I do some odd things on the second day of seven. Every week. It’s a sort of a cleansing, and I start thinking/anticipating about it on Monday. It’s a ritual. This week’s Tuesday started out when I noticed 2 jars of Parmesan cheese in the fridge. That shit drives me nuts. Not the cheese, but having duplicates in the fridge opened at the same time. I blame the Hubs because of a serious affliction he’s had during our married life. He cannot ‘spot/find’ anything in the fridge ranging in size from a gallon of milk to one lone jalapeño in its own zip lock bag in the veggie drawer. If he can’t find what he’s looking for in 1.2 seconds, it’s definitely not there and we need a new jar/container of whatever. Sigh. I combined the 2 jars and felt a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Ah, neater and more space. (It’s the little things in life folks).

I thought the empty Parmesan jar might be good for something besides the garbage so I tossed it in a sink of hot, soapy water. Twenty minutes later, sweat poring off my forehead, the ‘stickum’ had not disintegrated from where the label was attached with 8 dollars worth of gorilla glue. I could have bought a set of 6 glass jars with 18 interchangeable lids in less time (and work). Why do I fart around endlessly with stuff like this? My bottle of Goo-Gone was gasping and pushing more air than goo spray so I gotta add that on my grocery list. Better yet, check under the sink first to see if I’ve already purchased a spare. Yup, brand new bottle. Combined those 2 bottles with one teaspoon leftover-which I couldn’t throw away. Argh. Dumped it in a throw away foil cake pan and nestled in the Parmesan jar to rid itself of its sticky residue sometime during my lifetime. I hope. It’s sitting on my counter which is looking cluttered, just what I’m trying to avoid on purge Tuesday.

Noticed when checking the nether regions beneath my sink, I spotted twin bottles of Easy Off window cleaner. One with 2 T. left, the other dang near full. Tried my best to combine them, alas the full one would only hold one of those 2 tablespoons. You know it, couldn’t throw that minuscule amount away either, so I ran around the house like a deranged cleaning woman, washing all the glass on every antique curved glass china closet, bookcase and secretary in the house. By then the bottle had to be pointed heavenward so the tube could suck up that last drop. It’s not that my antiques didn’t need the (Jovi) fingerprints, dust and grease removed. It’s just that an hour ago the simple act of spotting an extra Parmesan container, or the Easy-Off squirt bottles ends up making more work than either were worth. And yet I can’t stop myself.

I’m not against throwing stuff out. I throw junk away ALL THE TIME. That’s why it’s called my Tuesday purge. Tuesday is garbage day at our little house and I’m forever trying to find ways to make our itty-bitty space appear bigger and neater. I’d say I go through the fridge with a fine tooth comb, but just talking about my fridge and a hair comb in the same sentence makes me gag. But I am pretty thorough. Leftovers are particularly susceptible on Tuesday’s. My mind walks backwards trying to determine exactly what night we had that delectable supper. If I reach day number 4, it goes in the garbage.

On Tuesday I want a fresh roll of toilet paper hanging (underneath, what’s wrong with you people)? Any sliver of bar soap, liquid soap, shampoo dispenser or toothpaste tube looking as flat as me goes in the garbage. Kleenex boxes that lift up when you try to pull out the next tissue is emptied and dumped. Any leftover Kleenex are stored neatly on top of new box. Newspaper ads, TV guide with listings until Sunday just might make the dumpster 5 days early. I got those programs memorized. “John, please eat that lone banana. Why not have it with the last serving of Raisin Bran and douse it with a good helping of 2% or I gotta make rice pudding with the leftover milk. Don’t want to waste the milk but the jug’s going in the garbage today.” You can see how this has become problematic right?

Hubs has his own chores on Tuesday’s. He brings the dumpster down to the end of the driveway. Our garbage service comes quite late in the day and I don’t want John hauling it down there too early because-something else might turn up ‘pritnear empty’ like the Bath & Bodyworks foam soap dispenser. If we each use the facilities and wash our hands a couple more times before 2 that sucker’s gone! I need to utilize every penny’s worth of my $27.10 garbage bill each month.

John’s duties include emptying every small trash bin from various rooms in the house and replacing with brand new, repurposed Meijer bags. If you don’t have a storage bag filled with bags for your little garbage receptacles, we are not in the same economical class/social circle. There might be a room or 2 that’s only yielded an errant fallen leaf from a plant or some ploujes (Dutch word pronounced plue-she’s) which are pieces of lint/fuzzy from socks picked off the carpet. These are not exempt from the Purge. Hubs empties them into another, fuller Meijer bag (yes we conserve) so we’ve got 7 more days before we see how full we can get those slackers. (Hubs thinks I manufacture garbage. I think I’ve just got an eagle eye and can spot a bit of trash much easier that he’s able. Yes, it’s a gift).

Some weeks there’s not much in our garbage on Tuesday, other weeks, if I’ve been canning or on a ‘baking spree,’ (that’s what Mom used to call it) Hubs would be hard pressed to fit in another toothpick before he hears the Emmons truck rumbling down the street. He’s not one to leave our dumpster down by the road, so hauls it back to our convenient spot by the back door. For a couple days there’s not a lot to be thrown out (we’re only on day 2 from leftover suppers and I’m pretty good about snagging those dishes for my next day’s lunch, but it won’t be long before I’m giving the eagle eye around the house, gearing up for next Tuesday’s purge…

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

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

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

Within the sounds of silence… Paul Simon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, you read that right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feels like we’ve been here 2 weeks (Hubs doesn’t feel the time has sped by as fast) but the calendar assures me we are working on our last couple of 58 nights and ought to start packing. There were a lot of misconceptions on my part. I thought I’d get homesick right away-I didn’t. Mostly due to the weather we weren’t experiencing. All I had to do was check the highs and lows for Jackson, see all the new snow that fell or how hard the winds were howling to determine their awful windchill. Didn’t miss that for one second.

It’s not that the weather here in the south has been spectacular. Thus far about a third of the days have been subpar. Shitty even-until I check Jackson’s forecast, which certainly made 51 degrees with occasional showers more appealing in Gulf Shores. Our neighbor in the condo next to us moved here 4 years ago from Illinois (she knows ugly winter weather) and said this has been the coldest winter since she got here which makes me feel better.

Hubs on the other hand, has not been as infatuated with Alabama as I have. This smallish town reminds me somewhat of North Muskegon. Both towns have one long, slow, busy street with water on two sides so everyone uses this main drag to make their way to someplace else. But in North Muskegon we were a couple blocks off the beaten trail. Our condo overlooks that busy street which is filled with construction trucks (hurricane repair and constant building of high rises) plus tourists. Watching the Gulf of Mexico just past this constant hum of tires is not as relaxing as it ought to be.

Another issue with our front view is half of our sliding doors leading to the balcony. It’s a double pane thing and the stationary half is a mess. I think the glass has lost it’s gas seal, causing streaks, fog and just plain dirty. These stains are on the inside so no amount of Windex/vinegar, water and paper towels are going to fix that view until the glass is replaced. We love the palm trees across the road and have been anxiously awaiting the removal of all the ugly, dead, brown fronds. Day before we leave, they showed up to trim. Much better, but the timing-not so great.

The pavement (street) out front is very wide but only 2 lanes with added walking and bike lanes, but there’s still a lot of wasted blacktop. Many folks just stop along this road’s ‘dead zone’ to yak, text, get directions or catch speeders. One such truck stopped right below our balcony a couple days ago while I was getting a dose of vitamin D. (Our railing is high and slats are close together so I’m rarely noticed sitting in my swimsuit. More on that later). Dude is leaning over in the driver’s spot, trying to do something on the floor when he finally opens his door. Out comes one leg. Nothing more, just the one leg resting on the running board. He turns sideways, loosens his laces and gently slides off his shoe. With the tender nurturing of a mom giving a newborn a bath he slowly removes his sock. Holy bat-toes, that foot’s a mess. His big and second toes are red/purple and very swollen from my view of 15 feet heavenward. He rests it there while making a call, then carefully brings his foot back into the truck and drives away. Leaving his shoe on the pavement. (Couldn’t get it back on anyway). He did return for the shoe later.

The reason I’m privy to such scenes is the damn pool has been closed since we arrived, (57 days and counting) thus putting me on our tiny balcony instead of a comfortable lounge chair pool side. (This should have been disclosed in the amenities section before we rented the place). First I heard the pool and hot tub were closed because of Covid-19 (I don’t want to swim, just sit for an hour and read), but then noticed the fence around the pool was damaged by hurricane Sally. New sections arrived a month ago but they just started replacing it this week.

So far I sound kinda whiny but there has been much enjoyment too. First the sand. It’s unlike sand I’ve ever seen before, so fine and white. I love it, it’s everywhere-literally! The big pier, about 3 miles away is awesome, even though half of it is still closed after being torn from the pilings during Sally. What a beautiful view of the Gulf of Mexico from far above the water. The absence of fast food joints on this long stretch of road through town is a welcome site. The two exceptions are Hooters and Waffle House. I think perhaps the Waffle House was grandfathered in (they’re EVERYWHERE) but have no clue how Hooters got their location. All of the usual fast food spots are on Highway 59 north, not very close to the water, although there are lots of restaurants and souvenir shops (which border on outlandish in colors and large sea creatures).

The first week here, we stumbled (no, completely sober) onto this Mexican Restaurant about 5 miles away called Margarita Loca. On Wednesday’s they have their namesake at a very reasonable price, a buck for a sippy cup size and 3 dollars for the arm weight lifting size. I can count on one hand with three fingers hidden how many drinks I usually have in a year’s time, until Gulf Shores. We’ve been to Margarita Loca’s 5 times, always on Wednesday. I might see a pattern here. On the downside, we tried their food the first 2 times and were not very impressed. The following 3 times we just order an appetizer, stay for an hour and head home.

So this midweek was our last visit. Same waitress, Hannah every single week (she must never have Wednesday’s off). She seats us, hands us menus and asks, “what do you want to drink?” We say, 2 frozen margaritas. She starts walking away, stops, turns towards me and says, “you don’t want salt on your glass do you?” Hahaha, gotta love her. Guess who got an enormous tip?

The independent neighborhood restaurants are good, (though we’ve tried pizza twice and none even come close to Klavon’s). Most are small, not very fancy but do what they do best-seafood. It’s been a week since I had shrimp and I’m not hungry for it yet. Too much shrimp, too often.

What would it take to cut the cord? Try a 2 month’s stay with limited, bad cable. I think we’ve finally reached a unanimous decision to say goodbye to DirectV. We’ve been a customer since 2002 except for a short hiatus where the Hubs grew weary of bitchin about the rising cost and signed a 2 year contract with Dish. When that was over we went back to DirectV but have watched our monthly bill working it’s way towards $150. Really, 5 dollars a day to watch TV? It’s got to stop and I think we’re ready and on the same page. (Josh, my techie guru has the answer that’s gonna run us about 60 bucks a month). Not really a Gulf Shores issue but it was here where we noticed we really aren’t watching much TV and haven’t missed it. Thanks to lousy condo cable.

What else is there? Well since our massive downsizing 5 years ago, I’ve been a tad critical of my little kitchen in our little house. All it took to appreciate that tiny kitchen was a minuscule kitchen in a minuscule condo. And in case I ever need another new stove, rest assured it will never be a flat surface stove. Sucker took 21 minutes to preheat for 2 leftover pizza slices. By the time he was done eating pizza, it was time for me to start supper!

Haven’t seen as much wildlife or birds as I had hoped. A beautiful pelican stopped by when we were at the big pier. I spotted an armadillo on the shoulder of the road but since he was dead, I couldn’t count him. But every time I get on the walking path, there’s this one spot where the lagoon is just a few feet away. That’s where I should see something fantastic, right? And I finally did. I think he’s a stunning Great Blue Heron. Made my week!

Would I come back? Survey says? Absolutely, though maybe somewhere farther off the beaten path. We spent a day in Pensacola (an hour east) and found much to like. Their downtown was bustling, filled with quaint shops. As far as Gulf Shores, the weather, the Gulf of Mexico, sand, CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM, and restaurants were spectacular. The pelican and heron were an added bonus. Any egrets? Not a one…

Anyone remember upper elementary classes where your teacher ‘strongly encouraged’ you to carry-on a back and forth written friendship (using neat, legible, cursive penmanship and proper grammar) with a complete stranger you knew absolutely nothing about? (Kinda sounds like stalking and a PPO should have been recommended, right) Goodness those educators were hellbent to introduce us to new relationships weren’t they?

I don’t remember all the particulars but somehow our teacher had a long waiting list of eager preteens, living far away who were in desperate need of a sympathetic/empathetic/confidential friend they where they could relay their deepest fears, aspirations, hobbies and goals, without repercussions. Which meant as 5th graders, the paragraph read, (I got to go to the bowling alley for supper with my friends and without our PARENTS)!

I recall writing several letters but remember not one solitary thing about the person I’d been forced to bond with to keep all of my hopes and dreams in deepest confidence. I might have gone through this process a couple times before high school, conversing with a complete stranger in letter form, filling their heads with all the vital statistics of a day in the life of Neese. We called this strange phenomenon Pen Pals.

Fast forward 50 years and a more informal means of getting acquainted or reacquainted with some unknown folks or long forgotten friends was being introduced to a more mature Neese (ha) via Facebook.

I joined Facebook in 2012, clueless and light years behind millions of savvy, hip folks of the world. I had less than 50 on my friend’s list and was content with social media. But big changes were for in store for one of the most computer illiterate gals on earth. It all started with a rather insignificant site called, “If you grew up in Rock Valley.” Holy frigid Iowa winters! I somehow met the site’s stringent, formidable by-laws. (I was born and raised in Rock Valley, Iowa). A fellow classmate of the Hubs (Ray) made it official. He ‘approved’ my initial request to join the group who were following the Rock Valley site. (That hurried approval from Ray might have been regrettable for some). I was like member number 30. Although we were a tight knit group, because of our age differences which ranged from the 50’s through the 70’s, many of us did not know each other-personally. Something else that was gonna change for some. Every day posts about growing up in our small Midwest, mostly Dutch community would appear. While most posts were a couple sentences long (mine were the exception, and tended to be quite wordy) for this small group of adults, some still in Rock Valley, others living all over the United States, the comments from these threads often lasted days.

As our numbers grew, we became better acquainted with each other (similar to attending a 6 month, welcome to the neighborhood potluck, but without the good casseroles). I tried to hold my sarcasm in check (epic fail) in the comment department and to my surprise received several friend requests. Didn’t matter what the subject matter was from our past in the post, several folks were ready to offer their version (in the comments) to what ‘really happened’ that day at school, Benson’s Hill, the swimming pool, Doc Hegg or Doc Schroeder’s office, the drive-inn, dump, roller rink, gym, bowling alley, Koster’s market, little known ‘parking spots’ around town or the kid who had the guts to swipe the cop’s car and take it for a joyride! Still one of my personal favorites (Lyle), although Erwin Kooistra’s rendition of an office visit/chat with Mr. Liaboe ranks up there too.

Friendships were revived or renewed. New cliques were formed and popularity no longer mattered. Just because someone was 5-10 years younger/older and not in your social circle during their youth held no merit once you hit 50. Age difference just didn’t matter anymore. What a relief and why didn’t we always do this?

Had I not joined I grew up in Rock Valley, I would be missing out on the lives of about 100 friends. That lonely life would suck right? Well this is about one of those friendships, now nearly a decade old. All of the ‘kids’ from this Rock Valley family were older than me. One was in the Hubs’ class, and one had been in my brother Larry’s class, which is how we got acquainted. Allan’s (2-l’s) brother Norm was a good friend of Larry’s and a pallbearer at his funeral. Not the happiest topic but I brought Larry up often in posts I wrote. Rock Valley was small enough that if you were in school in the fall of 1958, Larry’s tragic death had an impact on you. The whole town felt his death.

Finding old/new friends because of this nostalgic Rock Valley site, reliving everyone’s version of their childhood has been a bonus and a blessing. (Thanks to our administrator Betty Hauser who thought to start this site). Long forgotten memories re-surfaced and brought laughter and tears some times. What was vitally important to certain kids during a simpler time (50’s & 60’s) were now shared for a second time in riveting detail. Dutch slang language, used differently in every household was explained and written out phonetically because no one knew the correct spelling or pronunciation! Hut-fa-duttie. (Dutch meaning, oh for Pete’s sake).

So back to the Cruisers, not their last name, just their favorite pastime. They (Allan, 2-l’s and Dianne, 2-n’s) have taken cruises (too numerous to count) over the years. Dianne (2-n’s) was not part of our Rock Valley, Iowa history, having grown up in the south, using y’all when talking about more than one person. They are happily ensconced in Florida and offered us some advice when deciding where we would go with our newly sprouted snowbirding wings this winter. “Y’all might not be happy in Alabama. It gets cold there. Y’all need to come further south,” drawled Dianne (2-n’s). But Neese (2-ee’s) doesn’t do any better with high heat and humidity than she does with snow and below freezing temps, so the gulf coast of Alabama was our destination for 2 months.

With a couple of ‘rub it ins’ since new year’s when their temps were hovering near 90 and ours (7 hours northwest) were struggling to hit 50 became a friendly sparring contest about watching/teasing each other about the local weather. Because of the pandemic, the Cruisers total boarding of luxurious ships in 2020 hit a standstill. They were bummed, with no noteworthy trips to look forward to. Allan, (2-l’s) and Dianne (2-n’s) decided to rough it, bring out their long forgotten winter gear, (jeans and a light jacket), heh-tah, (Dutch meaning, oh good grief) and ‘rough it’ to the frigid shores of Alabama for a weekend to meet their long-distance penless pals.

Gifts were exchanged (a box of my home canned goods) for one of their delicious, freshly home-baked Pecan (pee-can, Dianne (2-n’s). “Uh no, it’s (pa-con) pie,” corrected Neese (2-ee’s). After hashing over the Dutch/Midwest language version versus Southern speak and getting past the barriers of understanding (y’all), we went out for a leisurely lunch, then back to our tiny dwelling to recount the last half century of our lives. It was a wonderful day to finally meet in face to face. Hope the good Lord let’s us get together again…

It started during the last half of 2000. As a kid, I didn’t think I’d be alive in the year 2000. After all I’d be turning 50 that December. Hahaha. Too old to be taking up space on earth. As I inched closer to that date, I realized my life wasn’t close to being over. It was just another milestone (they happen to all of us). I didn’t feel old. A couple years prior I had finally taken a more serious approach to the state of my health. (Women in their 40’s are prime targets for weight gains without changing their eating habits, body shifting/everything spiraling downward, sagging, except our pants and frequent, erratic reminders of everyone’s favorite-the arrival of menopause). I lost a bunch of weight and started walking ‘with purpose’ everyday. I felt great! But there were disturbing events creeping me out as I neared my 50th birthday.

A mere forty-eight hours after accepting/embracing the fact that I was starting my 51st year on God’s great earth, I came to grips with the grim reality. Shannon (my firstborn) was turning 30. That’s. Impossible. How could this be? I had literally just given birth to her, blinked once, then watched her as a 16 year old, winning a trophy in competitive cheer, gyrating to ‘Wipeout’ by the Fat-boys. It simply was not feasible that in the next minute, she was a 30 year old adult. Adding credence to this fact in the best way possible, Shannon was already mom to our firstborn grandchild, Ariana, who was almost 10 (making me a grandma at 40) and Landon, (not yet Drew to the rest of the world) 3 months old.

As far as milestones go, I think I accept/acknowledge the challenges before me with a loosey-goosey attitude. (Grateful to wake up each morning). But I’m not as lackadaisical about events that surround my milestones. One step in my aging process where I was completely out of whack for decades was my hair. Oh vanity, thy name is Neese. That short phase started when I was 35 and much too young to have more grey hair than brown already. I thought I’d get a ‘sign’ when the right time was right to let my hair grow out naturally. But as my mini-milestones zipped by at warp speed, for some unknown reason, I was not ready to stop the vicious cycle of my monthly scalp’s consumption of L’Oréal #7. I thought my compulsion for continuous dye jobs might wane after 5 years but it actually took me 33 years before looking in the mirror one morning and saying, “ok, I’m done. I’m ready to see how God intended me to look at age 68.” (Ok, He’d be more pleased with me dropping 20). I hear ‘ya God but it’s hard.

So while I’ve been ok with the constant status changes in my own life, I’m somewhat reluctant to accept I’m old enough for all the other ‘things’ that go along with aging. Wasn’t it last week when Hubs and I drove to the hospital in Dyersville, Iowa to welcome our son Joshua into the world? Didn’t we just experience a harrowing 6 weeks during my last pregnancy, praying everyday that our baby (of undetermined sex) would be born ok? (Adam was breech, face up and looking up my throat instead of having his head tucked down. He was perfect). What happened to that cute young couple on the block with 3 little kids, struggling to make ends meet? That was us one minute ago, yet here we are-great grandparents. The heart of the matter is, I’m ok with getting older, but I’m far less comfortable having my kids roar into their 30’s and 40’s, sprouting grey hair, with their kids hitting junior high, high school and college. Last I noticed, I was in my 40’s. Honest, I was just in my 40’s.

On the other end of the spectrum after becoming an adult were the uncomfortable years of watching my parents age, seeing them decline. I compare it to witnessing (at times, it was not constant) something painful and unpleasant while never fully accepting what’s right in front of your nose. Sort of like wearing a set of blinders. I didn’t want mom and dad to have serious health issues, strokes, cancer and watch as they became frail (and I admit, at times I selfishly resented what was happening to them). Just stay the same and be ok. Please. But time marches on and nothing we can do to stop it. Acceptance can be hard.

After coming to terms with my parent’s end of life experience, I suspect my kids are glancing sideways at their significant other when they look at me sometimes and think, dang she’s kinda stooped over lately, (how come it’s suddenly so hard to stand up nice and straight)? She’s started limping again and packing on a few pounds around her middle (for the umteenth time). And she looks a lot older with white and silver hair.

It’s still hard for me to reconcile the fact my ‘kids’ are no longer little and don’t need their mom. Although none of us are gonna get through this alive, I had no idea my first seventy years would pass me by in the blink of an eye…

Baby love me, yes, yes she does, well the girl’s outta sight, yeah.

Says she loves me, yes, yes she does, gonna show me tonight, yeah.

Hey, she got the way to move me Cherry, she got the way to groove me,

Cherry baby. She got the way to move me, she got the way to groove me-alright.

(My main man, Neil Diamond)

I’ve loved maraschino cherries since I was a little girl (and Neil Diamond since I was a teen). Mom bought cherries in small jars, swimming in sweet red syrup and let me top my (golden yellow) Hull Vanilla ice cream, covered with chopped walnuts and a substantial helping from the Hershey’s syrup can (the can was about the size of a Del Monte vegetable can). We used a V-shaped pop bottle opener, piercing two different sized triangular holes. A larger one to pour from and a smaller one to let air into the can so it would pour evenly). This delicious bowl was topped with a couple of cherries. Mom also found a gooey bar recipe from our ‘Family Favorites’ Cookbook which called for cut up cherries, nutmeats and coconut, all my favorites, (which the jar of cherries was originally intended), but once that jar was opened for ice cream, or me sneaking a few after school before she got home from work, if she wanted to make bars, she had to buy another jar of cherries (my evil plan all along).

There were several ‘snack’ foods mom kept in the house for me. Hershey Bars (which she kept in the OVEN! I can’t tell you how many times she had to clean out a melted chocolate mess, including wrappers while the oven was preheating), regular and with almonds at a nickel a piece, Oreo Cookies, Hostess Cupcakes, Snowballs, Twinkies, Brach’s chocolate stars, Malt balls, Circus Peanuts and an occasional salty snack. All these were acceptable after school/supper treats (we rarely had dessert) so she was perturbed when the cherries kept disappearing from the jar. My cherry fixation might have bordered on obsessive/excessive.

Although the gooey cherry bars mom made were delicious (I still make them a couple times a year), my favorite way to indulge in maraschino cherries was with Wells Blue Bunny Cherry Nut ice cream. A pink concoction chucked full of diced maraschino cherries and chunks of walnuts mixed in an ocean of vanilla ice cream. Wells is located in Le Mars, Iowa, (now the ice cream capital of the world) which is about 35 miles from my hometown. Never gave it a passing thought growing up. It was just an ice cream factory, delivering half gallons (yes, all cartons of ice cream used to be 64 ounces) to surrounding towns in Iowa.

Over the years as we moved farther away, Blue Bunny ice cream was not always readily available. That didn’t pose much of a problem since the Hubs’ folks, sibs, my folks and sister all lived in the area where Blue Bunny ruled. We went home often, summers, spring break, sometimes Christmas or Thanksgiving, so I got my Cherry Nut fix a few times each year.

But things never stay the same. Those busy, fretful years of getting through motherhood raising teenagers also felt the loss of many family members. Since the late 80’s we lost both sets of parents, 3 of Hubs siblings and my only sister. We did not realize at the time but with every loss, there’s less of a reason to go back. That strong home base was just drifting away, one miserable death after another.

We didn’t travel to Iowa or anywhere else in 2020. Stayed close to home, saw almost no one and waited for the virus to run its course (we’re waiting, we’re waiting). The last time we went back was for my high school reunion, late summer of 2019, and I was in for a shock (besides how amazingly young and hip my whole class still looks). The newly remodeled Blue Bunny Ice Cream Parlor in Le Mars had some unsettling news for this Cherry Nut aficionado. My favorite flavor had been retired/discontinued. No consultation, no permission, and certainly no consideration for my feelings or healthy appetite. Cold. Damn cold.

Disappointing to say the least. Pandemic, social distancing, isolation, travel ban, masks. The hits just kept coming. The Hubs and I decided if we were going to be stuck somewhere, why not make it a better place during the winter than our cold, snowy, sad-sack state? Indeed. Which brought us to Alabama a month ago. I knew nothing about Alabama, but it was about the closest good weather to try our newly sprouted snowbirding wings. Yes, for the most part we still stay home, mask up in stores and restaurants, but the sun, the Gulf of Mexico, the warm temperatures has lifted our morose spirits. We have not been disappointed nor homesick. Yet.

The closest grocery store is Walmart. (I’ve never been a big fan). Gotta give them credit though for the ease in refilling our prescriptions 1,000 miles from home. Thought that would be a much bigger headache. But after the first 3 weeks, I was eager to shop elsewhere, and found several choices. Piggly Wiggly, Publix, Winn Dixie and a local store called Rouses. When I stayed in Destin a few years ago, I shopped at a Publix, but knew nothing of the others.

Our goal was finding a better loaf of bread. The bread choices are kinda sad around here. Puny loaves, skinny slices and very little choice on varieties. It’s not that we were hellbent on getting the best ‘bakery’ loaf of bread, just a good commercial brand of wheat bread for a sandwich that would hold more than a teaspoon of peanut butter/jelly without wilting from the weight.

Winn Dixie got our approval rating for having a brand of bread we had not seen before so kudos to them. Piggly Wiggly offered nothing new so we left without buying anything. But the Publix Store Chain won this girl over-big time. (I comparison shopped in every store and have found the cost of living here quite high compared to Michigan grocery prices. I love doing that and always check prices when we’re in Iowa too).

Found one loaf of Cranberry Walnut bread in their bakery. (I ate some years ago, even tried to duplicate it several times to no avail). This time I’ll be taking home the list of ingredients and see if I can find a similar recipe on the internet. But here’s the kicker. The biggest, best surprise of all. The Publix Store brand of their premium ice cream line carries-CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven-and that was before I ate my first half gallon-I mean bowl.

It’s not exactly like Blue Bunny Cherry Nut. Publix uses almonds instead of walnuts but the Hubs and I decided we like that nut flavor mixed in with cherries. My outlook on life has been much improved with my recent discovery. There will be some changes made and concessions in my life moving forward. I absolutely have to give up a meal everyday or fast one day a week. You know, Cherry Nut plus Krispy Kreme is not painting a very pretty picture of Neese (literally) for the future unless I intend on buying a new wardrobe in a bigger size. Ah, nope.

I may have to move. Not specifically to Gulf Shores silly. There are 1,239 Publix Stores all over southeastern U.S., so there’s some flexibility with this life altering decision. We could sell the house, roam our way through Georgia, Alabama, North and South Carolina, Florida and Tennessee, just hopping from one Publix store to the next. Or we could reserve a 4-month ‘winter stay’ in one of their parking lots and just rough it next to a dumpster…