I nonchalantly walked in, my heart ♥️ pounding. There she be! Same place on the wall, looking 5 years older but still ticking. (Well no one could afford her, that’s why she’s still taking up space). Told him I was interested and would he take less? “Well, it’s a very special, unique clock. Calumet Baking Powder donated this particular Sessions clock to a one room schoolhouse here in Plymouth county for free advertising.” There was an antique Calumet Cookbook that came with the clock. He would come down 50 bucks. No more.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, it had been too long. “Sold,” I squealed. Bit the bullet and wrote out the check. Gulp. He removed the pendulum, gave me the key to wind it (every 8 days) and a fancy headed screw to keep it level once it was on the wall. But he could not find the cookbook. He’d ask his mom where she put it and send it to me. (Yeah, right) Loaded MY clock in the backseat and I was off with a song in my heart. My clock was coming home. After five years of pining, longing, yearning, hankering and yes, coveting!

I ‘adopted’ that clock 17 years ago. It’s lived in two houses. And I’ve not regretted writing that check for one ticking second. She doesn’t chime or even tell you the hour with a gong, but she’s always kept good time. If she started running a bit fast or slow, Hubs made minor adjustments to the pendulum. Until this spring. We were gone two months this winter and since we came home, Ms. Calumet has had an issue with me. Don’t know if it was not being wound for 60 days or too cold in the house or she just stiffened up after being in my greasy kitchen for 17 years, but I could not keep her ticker going. I was lost without her soothing sound (I can only hear it when I’m wearing my hearing aid).

I searched for clock repair guys and found one nearby. He was busy repairing some clocks for an estate sale which would take him another 6 weeks but I could drop the clock off anytime. “No, I’ll keep her here until you have time. I’ll call back in a few weeks.” (Our great granddaughter Jovi comes over for supper once a week and never fails to mention if the clock is not running while we’re eating). I called him back after Labor Day and he was ready for my clock.

Gave it a quick once over while we were there but didn’t see anything major wrong other than years of dirt and crud on her little cogs and a couple of worn out bushings. Said it should take about 3 weeks, then call back. (He has the clock run for a week in his house after he’s done to make sure everything’s working properly). When the clock was repaired I called and set a time for pickup. A lady answered the door and I said, “I’m here for the Calumet.” She said, “my husband’s fixed a lot of clocks over the years and I just love yours. If you ever want to sell it, please see me first.”

Can’t believe I was homesick for a clock. It’s so good to have her back. Hubs hung her up, got her leveled, attached the pendulum, gave it a little push and she was off and running. She’s been ticking along ever since, right as rain. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

It was the spring of 1994. After living in Jackson for 7-1/2 years, we’d sold our rambling ranch and were moving 160 miles northwest to Michigan’s west shore. The new location included several small towns and lakes (plus the biggie, Lake Michigan) to choose from but our deciding factor leaned towards the best high school for Adam, who would be a sophomore. For what we wanted, North Muskegon offered a smaller school district and 2 lakes which might allow us our first crack at lake living.

The moving company was spending several days in Jackson, wrapping and boxing our belongings. We bought a 3 year old house on Muskegon Lake in North Muskegon, a few blocks from school. Hubs had already started working in Montague and Josh was on his summer break from MSU, so they were staying in our new empty house. Adam was finishing his freshman year, so we were staying in Jackson with Mildred, one of our dear neighbors.

Adam and I went to North Muskegon to get a feel for our new pad and bring John back to Jackson to supervise the crew as they loaded the moving truck with 14,000 pounds of our bare necessities. Yikes, where did we get so much stuff? (Those oak antiques are mighty heavy).

The truck in Jackson was loaded and leaving at 7 am, destination North Muskegon around noonish to start unloading. The McCain Road house was empty and spit-shined but for the white 1964 Stingray Corvette Coupe sitting in one stall of the garage. John would drive the Vette, I would follow in the car and arrive a good hour before the movers. Ah, the best laid plans. After spending the night in a hotel, I drop Hubs off to pick up the Vette. We walk through the house one last time (new owner’s will take possession the next day), John raises the garage door, reaches in his pocket, opens the Corvette door and slams it back shut.

Looks at me and says, “where’s my Vette keys?” (Immediately running through my head is, Oh Lord, grant me the serenity). “They’re not on your key ring?” Got to mention I usually keep a duplicate set of whatever Hubs is driving because ‘at times’ he’s left them on the console when he gets out to ‘fill ‘er up’ and pushed the automatic locks without thinking. Then the doofus can call and ‘here I am to save the day’ can rescue his sorry butt. And yes, he already had a cell phone although it was as big as those little smart cars you see tooling around.

But I never had an extra set for the Vette. I drove it sometimes but never carried a set on my key chain. John didn’t drive the Vette during the winter from December until May, so he kept his keys in a neat old oak box on the top of his dresser. The realization of where that antique oak box was at the moment was heading due north in a semi filled with boxes and our furniture.

Hubs yelled, “we gotta stop the movers. They said they were eating breakfast in Leslie. Let’s go!” We hop in the car, hit 127 north doing 80 and breathed a sigh of relief when we spot the semi parked alongside a restaurant. The table of familiar faces look surprised when they see us striding towards the table. “Hi guys, what’s up?” (Hubs is as frantic as if he’d misplaced one of our kids). “The keys to my Corvette are in a wooden box which was on the dresser of our bedroom that you guys packed. We need that box. I can’t move the Vette and the new people take possession tomorrow. Come on, I’ll pay for breakfast, let’s start looking for the box with the box inside.” (He was so upset he didn’t realize the hopelessness of this situation).

“Ah-John there’s no way we can find that exact box without unpacking the whole truck, which would take us most of the day. We just can’t do that. Here’s what I suggest. We drive to the new house, unpack as fast as we can.” (though the bedrooms were first on the truck, so would be coming off last) “You and Denise go through the boxes as we unload them until you find the keys, then you drive back to Jackson and pick up the Corvette.” (Now doesn’t that sound like a fun moving day? Guess we should be happy it was only 160 miles one way).

John looked like he was passing a kidney stone, but what could they do? At least he didn’t sling the rest of their breakfast on the floor to get them moving faster. He drove like a maniac to get to North Muskegon which did absolutely nothing. The moving truck only goes so fast. By early afternoon they had backed up into our weird driveway and had their unpacking rhythm going.

A few tense hours passed while they hauled out furniture, boxes and more boxes, but I had 4,000 things to do before I was forced to drive back to Jackson. I wanted the boy’s rooms set up and their beds wearing clean sheets before I left, but the Hubs was ripping through boxes like a shark eating frenzy. (The cleanup of half empty boxes would take me days).

Finally around 9 pm John found the right bedroom box holding the wooden box with the Corvette’s precious keys nestled inside. “Found ‘em, Neese, let’s go!” Dang Dude, chill. (Although, technically it would be the new owner’s home in less than 3 hours, we doubted they would be there at midnight. At least we prayed they wouldn’t be there yet).

Luckily we were in our mid-40’s and still rambunctious at 10 pm. Hopped in the Caddy and made it to Jackson around 12:30. Unlocked the house, raised the garage door, Hubs got in Vette, revved it up and backed out. I closed the garage door, placed the garage door openers and keys on the ledge inside the breezeway, turned out the lights, locked the door and got in the car. Again. That’s 320 miles-twice plus unpacking in between for our long moving day. But the trip back to our new house was fun. We had walkie-talkies with a range of 3 miles so talked back and forth the whole trip so neither of us would fall asleep.

This goofy life event got me thinking about people and their keys. Before Hubs retired, he always carried a big ring of keys, most of them for work. Keys to the building, office door, tool room, supply room plus house keys and whatever means of travel we were using at the time. My daughter Shannon has so many keys, she’s divided them up on different key rings somehow.

As a stay at home mom, my key chain was never been bogged down with numerous keys. After the kids grew up my key ring held a key to open the front door to the McDonald’s restaurant where I worked. No I wasn’t a manager or even an employee of importance, just a prompt one. I often had to wait to get inside because the morning manager was late. (A pet peeve like no other). Not only was I missing money cause I couldn’t punch the time clock but I had a lot of tasks that needed to be done before we were ready to open.

For many years I had a key to the door of my church. As Parish Visitor I made copies of the Sunday sermon to mail out to the folks who could no longer attend church (hate the word shut-ins). These days my key ring is puny. Key for the house, Jeep and lock box. The key ring does carry some weight from a dangling piece of Black Hills Gold, a couple leather key fobs I’ve had at least 25 years. Plus the only copyrighted high school mascot image in the US for the Yuma High School Crims (Yuma Criminals, one of my favorite stories and it’s true-look it up). Right now I’m waiting with bated breath for an extra key for Hubs new/old pickup truck, a 1962 Studebaker Champ. He’s having trouble getting an extra set made. No one has the right blank to make this oldie which means if John loses or misplaces them, he’s sunk. Fear not, he can’t get the truck door key to lock or unlock so at least he won’t get stuck outside…

Trying to remember the year we finally became a 2-car family. Trust me, it wasn’t soon enough. I believe it was around 1980. A few years earlier Hubs restored a cute 1936, 2-door Chevy, (not an ideal daily driver) he literally lugged home in boxes and put back together which took him a year. He sandblasted it himself. He traded the ‘36 for a Kawasaki motorcycle. He drove the bike as long as Iowa weather permitted (including any day during the winter when the streets were dry, no matter how cold) so I wouldn’t be without a car with 3 kids to haul around. For at least the first 11 years of marriage we had one car.

By the late 80’s we had at least two or more cars (Shannon started driving). Shannon drove a 1978 Nova my folks gave us. When Josh turned 16, he and John restored a 1949 Ford Pickup for his first set of wheels. We bought a yellow 1972 restored Volkswagen slug-bug for Adam when he turned 16 (didn’t last long, he was hard on cars). Hubs caught the classic/antique car bug long before so by the time he was done paying for cars the kids drove (and wrecked) he bought a 1964 Stingray Corvette Coupe in 1992, which we owned over 20 years.

Once we both had decent transportation, one of us would get something relatively new every four or five years. He got a new Silverado in ‘89, and 2007 with company cars provided in between. We bought cars with less than 20,000 miles for me every few years. When it was John’s turn around 2012, he said he really liked his truck and wasn’t ready to trade it. So he kept it while I drove my dad’s 2006 PT Cruiser after he passed away in ‘08, a Dodge Journey in 2011, a Jeep Cherokee in 2014 and another Jeep in 2018. And still he contentedly drove his ‘07 Chevy truck.

The times grew less frequent when we drove a long distance separately, and we rarely used the truck for hauling stuff anymore. When we did go away we always took the Jeep. After we retired we stayed home more. The truck began showing its age. Little bit of rust was cropping up around the wheel wells, the 4-wheel drive was temperamental, and the passenger airbag light usually glowed bright red. Hubs started looking on the Internet to replace the truck box and got quotes on fixing the Chevy’s worn out parts. He would rather fix what he had (but hardly drove) than replace it.

A month ago Hubs was on his way to Menards, the only store he does not detest, which is about 5 miles away when an oncoming car turned right in front of him. John swerved towards the ditch but still got clipped on his left front end. Neither the ‘clipper’ or the ‘clipee’ were hurt, thank heavens. Cops were called, who then called me to pick John (the clipee) up. Clipper got a ticket.

The Silverado had seen better days and was not drivable, so it was hauled to the tow truck’s lot (100 bucks for the tow and 30 dollars a day to keep in their back lot-yikes). Felt strange to open our garage door and park the Jeep smack-dab in the middle.

We were unsure of what to do next. Although neither of us drive a lot, were we really ready to backtrack to a one car household again? There’s a lot of issues if you’re in the market for any kind of vehicle these days. You might see a car lot with an abundance of new rides but many can’t be sold because they’re missing that all-important semiconductor chip which is made in Taiwan and back ordered. Used car lots are pritnear empty. Do we need a new car or truck? Definitely not. But are we ready to share one car? Ah-no. I don’t like sharing.

Somewhere around 1973 we were on a fishing trip/vacation at Lake Ottertail, Minnesota with John’s parents (who rarely took vacations). Shannon was 2-1/2 so one day we went to a nearby Dairy Queen in Battle Lake for ice cream. While we were riding around John spotted a black, 1932 Ford pickup sitting in a repair shop’s lot. Of course we had to stop. Shannon was on a sugar buzz so she was content. After a quick look (it was so cute-and little) Mag and I went back to the car to wait. And wait.

Both Jim and John were salivating over that little truck. Everything was original and it ran. Guy was asking $500. It was out of the question for this young family. We didn’t have 50 bucks to spare, let alone 500, but with some finagling, Jim could have bought it, I think. I know he was sorely tempted but at the end of the day, they both walked away. John has regretted not buying that truck ever since 1973. ‘Thou shalt not covet,’ didn’t work on either of them in Minnesota.

Hubs decided he wanted an ‘old’ new truck. Holy Hannah, has that been a trip. Scams abound. Every where. Found a gem in Florida. Dude was selling his dad’s old pickup, perfectly restored, unbelievably underpriced, but he was working on an oil rig and using a local auto broker for the sale. All Hubs had to do was wire the money to the broker who would put it in escrow and ship the truck to us on their dime. John would have a week to inspect and drive the truck to see if he wanted it before the broker paid the guy for the truck. If John decided against the sale, we’d get our money back and they’d pay shipping to get it back to Florida. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Later we saw the exact same truck which had magically turned up in New York State with a different owner’s name (but was still working on that convenient oil rig, had lost his dad and was using an auto broker).

John noticed an interesting truck on the Internet at a small Classic Car dealer 250 miles away. Called to make an appointment to drive down and look at it in person but John had a doctor’s appointment and the dealer was leaving town for a few days and would call when he was back. (John called him 3 times-stalking from afar). When the guy, Phil finally got back to Ohio I was gone for the weekend. Hubs couldn’t go by himself in case he bought something, someone needed to drive the Jeep back.

John made an appointment for the day after I got back. I brought my tennis shoes and headphones so I could get my steps in while they talked (and talked & talked some more) about cars. When I got back 45 minutes later Hubs and Phil were huddled together in the office, haggling over the price. I had just spotted this really neat car and tried, (to no avail) to get John’s attention away from the pickup for 2 minutes so I could convince him to buy the car instead. A 2-door, 1947 Ford Deluxe for a grand more than the pickup, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He only had eyes for one vehicle that day and it was baby blue.

The pickup was adorable. A 1962, baby blue Studebaker ‘Champ’ with huge whitewalls. Two wheel drive, 3 speed on the column. He was smitten-bad. No rust anywhere. They settled on a price with some adjustments. A spare tire had to be thrown in with new windshield wipers and a half a tank of gas to get us out of town. We waited for our proof of insurance to be faxed over and we were on our way home. Me, pulling up the rear in case Hubs needed to stop if something went kaflooey.

We stopped for gas and at a rest stop for a few minutes but we were both anxious to get home before dark. Is it perfect? No. It needs carpet, a headliner, arm rests, visor, someplace to store the spare tire and a radio. But there’s nothing wrong with the engine. It’s got 61,000 actual miles. The little truck putzed along between 55-65 all the way home. You could say it ran like a Champ…

I’ve not been enthralled with TV the last few years and have grown increasingly fussy and impatient with what I’m wasting my time on. My hearing loss probably has something to do with it. I’ve used cordless headphones (to control my own volume so Hubs doesn’t get blown out of his Lazy Boy) for 12-15 years and I still miss some dialogue. Usually because there’s too much background noise/music or actors are whispering their lines.

A great example is a series called Star Trek Discovery, the latest in that never-ending franchise. True to the nature of warping through space, encountering all kinds of alien mischief makers, the title role is played by Sonequa Martin-Green, an Exquisite Young Woman, (who’s an expert on everything). I made it halfway through season 2, mostly because I love Anson Mount, (the Discovery captain in season 2 and former star of a fabulous series called ‘Hell on Wheels’). No matter how dire the circumstances, whether she’s (EYW) fighting for her own life or saving someone else’s, she whispers her lines. And breathy whispers to boot. I find it more annoying than enjoyable. Plus not being able to understand her, I just had to stop watching or risk an ulcer over something I don’t give 2 hoots about (never been a Trekker, much to Hubs’ disappointment).

While I usually feel some loyalty to a series I’m invested in, that’s not always the case. There’s been a handful of series when I felt ‘all in’ for the duration, yet when a certain character was written out/died/killed, I was done watching-period. The second Negan swung his barbed wire bat, (named Lucille after his dead wife), pulverizing Glenn on ‘Walking Dead,’ I walked out of the family room and haven’t watched one minute since. Same thing on “The Good Doctor,” when Dr. Neil Melendez died, I was out. (although I still miss Dr. Alex Park).

About 18 months ago I bought a new iPad Pro (which I love). Included with my purchase was a year’s worth of Apple TV which had recently launched. Hubs was immediately impressed with ‘For all Mankind,’ a twisty version of our ‘space race’ with the Soviet Union, which has the Russians beating us to the moon. Major bummer. It starts around 1970, so the clothes, cars, smoking, hairdos and macho stereotypes brings back a lot of memories. When the pandemic hit, Apple graciously allotted me another 6 months of free Apple TV since we were in lockdown and watching more, so I actually just started paying for this channel.

Once in a while (not nearly often enough with all the remakes/reboots these days) a writer/creator comes up with something so unique and clever, it immediately wins over the masses after the series begins. Most of these ‘limited series’ attracts big stars because the number of episodes are much shorter than your typical network season of 20 or more. This can be frustrating to dedicated watchers as there’s only 8-12 episodes and the season is over in a couple months. Their content is usually more adult oriented and the language is pretty salty.

One such series causing a big buzz since last year is called Ted Lasso, which was developed by real life Ted, (Jason Sudeikis), Beard, (Brendan Hunt) and another guy (Joe Kelly). It reminds me a lot of one of my favorite movies called ‘Major League’ which came out about 30 years ago. Bitchy female owner is saddled with a team from an ex or dead spouse. She has no use for this cumbersome, money sucking bunch of losers and would just as soon see the franchise fail or move.

Ted Lasso hit all the buttons for me. He’s a successful college football coach who moves to England to coach soccer (which he knows absolutely nothing about). He’s sincere, folksy, charming and a people-pleaser. Of course the whole country hates him and chant “wanker, wanker,” during games, on the street or pub (still better than what’s being chanted in football stadiums this fall, but probably means about the same thing) which makes us root for Ted even more.

Ted has his hands full. The team’s owner Rebecca, (great actress, Hannah Waddingham) ‘got’ the team in her divorce settlement from her unfaithful, lowlife husband who adored the team. She’d love to see the team lose every game just to hurt her loathsome ex, which is the reason she hired Ted. To fail. The team has two excellent players who hate each other, Jamie, a cocky young snot, and Roy, an aging icon everyone loves. Fellow coach Beard also made the move from the US and appears to have some knowledge about the sport. He’s helpful and a good friend.

One of the neat side stories in this series is about a young man named Nate. He’s the equipment manager (he talks very soft and fast, even with my headphones I miss some of his dialogue and have to back it up or ask Hubs what he said). He’s bullied by team members. Ted takes him under his wing and chastises the players. Nate proves his worth because he knows the player’s strengths and weaknesses and game-of-soccer-inside-out. Soon Ted dubs him, ‘Nate the great.’ Ted wisely moves him up to be an assistant coach. Nate’s opinions and advice usually prove to be spot on, though they still lose a lot of matches. Or is it games?

Thus season 1 of Ted Lasso was a rousing success, winning numerous awards, while we impatiently waited season 2. Dang those sophomore years can be tough. Maybe it’s just me but I’ve been sorely disappointed in year two of Ted. There have been some touching moments, delivering Christmas gifts to the less fortunate (Rebecca stops by to pick up Ted, who’s spending Christmas alone after his recent divorce). Roy Kent, beloved, cantankerous, retired player, now assistant coach (who says “f#@%” in every other sentence), searching for a dentist on Christmas Eve for his young niece, Phoebe. But Ted’s suffering panic attacks, Coach Beard is trying to find himself, rambling around the city drunk and Nate’s been anything but great. Nate made a gutsy call after Ted ran off the field and has become a darling of the media, which he takes a bit too far. He’s rude to players, scrolls through his phone constantly reading accolades from his adoring fans and bullies the new equipment manager who took his place. Even after getting called on the carpet for his bad behavior, he continues to be a bully.

One shining star this season has been a soccer player from Nigeria named Sam. Everyone wants Sam to end up with ‘the girl’ and be happy forever. Since there’s a couple episodes left I remain hopeful that Ted, Nate, Beard, Rebecca, Roy, Keeley, Higgins, Phoebe (and heartthrob Sam) will return to their winning ways, which has nothing to do with who scores the most goals in their matches. Or is it games?…