Hubs says he was born 100 years too late (his birth occurred in 1948). He would have loved being a pioneer. Living on the prairie, working the land, hunting, raising scrawny animals, growing stunted crops with a passel of kids running around half naked and dirty. Ugh. Not me. He might have been forced to search for another life partner to dosey-doe with. Just the thought of someone shoving a dirty pliers in my mouth without novocaine or nitrous oxide and yanking out an abscessed tooth makes me nauseous. Could have been serious, even deadly having a breech baby without narcotics or worse, by myself. Not the life I envisioned.

Sometimes I yearn for the simple days of my childhood. But I was born in the perfect era, and have never longed to be part of a wagon train. Had I been I would have insisted upon zipping right past Iowa during our 5 mile per day clip. “This is not where I belong.” Don’t get me wrong, I got nothing but love for my native state. Being a kid in a small town in northwest Iowa was great. I’m happy I grew up in Rock Valley, but there’s a big part of Iowa I never embraced during my 36 years of residency.

Winter. I detest it with every fiber of my being. At the tender age of 10, I was never giddy after a foot of snow (flying in from the west at 30 mph). Don’t ever recall saying, “ohhh I can’t wait to get to Benson’s Hill and go sledding.” Didn’t like ice skating, snowball fights, sledding or freezing my legs since we had to wear skirts. (although I was the first one up and fervently prayed for school cancellation when a boatload of snow fell). About the only part of winter that was neat were the plows pushing the town’s snow, making a gigantic-4-block-long-15-foot-high-wall of snow smack dab in the middle of our outrageously wide Main Street. I can remember mom driving very slow because it was impossible to see around that mountain of snow when she turned.

Guess I’m a wuss. I’m a big fan of modern medicine, doctors, dentists, surgery, anesthesia, antibiotics, pain killers, birth control. I love grocery stores, natural gas heat, air conditioning, cars with 4-wheel drive. Who doesn’t like heated seats when you live in a state where winter lasts several months a year? That’s really where I went wrong. The reason I cried when I was born during December is because I already hated winter. Put me back in! I was supposed to grow up farther south with warmer temps.

Much as I love to watch flickering flames and hear crackling wood burning in a fireplace, it has far less appeal when that fireplace is used to heat our 500 square foot log home with wind whistling through the cracks in the Midwest during the 1870’s. No thanks. While I love canning, baking and making meals from scratch, hanging big pots over that roaring fire seems hopelessly inaccurate and inadequate to get everything cooked to perfection in a timely manner. I’m not a grower of foods, that’s why God made Farmer’s Markets.

There would be no button to push to start the coffee maker after turning up the heat. No whoosh of the gas furnace as it quickly warms up the house. (and I think it’s cold sitting on the pot when I get up now). Think about it, no toilet, no Northern bath tissue and what good are a dozen assorted bottles of Bath & Body Works foam soaps if I don’t have hot and cold running water? Or a sink? Goodness, he didn’t think this through at all.

It’s hard to visualize doing much after sundown (which accounts for that passel of kids) with candles as your only lighting or using an oil lamp. Definite damper on nighttime reading. Heating up water (hauled to our one room house with a bucket from somewhere, a well or river) to wash dishes. My whole day would be cooking or cleaning up. When did they find time to care for the kids or work in the garden? The thought of only taking a bath/washing my hair once a week or less? I just can’t. What about toothpaste and a half dozen toothbrushes to get me through a year? There goes my healthy compulsion to brush my teeth multiple times a day. No, I’m definitely a wuss and would have struggled with that hard life.

I wouldn’t have been a good pioneer woman. I poke my finger multiple times when I get a needle threaded to sew a button on. I need a haircut every six weeks. I like lots of windows and they need to be sparkly clean. I haven’t worn a dress in 25 years, so a corset is out of the question. Where would I send for my sport bras? Does Amazon even stick to their strict schedule, delivering to the prairie in 1 or 2 days? What style number does New Balance use for shoes to wear walking behind the plow?

I thought I’d live in Iowa my whole life. But when the opportunity to move was offered where did the Hubs’ and I decide to go? To Michigan with winters just as long as Iowa’s! Maybe even more snow but a bit less severe with cold temperatures. What were we thinking? But both states are extremely beautiful during the summer. Iowa’s green everywhere with tall corn swaying in the wind and Michigan has lakes galore. With the small exception of these long, miserable winters. At least both states are full of modern conveniences. And I was born in 1950 instead of 1850. Hallelujah…

It was the early 70’s, Hubs and I had stumbled our way through 3 plus years of wedded bliss and had one offspring to show for our efforts. The last 2 houses we rented had been sold while we lived in them, giving us little time to skedaddle. Someone suggested with a small down payment we could buy a house and not have to move all the time. We did just that, buying a big 2-story fixer-upper, much of the aesthetic work could be done with elbow grease and a few gallons of paint. (Hubs elbow grease included taking down 2 humongous trees in the front yard with a hand saw–by himself)! We had nothing, he had no tools, we did what we could but a thousand dollars would have done wonders for the place.

The best way to eek our way forward was for me to go to work. Hubs had given up a job he loved at Channel 4 because the pay and hours weren’t the best and had recently started working at Zenith Corporation. He came home one night and said Zenith was hiring, no experience needed. Before I could apply though we had to figure out who was going to take care of our adorable toddler while I was slaving away for $1.60 and hour. (Good times). Found a retired lady named Gussy we picked up every morning to watch Shannon at our house. If my mom had a few days off she’d come to our house or take Shannon to Rock Valley which really helped.

If you wanted to study the downfall of American manufacturing, Zenith was a pretty good example. Around 1970 over 3 million color TV’s were sold in the US and every one of them was made here. Not only Zenith but Sylvania, Motorola, Admiral, Philco, Sunbeam, RCA, Quasar, Magnavox and Wizard. The huge plant I worked at in 1972 would close in 1978. By 1991 when TV sales were up to 21 million, only one US company was still producing them-a Zenith plant in Missouri which closed the next year. American companies complained for years that Japan was flooding the market with lower priced TV’s. When a Japanese TV was made and sold in Japan, the price was around $500. Japan sent that same TV to the states and sold it for less than $300 here. We couldn’t compete but it wasn’t really our fault.

When I started working at Zenith it was one of the largest manufacturers of color TV’s and had nearly 3,000 employees in Sioux City, Iowa. Approximately 2,900 were women. The plant was not air-conditioned (the offices were though). That’s a lot of hormones sweating to the oldies. There were massive assembly lines, sometimes upwards towards 70-100 people, each assigned their own tidy job in producing your new color TV. One of their best ad jingles was; “The quality goes in before the name goes on.”

The line I was assigned to produced boards going into color TV’s, chock full of diodes, transistors and resistors. Each person was responsible for inserting these tiny parts meticulously with pliers the size of a tweezer. We sat on backless barstools but at least we didn’t have to stand on concrete for 8 hours. After several of these parts were tucked on this board, someone further down the line swedged the bottom of the board. (Cutting off the ends so they wouldn’t fall back out). Then the board slid over a wave soldering pot which was a waist high rectangle contraption in the aisle of 2 lines with melted molten solder keeping everything in place so there were no rejected parts with quality issues. Anyone working near the wave solder pot noticed a 15 degree increase in heat and humidity, plus it smelled hot and metally. On one boiling hot summer day a gal called another girl a ‘bitch’ (it was the heat, made all of us rather irritable). A physical fight broke out causing one lady to come precariously close to taking a dip in the wave pot (between 800 & 850 degrees). Hubs was walking down the main aisle when he spotted the fight and caught the one about to be dipped and hauled them both to the HR department. I think they were separated from each other by several thousand feet after that little tiff.

Hubs was one of several industrial engineers setting up production lines, but I was lost when he tried to explain it. After the line was ready to make parts is where most of his daily work came in. He was responsible for running time studies on every worker on each line, then making adjustments in how fast those parts came down the line and how much time you had to slap those parts in the right holes. After all the time studies were done our line was offered an incentive. If we worked faster (as a group) the magic number was 130% which was quite a boost in our pay. We never failed to make our incentive.

The line I worked on was part of Hubs’ responsibilities but he didn’t want to be accused of being partial because of me so he traded my line with another engineer whose spouse also worked at Zenith, so he didn’t have to time study his wife either. Politics in the workforce.

One day Hubs was in the office (did I mention they were deliciously cool during the summer?) and got a phone call from a new male foreman, (most of the foremen were women who actually ran the lines better than their male counterparts. The women foremen took no shit from the gals on the line) screaming he had a problem and needed help immediately. John runs to the floor (yeah he worked up a sweat, it was a scorcher in the plant that day) expecting to find a machine down but there stood 3 scowling women and one cowering foreman. “What’s the problem,” Hubs asks? “Well the 2 on the right are sick of the fan blowing hot air on them and want it off. The gal on the left is sweating buckets and wants it on high.” “Not my problem,” says Hubs, “that’s why the line has you-the foreman. Figure it out,” and walks back upstairs.

Twenty minutes he gets another call from the same frantic new boss. “You gotta help me, I don’t know what to do but it’s real bad down here.” Hubs meanders his way back to the problem production line. “It’s too hot in here, I can’t work like this,” the overheated one screams. “Well you’re not putting that fan back on. It gives me a headache and you can just learn to work in the heat,” one of the fan naysayers screams back. Hubs bites his cheek to keep a straight face. The overly warm, buxom lady has ditched her shirt and bra in protest to her hot surroundings and is valiantly trying to insert her parts (none belonging to her anatomy). He gives the terrified foreman a seething look and orders the foreman and 3 ladies up to the HR department (after she yanks and tugs her sweaty bra and shirt back on. (You can’t make this stuff up).

A couple years later Hubs got a job offer from a toy company on the other side of the state. What fun to make toys all day. There he (we) would learn how batshit nuts a company can be when owned privately by a band of crazy brothers…

I am a lover of books. Reading remains a favorite pastime. (Every time I pick up a book, I’m grateful I’ve suffered a hearing loss instead of losing my sight. Thanks God). When I need an escape I turn to books. I have enough reality in my life. I’m not too particular about genres but I’ve never bought a biography or autobiography. I refer you to the ‘enough reality in my life’ sentence. I don’t need to read about someone else’s life in a book, I’m on Facebook. It’s all on Facebook.

For the better part of my adult life, space wasn’t an issue and I always found appropriate lodging for the books I couldn’t part with. However, I was first to jump on the Barnes & Noble’s ‘Nook’ bandwagon, suddenly freeing up acres of living space because everything would be neatly stored in my Nook. Oh please.

There’s just no intimacy in swiping pages on this little device. Where’s the romance without holding a real book in my hands, quickly flipping a few pages ahead to see if I can read to the end of the chapter before I start supper? What if there was a great spicy paragraph that lures me into coming back 3 times before moving on? How dull to just vit-vit-vit with a finger swipe until you find the appropriate place? If I’m driving and have to stop for any length of time, am I gonna read 14 words per page on my iPhone? Absolutely not. I rarely leave home without a book stashed in my purse in case I’m hung up for long time. Nope, the Nook was a big waste of money for this reader. Haven’t used it in years.

Hubs on the other hand has embraced reading everything on his iPad with gusto. I’ve purchased (real) books in a series he enjoys (Linda Castillo’s Kate Burkholder who’s a police chief in a small Ohio town. She was raised Amish but gave up that structured, tight knit group and is living in sin with an FBI hottie). Crazy, but he will not read the (real) book but then pay for it on his iPad. (Doofus. My cross to bear).

Getting ready to move to significantly smaller confines in 2015 did present problems. Realized how little room there would be (we downsized 1,000 square feet) so I loaded up box after box with hardcover and paperback books to donate. I kept the Outlander series, Harry Potter books, Stephen King’s, The Stand and a third of my antique cookbook collection.

I’m a loyal series reader. Once an author introduces a character I enjoy, I tend to stick with their going’s on in fictional life until they die (the author or character). Many times it’s not the main character I’ve grown attached to but a sidekick (for instance in the Joe Pickett series by CJ Box, it’s Joe’s sometimes shady falconer friend Nate Romanowski who’s captured my attention).

One of the first series I latched onto (as a stay at home mom of three in the 80’s) was written by Lawrence Sanders about a police captain, Edward X. Delaney in New York City. The problem with getting attached to an ongoing series is waiting for the author to get his shit together and write as fast as you want to read, plus the expense of hardcover books. Doesn’t happen that way. It’s easier when someone suggests a series that’s been written over several years already (and still going strong) so I can read at my own pace.

The mainstay of my fictional friends are series about cops, private investigators or lawyers: Cork O’Connor, Lucas Davenport, Virgil Flowers, Kate Burkholder, Jack Daniels, John Corey, Joe Pickett, Eve Duncan, Cassie Dewell, Ben Kincaid, Stephanie Plum, Jack Brigance, Myron Bolitar, Walt Longmire and Harry Bosch. Most are focused, upstanding, hardworking, decent folk who are compelled to do the right thing but have no problem bending the rules at times. The majority are married/with children or in a monogamous relationship. Right now I’m reading something entirely different than my usual fare. Twelve books revolving around Ross Poldark and his clan, scratching by in Cornwall, starting around 1775. I watched the 5 season series on PBS but you know what they say about books versus TV/movie version. No comparison except the way I picture Ross and Demelza from TV.

The exception to my favorite book character’s list is a loner. He doesn’t own a car, driver’s license, credit card, or a home address. He’s not real big on dialogue either. But he has an acute sense of right and wrong and stands up for the little guy/underdog/damsel in distress (with his fists and brains). He rides a bus to a town because the name appealed to him on a map. He just wants to stop at a diner for coffee and a piece of peach pie. But trouble always finds him. He’s not particularly good looking, weighs 240, is 6’ 5,” in his early 30’s and his hands are the size of hams. His name is Jack Reacher, (written by Lee Child) he’s retired from the Army with no place to call home. But that’s the way he likes it, uh-huh-un-huh. There’s just something very appealing about him.

Here’s your fair warning about Jack. Some night when your bored spitless, flipping through 168 channels on TV, you’re gonna come across a Reacher movie. Keep on hitting that channel changer for the love of everything holy. Cruise right on by. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

This minuscule attempt at portraying Jack Reacher is such a stretch there is no imagination in the world that buys into this itty-bitty farce. It’s a big story told by a teensy-weensy man (but with a huge ego which is not Reacher-ish either). A minute, wealthy sub-human bought the rights for the movie rights of Jack Reacher and his ultra large opinion of his acting ability pushed him over the top. Mattered not one whit that this tiny actor’s frame measures a mere 5’ 6” (perhaps he just read Reacher’s height numbers backwards) and his hands are the size of my 5 year old great granddaughter’s. Aww, he’s just a widdle cutie-but definitely not Jack Reacher.

I have renewed hope. A series on Amazon Prime featuring Reacher is starting in a couple weeks. I don’t recognize the actor who’s playing Jack but by the promo he at least resembles his size and features of the guy I love….

I watch Chicago PD. I know stuff. Like where Sergeant Hank Voight hides the bodies. I’ve picked up the lingo (from detecting) and a few of his habits-good and bad. (He’s ruthless but a softie). He demands loyalty from his team and would die before giving up a source. So no matter how hard you try, I will not give up my source. I’m not actually saying it’s a ‘him’ but I’m not gonna type him/her all the time. Think of this particular ‘person’ as my C.I. Confidential Informant-someone with a checkered past/present, runs around with ne’er do wells and often gets monetary or snacky compensation when giving tips for ongoing criminal activity to his handler. That would be me. The handler. I am she.

It has come to my attention (from a wealth of information gathered through honest detective work) that my source has a treasure trove of event tidbits that happened long ago in my hometown which I knew nothing about. (Guess I wasn’t as savvy as I thought). My C.I. was willing to ‘spill the beans’ if he remains anonymous and I don’t use real names. (He’s such a sissy)! I admitted to stealing a car and painting the side of a quonset building years ago. Statute of limitations or whatever.

I offer these facts. Most of these pranks/misdemeanors/shenanigans occurred between the years of 1963-68. Those were dark days in Rock Valley’s pristine history and I lived to write about them! Well most I just learned recently, but still. Some names, dates and locations have been changed to protect the innocent.

A carload of misunderstood youths from Rock Valley meandered to the town they loved to hate the most-Sioux Center. Bored, with an over abundance of testosterone they spotted a spiffy set of hubcaps which would look considerably better on one of their friend’s cars in RV. They were in the midst of their flamboyant caper when things took a turn for the worse as they were spotted by the feds. (Oh alright, it was a local cop) The RV car sped away with the hubcaps but w/o the kid, leaving the sole survivor to take one for the team. But he wouldn’t go down without a fight. Threw himself in the middle of a large woodpile while the cops searched intently, using spotlights all over the neighborhood. After a couple hours they gave up, leaving the dipstick to face a 15 mile walk back home. But luck was with the putz, his friends picked him up and they all shared a good laugh. Decided their friend with the ‘57 Chevy would benefit from their theft bounty and swapped out his plain jane hubcaps.

A weekend tradition like no other was cruising Main Street in Rock Valley on Sunday nights after church services. (Most of our dozen denominations had 2-a-days. Mine included, sigh). But the popular mile plus loop was not just privy to the locals. Cars loaded with hormonal teens from neighboring towns who were all looking for trouble, love or something to prove. One young man and friends showed up from Sioux Center, (driving a car with naked wheels) spotted a ‘57 Chevy sporting his former snazzy tire accessories. Suddenly he was filled with fighting angst. This was war!

The local boys (misguided youths) convinced the Sioux Center hothead they’d come by the hubcaps through a legal transaction from a kid living in Hawarden. But was he interested in sprucing up his lame car? The hubcaps were for sale if he wanted to cough up some cash. Sioux Center dolt did just that. Bought back his own merchandise.

Late one night a young man (with new driving privileges) felt the uncontrollable urge to zip through Rock Valley’s Main Street at the highest rate of speed ever achieved. (This was when our small burg was still a one-stoplight town). And he wanted to do it with flair. He decided to start this attempt at a world record about a mile south of town (the cemetery) at the peak of a pretty big hill. Posted where Highway 18 skirts Rock Valley and the start of Main Street were 2 young men-one gazing east, the other west-just in case an oncoming semi was spotted as our thrill seeker neared the intersection. Rock Valley’s own daredevil whizzed through that intersection cruising over a hundred, never took notice of our one traffic light and finally took his foot off the gas a mile north of town. Unnamed sources claim he topped out at 120. Down Main Street, right through town. How did these guys make it to adulthood? And who in the world wanted to bear their offspring?

Near a big curve where Highway 18 runs into Highway 75 is a railroad bridge over the highway. Four wayward teens decided that the concrete railroad bridge needed a splash of color. Armed with a couple cans of black spray paint they lumbered to the middle of the bridge late one night. Nominated the one they thought capable of spray painting ‘RV ‘66’ upside down (hopefully the year they would finally grow up). Gave the chosen one the cans, grabbed his feet and hung him over the side (there had to be a serious measure of trust amongst friend’s here wouldn’t you think?) The letters and numbers were precise and pristine for several years. And they didn’t drop him on his head (which probably wouldn’t have hurt his IQ at all).

How did I live in a farming community nearly 2 decades and never heard the term ‘field car?’ (I was a townie and only envied farm kids when the weather was bad and they got to miss school but the ‘townies’ had to go so the day could be counted). Well it seems that many farmers kept field cars for errands around the farm. They certainly didn’t want their good vehicles traipsing through rough fields getting scratched up. Usually it was Mrs. Farmer toting noon meals and cold drinks if the workers didn’t want to stop long. There was a night when one of these farms was lacking serious parental supervision (out of town). The bored boys got a hold of some beer and had no worries about getting picked up because they were out in the sticks. One of them (quite possibly inebriated) decided to take the field car out for a spin but missed the deep ditched driveway coming back and rolled the car over. Twice. Someone else with a few wits left drove the tractor to pull out the badly dented car, parked it inconspicuously where it wouldn’t be spotted for a couple days. Then they discreetly got rid of the evidence (empty beer cans up the wazoo) by tossing them over a fence (which just happened to frame Mrs. Farmer’s garden). Everyone got thrown under the bus for that one.

One of the trouble prone youths was trying to go straight. He had a knack for the extracurricular activity of speech and was headed for the state finals. To hone his humorous speech skills he practiced in a room at the school library (with a friend so he could be corrected when he flubbed a line). This conference room had a hatch in the floor which led to catacombs under the new and old school buildings. After rehearsing for 10 minutes and making sure the librarian was occupied elsewhere, they slipped underground to waste time, wreck havoc and accomplish nothing. An older janitor named Mr. Rice spotted the 2 cellar dwellers and gave chase, but the boys were sure footed and fast so they headed for one of the 2 main light switches. Killing all the lights they found their way out easily, then watched and waited subtlety for Mr. Rice to reappear from the tomb.

Heading west of Rock Valley someone driving their father’s ‘59 Ford on a snowy night missed the big curve heading north and ran the car into a massive snow bank. Rethinking his first instinct to call his dad, nope, no way, big problems with that scenario, he walked to the first farm, knocked on the door but no one was home. Noticed the tractor parked in the yard with the keys dangling from the ignition. He started the tractor, found a chain, pulled out the car, parked the tractor back in the same spot and drove home. Did not leave a thank you note.

Two carloads of hell raisers with too much time on their hands heard a farmer near Hudson was growing blue ribbon watermelons in between his rows of corn to ward off would be thieves (as if). The hooligans cruised the streets until dark then slunk quietly to the road near the prize winning watermelons, all revved up and drooling for fresh fruit! There were watermelons everywhere but they were not expecting gunfire. The guys thought the farmer was using blanks until the 12 gauge blast disintegrated a cornstalk too close for comfort, so they blew that free fruit stand.

This saga continues. There’s a great (but lengthy) tale about a cop’s car heist. Loose lips and all. Makes me wonder why I thought I was such a hell raiser. Dang I was a good kid in comparison. Now I’ve got to live up to my end of the bargain. Snacky’s comin up…

Most folks over 60 could spout a dozen things that make you feel old, a fair amount of them physical. For me it’s my achy legs and hands, plus age spots, grey hair, swollen joints and wearing glasses for near & far. Everything sags and droops. (Talk about needing a booster) But this is about some of the things that make me feel old I never imagined.

1. My kids birthdays bother me (I know they’re reason to celebrate, but still). Twenty plus years ago I was shocked to realize my kids were all in their 20’s. How could they be that old already? I had my first child 2 days after I turned twenty, thus right after my birthday Shannon celebrates hers minus 20. While I’m ok getting older, still not comfortable my kids are aging faster than the speed of light.

2. One of my favorite hobbies/obsessions/pastimes over five decades has been antiquing. Whether it took 3 weeks or 2 years to find the perfect oak dresser was fine with me. The hunt and price dickering are the fun parts. I don’t antique much anymore. We don’t need anything nor have the room, although I still enjoy looking. But nothing will put me in my (aging) place faster than spotting a Fisher-Price pull along toy that I bought for my toddlers in an antique store. Are you kidding me? I swear I bought it for one of the kids a few weeks ago, now suddenly it’s a vintage toy.

3. Who would have thought newspapers and magazines might soon be extinct? I have subscribed to a daily newspaper my entire adult life. I love the smell, the grimy ink marks on my hands and literal feel of holding the newspaper. I noticed its decline maybe 20 years ago when the daily papers went from publishing twice a day to once. Now our local paper offers hard copies delivered 2 days a week, the other 5 must be read on my iPad (not my choice). And there’s never much variation. M-W-F-S’s iPad paper offers 12 pages, never 14 or 16. (Isn’t there ever one day that has more news than that same day of the week during the last 3 years?) Tuesday/Thursday are 20 pages. Every single time. And get this, it’s now printed in Cleveland which is 200 miles from me, but 350 from the Muskegon Chronicle which they also print. Doesn’t seem cost efficient. (And from way out in left field, how come half the obituaries these days are younger than me)?

Three. Over the years, I have regularly subscribed to Good Housekeeping (which never helped with my housekeeping) Ladies Home Journal, Woman’s Day, Country Living, Family Circle, TV Guide, and People Magazine (I stopped reading People when I didn’t recognize/know/or care about any of the ‘stars’ they were touting). Ironically I still get TV Guide although I don’t watch much television. I do enjoy reading about new series/canceled shows/and keeping up with Taylor Sheridan’s busy life with Yellowstone/1883/Mayor of Kingstown, plus his future endeavor of the life & times on 6666 Texas ranch. He could have chosen a better name-it gives me the heebie-jeebies although there is an extra 6 in that equation. And I almost stopped watching Mayor of Kingstown after they killed Kyle Chandler in the first half hour (cheap shot). He’s the reason I started watching it in the first place. No offense Mike, (Jeremy Renner, main character) cause I don’t want to lose my life by dissing him-even in jest.

4. The music I started listening to in the mid-60’s gives me comfort, good feels, relieves stress and sometimes makes me cry by taking me back to a moment when that song was a big part of my life. (I do listen to popular hip hop tunes on my playlist, but none are as heartwarming or gut wrenching as my oldies but goodies).

Four. Never thought the artists I loved/admired/grew up on/sang along/had a crush on-were gonna die. This does not include the likes of Jim Morrison, Mama Cass, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix who were pretty close to my age when they died, but I was busy young mom and didn’t take the time to mourn them properly or realize what a void they left in their wake.

For. I’ve blogged about a couple singers we lost recently who were important in my life of songs like Kenny Rogers (You Decorated my Life) and Eddie Van Halen (Jump). Does anyone remember Mac Davis? He had a variety show in the 70’s, wore turquoise and silver jewelry, had curly brown hair and killer smile (Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me). He died in the last couple years as did, Helen Reddy (I am Woman), BJ Thomas (Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head), 2 Supremes (Baby Love), 2 Monkees (Last Train to Clarksville), & (Lean on Me) Bill Withers. I never imagined they would be gone. Before me.

Fore. What got me started on my loss of singers happened in October and I’ve not yet reconciled his absence. Partly from guilt because I was an inattentive fan and didn’t fully appreciate his amazing voice or range (similar to Roy Orbison). He was born David Blatt (he changed his name to join the group-cause it was pertinent). I read his last 20 years were not easy. The group split in 1973, each member with a solo career except for Blatt who continued to sing under the band’s original name. He filed for bankruptcy in 2006 from massive gambling debts and the band’s name was sold for $100,000. The rest of the group (besides David) would reunite under their original name.

Foregone. Some of their biggest hits were, Come a Little Bit Closer (you’re my kind of man), Only in America and This Magic Moment. His name became Jay Black, the second lead singer named Jay, his band, Jay and the Americans. Head over to iTunes, Amazon music or YouTube and listen to 2 of my favorites, soon you will be ‘Crying’ over ‘Cara Mia, Why…’