If you’re familiar with my blog, you know I love grocery shopping. Can’t explain/don’t understand exactly why but ever since there’s been enough money where I didn’t have to fret whether or not to buy a half dozen porterhouse steaks that happened to be on sale, I enjoy shopping for the food we eat.

I go once or twice a week depending on what’s on sale. Fresh fruit like watermelon or strawberries will beckon me more than twice. If there’s a certain quantity allowed at a good price I’m not above stopping a couple extra times to get my limit. We rarely eat out but we eat very well at home, so I spend more than most at the store, usually Meijer (Midwest franchise akin to Walmart but better) although I do my fair share at Kroger and Polly’s.

Tuesday I headed to Meijer but decided to make a quick detour to Kroger because their new sale ad starts on Wednesday and I wanted 3 things before this week’s sales flyer ended (why can’t they do Sunday through Saturday like Meijer)? Bacon, whole chickens and strawberries. At Kroger you have to use their own curtesy card which entitles you to sale prices or you won’t get the savings (not a fan but I do it).

So I bought 1 chicken, 2 cartons of strawberries and 2 pkgs. of bacon. Before I left the store I thought the total was higher than it should’ve been. Yup, the checker didn’t scan the bar code for the chicken. Instead she rang it up by hand totaling $8.08. But the bar code (and the discount card) are needed to get the sale price of 99 cents per pound rather than the $1.49 per pound, so I was charged the full amount. Turned back to the curtesy desk, waited in line and explained the mistake. She races from her counter to check out the chicken prices. Comes back and laments, “I can’t find 99 cent a pound chickens back there. Are you sure it’s not in tomorrow’s ad?” “Nope it’s this week’s, that’s why I’m here today. Check the ad, Heritage Farm whole chickens, 99 cents.”

She spots the fowl sale price and asks her supervisor to help get my price adjustment. She owes me $2.71 for 15 minutes of my time I’ll never get back. On to my favorite store, Meijer and I’m not gonna dawdle cause I’ve got bacon and chicken in the Jeep.

My list isn’t long but weird stuff that’s kinda hard for even this Meijer world renowned expert shopper to find. Oyster sauce, powdered milk, fresh Parmesan, minced ginger. I get the big Meijer ad in an email on Friday, a much smaller version in Sunday’s paper. The big ad had this deal: buy 30 dollars worth of Brawny, Clorox and Northern and get 10 bucks off instantly. So they had Brawny on sale (8 double rolls) for $14.99, Northern bath tissue (12 mega rolls) for $13.99 leaving me $1.02 short of that coveted 30 dollar mark (sneaky business people).

I mosey around looking for Clorox and bought what used to be a gallon, now 117 ounces (11 shy for those who need a refresher course in how many ounces in pints, quarts and gallons). Hoisted the jug in my cart, got in line, checked out and shuffled my way to the Jeep. As I’m waiting for the air to cool I check my receipt. No 10 dollar discount for my Brawny/Northern/Clorox. Turn off the car, walk back to the curtesy desk, stand in line. My turn and explain missing the 10 dollar off my total. She looks through the flimsy ad and says, “no I don’t see that advertised this week.” “But it was in the big ad in my email. You want me to get the tag hanging on the shelf that explains it?” “No I’ll call someone.” More waiting.

My curtesy person answers her phone, listens, mumbles and hangs up. “There is a sign by Northern, I don’t know why your 10 dollar instant savings wasn’t recognized (sneaky) on your receipt.” “Well I wasn’t sure what kind of Clorox to buy and thought there might be some weird scent or size I had get. I just wanted ten dollars off my total.”

She opens the cash drawer, grabs a ten spot, hands it to me with my receipt. (I don’t know how she plans to justify that transaction but that’s not my concern). I tossed the 10 in my purse, thanked her for the help and walked back to the car before my goose (chicken) is completely cooked. Fairly pleased and smug I start the Jeep, then this thought hit me: I just made $12.71 for a half hour’s work. Dang, that’s more money (per hour) than I’ve made in years. I think I may have a new calling…

It’s been a long time without you-exceeding sixty plus years. My memories of you remain vivid. Family, life, laughter and tears.

You were older-but never ignored me, spending quality time with your sib. You rode bikes, played marbles and baseball while I was still wearing a bib.

The time we spent being children, life on the west edge of town. Consistently stroll through my memories, so I keep writing them down.

The gap in our age didn’t hamper, the friendship that we shared. You made the choice to play at home, showing me how much you cared.

The years we spent together didn’t last as long as I’d hoped. After you were gone from our presence, we were left struggling to cope.

The result of this tragedy for us, your loss was too much to bear. A dense fog drifted in and lingered. Suffered alone-not willing to share.

Assumptions are made for a long healthy life-sprouted with faith from above. But things in our lives often don’t work out-no matter how hard we have loved.

Your life was gone much too soon-we were so lost without you. Holidays bore no special appeal, birthday’s seemed meaningless too.

There’s only so many candles-that fit upon your cake. Some celebrate numerous birthdays, others deprived their own fair shake.

The last birthday we shared when you were still here-was in July, 1958. Mom added a dozen candles on top, not knowing-this would be your last cake.

Happy Heavenly Birthday Larry! July 24, 1946 to October 11, 1958…

I’ve been reminiscing about growing up during the 1950’s. Seems like I was always busy (playing was hard work). The going’s on in the life of Neese. My world expanded once we moved to 15th Street. More kids, more houses, close to downtown with lots of stores (soon I could walk and shop with my nickel, all by myself). There’s not much I regret about my childhood.

My playhouse was the bomb. Dad built it on the west side of town and moved it to our new (old) house. That playhouse provided me with endless hours of fun using my imagination. It had a real house feel and looked authentic with a front door, 2 windows, chimney and furniture. There was quite an age difference between me, Mona and Larry, so after we moved, I considered the playhouse mine. All mine.

I was doll crazy for years. My favorite was my baby doll, Lori Jean. I had a combination plastic pink bathtub/changing table where Lori was bathed, swaddled and slathered with baby lotion. I fed her bottles and changed her diaper. Mom had several undershirts and diapers made out of flannel with snap closures by our phenomenal seamstress, so my motherhood days were more realistic. The changing table had small compartments on the top to hold all my real baby products needed to keep Lori smelling great and free from diaper rash. My kindergarten sized walking doll Cindy, topped out about as tall as me. Mom wasn’t happy when I gave Cindy a haircut but she needed her bangs trimmed really short like mine. Yikes! A couple years later I got a lady doll with a fancy dress and black seams down the back of her nylons. During the summer I hauled them all outside to the playhouse, including the bathtub which I filled with the hose. Lori never complained about taking a cold bath like I would have.

Dad made a contribution to my early motherhood days. He had been “taking down a building,” for extra money. Inside this building he found an old wicker doll buggy which he brought home. The buggy held no interest for Mona or Larry, but since I was too young mom ‘saved’ it for me. Had I been allowed to play with it I’m sure I would have climbed inside or pushed it down the stairs. By the time she gave it to me I was halfway responsible and ‘played mommy,’ pushing it down the sidewalk with Lori inside. I still have the buggy.

Summer days mom would sit outside with me when our errant hollyhock’s were blooming. She taught me how to transform a blooming flower into a beautiful doll. It was during these crafting sessions with mom (neither of us were ever really crafty) when I discovered our huge rhubarb patch by the hollyhocks. I don’t remember how I got addicted to eating peeled, raw rhubarb with SALT, but that summer tradition continues to this day. Mom rarely salted anything, so salting my rhubarb and fresh tomatoes remains a mystery. When the drive inn became popular in Rock Valley, I ran my own drive inn from the window of my playhouse. No matter what the carhop wrote on her order, the chief cook and bottle washer (me) supplied my guests with a bowl full of fresh cut rhubarb with salt water broth. Made you pucker, yet still makes my mouth water. Yum!

After I learned to ride a 2-wheel bike when I was 6, my world doubled. Soon I was allowed to go several blocks from our house although I usually rode on the sidewalks around town. Some of that ‘freedom riding’ was rescinded after my 12 year-old brother Larry was killed while riding his bike. I didn’t understand mom & dad’s logic but on this one subject I gave them very little grief.

Black walnut trees. Our driveway was long and straight consisting of a combination of gravel with weeds/few blades of grass in the middle of the tire’s natural path-all the way to the alley where our garage sat. In between our driveway and Kooima’s was a half dozen, huge walnut trees. Mom and dad never parked in the garage so our car sat by the side of the house. Each fall when the walnuts matured, these green discolored tennis sized balls fell on the driveway, staining the car and leaving tiny dents. Mom paid me to pick up walnuts and throw them in a bucket. She’d peel off the outside yucky green part, leaving the dark shell until it dried out, then she’d shell them. Their aroma and taste was much stronger than the mild walnuts mom bought at Koster’s. Still she used her freebies in baked goods and candies, although you could tell the difference by their distinctive taste. We weren’t there very long before dad had the trees removed. Because black walnut trees were sought after to use in making furniture, dad sold the trees and I lost my good paying job.

I played with dolls until I was 10. After my bed was made in the morning (topped with my pink ballerina chenille bedspread) it was literally covered with my stuffed animals. I had a black & white Panda that was heavier than me and took more room on my bed at night than I did. I kept them around for protection from the apparition who lived in the attic and sought to do me harm. (Nightmare when I was 8)…

This stems from something I read not long ago. In my case it happened decades ago but not many questions were asked or third degree. Just to be sure I asked Hubs what he remembered about the months in question and he explicitly said no one talked to him about it besides me. First, some background.

We were nearing our 9th anniversary in 1978. Parents of two, Shannon was 7-1/2 and Joshua was 3-1/2. I no longer had to pack diapers and extra outfits every time we left the house. Although I asked him a thousand times a day, Josh had to go potty as often as a parched camel needed a drink.

I hadn’t been feeling very well. Nothing specific, just a tender belly. I trudged to my OB/GYN who ran some tests. When I returned for the results he said frankly, “you’ve been taking this birth control pill too long (about 7 years total). You need to stop immediately.” I frowned, “but there’s this issue of not getting pregnant. It’s been a great form of birth control.” He hammered his argument home. “This pill is much stronger than we’re prescribing now. It’s causing complicated issues with your normal cycle. Honestly, I doubt you’ll ever ovulate again.”

Well this was a conundrum. Hubs and I hadn’t really discussed adding another child to the mix or doing anything permanent to prevent it. John knew since our dating days I didn’t want a baby after I turned 30 but I was only 27. He hadn’t offered to have a vasectomy which would have been ideal. After all I’d taken care of the birth control during this marriage for 8 years and counting.

I was concerned and uncomfortable enough to stop taking the pill, accepting doc’s theory regarding another pregnancy as highly improbable or impossible. And I did feel much better within a couple months. I thought we’d take a few months before deciding on what to do to prevent another pregnancy or maybe add to our family. You know where this is going, right?

Yup, a couple months later I was feeling mislick (Dutch slang for lousy) and headed back to the doctor. I was light headed and queasy with black spots before my eyes, so not really shocked when the pregnancy test came back positive. Doc acted embarrassed like it was his fault. Ewww. I wasn’t very happy but that was just me being selfish for a nano second, seeing my short lived freedom heading south for a few more years. Hubs was ecstatic.

Soon I was shopping for some new fangled one-piece T-shirts (onesies) in pastel colors and realized I was excited about becoming a mom again. Started seeing the doctor every month for my prenatal checkups and brought up the subject of a permanent solution for birth control. I hesitated bringing up the idea of a vasectomy again to John, but short of forcing him thought that idea wasn’t gonna fly.

“Doc, this is my third baby and I’m done having kids. What do you suggest?” “Well, at 28 you’re awfully young to do something permanent. Why not try a lower dose birth control pill?” Giving him my tried and true patented stink eye, “Because it’s not a permanent fix. How can I word this? I DO NOT want to go through another pregnancy and have 4 children. After this baby, I’m done having kids, no matter the outcome.”

The doc suggested choosing something less permanent a couple times before the end of my pregnancy, but he lacked enthusiasm on the subject as did I. When he realized he could not persuade me to try another birth control pill he suggested a tubal ligation the day after the baby was born, which would require one extra day in the hospital. Now this was an idea I could endorse. A couple of times he tried to change my mind because of my young age or me changing my mind later but he never once broached the subject of talking about it to Hubs.

One of my (way younger) Facebook friends recently posted this: “let women get their tubes tied-no questions asked,” which is the reason I started thinking about that summer of 1979 when I was last pregnant. Ugh, I’m old.

I was shocked and saddened by some of the comments on the ‘tubes tied-no questions asked’ issue. A couple women said their doctor required them to ‘get’ written permission from their husbands before scheduling a permanent birth control solution. One gal said she went to six (yes, 6) doctors before one agreed to tie her tubes because of a serious health concern. Another married gal had 3 children, didn’t want anymore children but the doc was reluctant because she was under 25 when she requested to have her tubes tied.

Three young woman wrote, “my doctor risked her license to give me a hysterectomy when I was 20. I had to get my husband’s signature too. This was medically necessary since I had gone through puberty.” Second gal, “I wanted my tubes tied after having my son and I knew I was having a C-section, but my insurance company said no and my doctor said she could lose her license because I wanted permanent birth control.” And lastly, “this should be as easy as a vasectomy. If a woman doesn’t want children it’s a good solution vs birth control which is known to fail.”

I’ve never been the gal who’s happy discussing controversial issues. I believe in something wholeheartedly and you believe in the exact opposite, but just as fervently, which is each of our rights. But this struck a chord with me since I willingly and (forcefully) went through it decades ago. But it was my decision alone to make, not anybody else’s…