I was born with a soft spot for the elderly, probably because of my mom. She was raised by 2 sets of grandparents, then worked as a nurse’s aid in our local nursing home through most of her career, plus did some caregiving around town. I occasionally traipsed along when she worked for the Dearborn’s and visited the nursing home frequently when I was young.

Not surprising when the kids were getting their (higher & higher) educations I became Parish Visitor for a large congregation. My job description was literally visiting the people who no longer attended church on a regular basis. Either still in their own homes, assisted living or a nursing home. You’d be surprised how attached you become visiting the same 50 people each month. I know the job (calling really) was far more rewarding and a bigger blessing for me than it ever was for them. They were very appreciative but all they really wanted was my time. Not to rush in and out but just sit and listen. They were starved for quiet conversation. Only downside to parish visiting were the deaths. Wouldn’t have time to grieve and cope with a loss of someone I’d visited for years when I’d get a phone call that another person on my list had passed away during the night. The losses mounted over the years and were incredibly hard to process.

I had no agenda when we moved 5 years ago. We bought a smaller house/yard, closer to our adult children and grandchildren. The house needed a lot of work as did the yard so my days were busy. A few months later a friend mentioned a job opportunity at a nearby daycare and my interest was piqued. The other end of the spectrum. Babies. Should be a nice change.

But I grossly underestimated how much I would LOVE taking care of babies. Part of the appeal was my validity for working. I wasn’t working because I needed to make a house payment. I wanted to be there. It was good for me (and for the babies). Another plus was my coworkers. As parish visitor I was responsible for making my schedule/hours and visiting alone. At FCC although our conversations were interrupted a thousand times a day, working with this awesome bunch of gals was a huge perk for this hearing impaired loner.

The comparison between babies and the elderly are strangely similar. For their time allotment both really want to be the center of your universe at least for a few minutes. Babies are more demanding and can become quite cranky when their needs are not met, still it was hard not to notice the similarities. Although I held hands, prayed for, hugged, cried over my elderly church family, there was something equally as inspirational when a four month old fell asleep on your shoulder, with their unique squeaks and tiny breaths hitting you on the neck.

I thought I’d still be snuggling babies and changing poopy diapers, but after 3 years both of my knees were giving me trouble. My knee cartilage had disappeared. It was almost impossible for me to get up and down off the floor (where the babies want you and where you need to be). Wasn’t fair to the little ones or to my coworkers, so I took a leave and scheduled my first knee replacement, fervently praying I would be able to return to a new batch of babies in a few months after surgery and therapy. That was 2 years ago. Sigh.

Recently a friend ecstatically posted she had accepted a job at Felician’s Children’s Center which made me think about my days with those adorable babies. Reflecting back I realize many of the most mundane times during the day stood out as spectacular for me. Maybe not as high on the list for some of the caregivers because they’re still performing those tasks day after day. But high on my list because those moments for me are gone.

I sang to the babies everyday. When they were in their highchairs for a meal or snack (On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, My bologna has a first name, it’s O-s-c-a-r). When there was an imminent threat of a meltdown and others were encouraged to join the soirée (This little light of mine, Old McDonald had a farm). And when I was rocking them to sleep. And no I can’t carry a tune to save my soul. My coworkers whom I admired and respected begged me to refrain from bursting into song for the sake of their hearing and sanity, but the babies did not care one whit I sounded like fingernails on the chalkboard. Who was I trying to please here? Oh right, the babies. Now those babies are between the ages of 3 and 5. I’m friends with most of their moms on Facebook and still enjoy watching them grow. But for me, they will remain my babies who made a wonderful difference in my life, for which I’m eternally grateful. Here’s my top 3 ‘good feels’ when it came to caring for these tiny tots.

1. The pat-pat. An adorable 7 month old is hungry and tired (hangry), and the detailed posted hourly schedule indicates her timing is impeccable as usual. I know she’s going to fall asleep (she desperately needs an hour nap) when I give her a bottle. While the bottle’s warming up, I change her diaper (this is a telltale sign of my ancient age, I usually said ‘change her pants’ instead of diaper), wash her hands and mine and hope she doesn’t poop while she’s drinking (nothing like putting a damper on her nap time if I have to change her pants when she’s drowsy). She’s starting to get vocal about the list of chores I’m trying to complete before we find a rocking chair. Check the bottle’s temperature and find a new burp cloth. (She looks at me with her little scrunched up face, kind of red and mildly disgusted like, “Geez woman, get your shit together. Let’s roll.”) We finally sit down, I tuck the burp cloth under her second chin and listen to her gulp (which is really cool) an ounce or 2 before I feel her little body relax. Ahhhhh. She’s laying sideways in my arms with her right arm and hand going behind my back. I break into, “Oh where have you been Billy boy, Billy boy? Oh where have you been charming Billy?” Her gaze is so intense, it’s like she’s memorizing all my facial features (including a detailed nose hair count I think) when suddenly I feel this tiny thump-thump on my back. She’s patting me on my back-literally. Still makes me cry.

2. The head butt-er. During my 3 years at FCC there were about 6 babies (all boys) who loved to head butt. Not my head but my leg. These little guys were all scooting, crawling and starting to pull themselves up. Honestly, I’m convinced this was their way of showing affection. And letting me know just because I was (pre)occupied with someone else, that was no excuse to forget how important they were to me. Did I really have to feed another kid? They would crawl towards me while watching everything going on in the room, and not get easily distracted. Each of them would slow down, lower their head and gently ram it into my calf-whether I was standing or sitting. I’d look down and he’d seem to say, “don’t forget your homeboy granny type person. Are ‘ya done yet?” It was so stinking cute.

3. Bubbles. Absolutely my favorite little weird moment with some of the babies. Never happened with newborns, mostly the 7 months to a year old. We would get comfy in the rocker with a bottle (which they thought they needed at least 5 minutes prior) so there were no interruptions for the first ounce or 2. But when some of the milk finally hit their tummy and their gulps slowed was the perfect time to sing a lullaby. I can’t tell you how many times this happened. It’s the best feeling ever. I’d began singing, You are my sunshine, Sing a song of sixpence or Oh where have you been Billy boy, Billy boy? For one second the baby would be absolutely still, then look up at me. Suddenly the suction on the bottle’s nipple was close to being compromised. What? Oh no! They tried valiantly to stay focused, but soon I’d see a few bubbles in the nipple and the suction would let loose as they cracked a huge, milky smile. (Oh, it’s the granny person who likes to sing to me. I love her). Only lasted 5 seconds until they latched back on and got serious. But it was the best five seconds of the day for me. Thanks for the memories babies….

I’m an Iowa girl-not to be mistaken for an Iowa FARM girl. No comparison. I couldn’t tell the difference between a corn crop and a soybean field until I was married and went road hunting with the Hubs. By late fall Iowa crops are a bleak beige color when harvested, leaving a short stubby field in their wake. The preferred snacking grounds for pheasants.

After becoming a mom, I became more of a loner, usually pretty content with my own company, home raising kids. But I was in for a huge cultural shock when we moved in the middle of rural Sticksville, Iowa in 1976. Talk about isolation. We had one car and that junker had to make it to Cedar Rapids, 40 miles away, lugging the Hubs back and forth to work five days a week. So there I was, in a farm house so far off the beaten path that it wasn’t visible from the gravel road. Without wheels. With a five year old Einstein (Shannon) and one year old Joshua. The prodigy was doling out wisdom to her teacher which left Joshua and me to our own devices. He was the best baby. Even tempered and easy going.

I was 25. Couldn’t call anyone because long distance calls were too expensive, so I wrote letters. I finally mastered cooking and baking during those long days on the farm. Halfway decent suppers after eight years of wedded bliss. Yeast and quick breads, cinnamon rolls, cookies, scratch cakes and something I would spend years trying to perfect. Pies. I blogged about the best apple pies I’ve ever made on that farm. There was this one particular apple tree in the grove (never knew what a grove was before). Really firm, tart apple that I’ve not found since then-40 plus years ago. While the apple type is vitally important to a good pie (I prefer Northern Spy or Winesap), my secret weapon for delicious apple pies was using Crisco (and not over working the crust) and a bit of nutmeg along with cinnamon. Bam!

After finding my newfound passion for baking, I had amassed nearly 7 dozen various fruit pies (raw) in our freezer for the coming year and long Iowa winter. Hubs was dinking in the basement and plugged in a power tool for something. After he finished his project he unfortunately forgot to plug the freezer back in to the only outlet down there, something neither of us would catch until day 3. The chest freezer was now a gigantic bowl of gooey raw pie crust dough and juicy, marinated fruit starting to ferment.

And Neese wept.

Including some gnashing of teeth.

With a major shitstorm to follow. After all, none of this was my fault.

Hubs felt so bad and knew it was his responsibility to clean up the mess. The farm was full of livestock (not ours, we could barely afford a pound of cheap hamburger). Some cattle but mostly hogs. The pigs used their snouts to lift the lid of their circular feeders. Hundreds of hogs, performing this high decibel ritual, thousands of times a day. And night. Sigh. Enough to drive one mad (where is that hearing loss when it would have been beneficial for maintaining one’s sanity)? John threw all the uncooked pie fillings and crusts (this little life altering incident cured me of freezing raw pies. From that day forward I would always bake pies before freezing) to the swine, who went batshit crazy, I mean hog wild over my culinary prowess-baked or unbaked.

Hubs home away from home after the pie incident on the farm, 1976…

My spouse (the shithead) convinced me a day later after walking in the door that several of the pigs were dead in the hog yard. Farmer Bob was visibly upset and had called a veterinarian, specializing in little known hog diseases to find the source of the deadly outbreak. Bastard (spouse, not the farmer) convinced me I would probably be arrested and serve some time for causing multiple deaths after the hogs went on a binge-fest, eating raw Crisco crusts with fermented infused fruit filling, causing immediate cardiac arrest (although they died drunk and sated). Happy days on the farm. Freaking nightmare. (He was just yanking my chain about the dying swine, none of them succumbed to my pie party. I still say God will get him for that one).

But my days on the farm gave me some much needed cooking skills and a real sense of accomplishment and joy from baking (my obsession with home canning would be another decade away). In the plus forty years following I don’t think a missed a year of summer/fall pie baking sessions for my favorite dessert (baked then frozen to be eaten later). Until 2019.

I had knee replacement in late spring last year and months later found standing in one spot by the counter, making multiple pie crusts, or peeling/slicing fruit was no longer in my kitchen repertoire, which wasn’t as devastating as I thought. And that saddened me. One of my favorite pastimes.

This year I was determined to ‘make some pies.’ Oh the totals (and size) have fallen off drastically. Gone are the days where a nine inch pie was consumed after supper from the family of 5. But I wasn’t ready to give up my-bulk-pie-baking-days yet, I just needed to make some adjustments. Smaller pies and not as many. Sounds good. Found 6 inch glass pans (4 small slices or 3 nice size ones). Instead of 1-1/2 bushels of Spys, I settled for a half bushel. Any leftover apples would go into crisp or sauce. I thought a half dozen 6 inchers, a couple of 8 inch and one or two 9″ for gifts, that’s it. Doable in a long afternoon.

Although those 6 inch pies take less apples, they’re just as much work as a big pie. Still have to use a top crust, flute the edge, top with a bit of milk and sugar, wrap the edge with tinfoil so the crust doesn’t brown too much. Time consuming little shits, but they’re so good and a better solution for 2 lazy, older adults who should not be eating pie-ever. Our cross to bear.

Had all the necessary equipment ready and resigned myself that I would sit while peeling apples. I simply double or triple the recipe for a 10″ double crust pie, then roll out several bottom crust plates that will fit in the oven at the same time. (Remember they’re not very big, more like a giant pot pie). Thought I could get 8-10 pies baked in 2 batches. Then I measure enough sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg and a dash of salt for 2-ten inch pies, which calls for 16 cups of peeled, sliced tart apples. Combine the apples with the dry ingredients, then fill the pie plates till I run out of apples, topping each with a couple pats of butter. I make slits in the top crust for the steam to escape, then do all the rest of the kanooey work, crimping, milk, sugar and foil. Told Hubs to set the oven to 425 and lay a sheet of tinfoil on the bottom for any juices trying to escape through the slits. (Terrible mess. Once the drips land on the bottom of the oven, they burn stinky until you clean up the blackened mess).

When the times goes off 45 minutes later, I slide a paring knife into one of the top pie slits to see if the apples are done when I notice none of the 4 crusts are as golden brown as I like, yet the apples are almost perfect. Soft, tender but haven’t broken down from their nice slice shape. I crank up the oven a few degrees and set the timer for 4 minutes. Finish the remaining itty-bitty apple pies which are now ready to go in. It perturbs me something fierce that the apples are done but the crusts are still too light but I don’t want applesauce pie so I take them out and put in the last batch of four.

About a half hour later the smoke alarm goes off. Usually means something’s dripped on the bottom and causing copious amounts of smoke. Hubs checks the first one, it’s not the culprit. He thinks the second one in the hallway might need a new battery but that’s not it either. It’s got one of those lithium batteries that last ten years. And it’s not the smoke alarm after he resets it. It’s the carbon monoxide alarm that’s going off for the first time since we’ve lived here. We open all the doors, windows and he takes the alarm off the wall so he can read the instructions. It finally stops serenading us when he’s out on the deck.

Something’s bothering me but I can’t put my finger on it. (no I’m not addled by carbon monoxide poisoning yet). Snap! And just like that it hits me. Why my crusts won’t brown today. It’s my oven. No, it’s the tinfoil in my oven. Grab a potholder and snag the long tinfoil sheet covering the bottom of my gas oven. There in raised letters is a small warning, “Do not place tinfoil on bottom.” Duh. I always used foil in my oven in North Muskegon. The difference was it was an electric oven.

We kept the doors open for a spell and nervously waited with bated breath after John rehung the alarm. The pies were done, (though still not golden brown). I turned the oven off. Absolute silence. What a great non-sound. I was upset about the pies. A lot of work for nothing. They’re supposed to turn out perfect (when you’re not trying to do great bodily harm). The next day I went back for another half bushel of Spys, allowed myself a day of rest and tossed out the piss-poor-pale-imitation-pies with the too done apples and started over for an afternoon of pie baking. This time lacking any murderous intent…

Been thinking about Mom this week. Hard to believe she’s been gone since 2004. Where did those 16 years go? She died when she was 77, following her third bout with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Ugh. Awful. My sister Mona died two years ago when she was 75. As I zip towards my milestone birthday of 70, I ponder my own longevity because the numbers are not encouraging for the females of my family. Looks like 76 might be a done deal for me. Dad made it to 91. Can’t factor Larry in this equation because he was killed when he was 12. Hmmm.

So my complicated mom. She was a loner, but friendly. Kept her problems (and grief) to herself. Had a difficult time letting acquaintances become something more in her life. Her inner circle was the same size as mine apparently. Minuscule. She was overly kind and compassionate to the elderly, they were her people. She doted on them her entire life. Mom’s mom died before she and her twin brother were 2 weeks old. Perhaps being raised by two sets of grandparents set the tone in her life at an early age.

I remember this particular Sunday as though it were yesterday. I’m snuggled up on Mom’s right at Calvin Christian Reformed Church for morning services in the mid-1950’s. We kind of had our own ‘pew’ area. Looking from the Narthex, on the left side, a few rows from the back. After we left Calvin and joined rival First Reformed in 1961, (insisted by me, an 11 year old brat) Mom and Dad chose the same general vicinity they would call their pew home for the next 50 years.

Mom (gloves included), Mona, Ed & Dad, Calvin Christian Reformed, 1960

Why do people gravitate towards a certain area in the sanctuary week after week, year after year? Something familiar that is a comfort to them? The same folks sitting nearby? I think my parent’s decision to always sit in the same area was based on Dad finding us amongst that big congregation. He was voted as an elder multiple times and the Consistory met for a few minutes before the morning service. By then, Mom and I had been seated for several (long, very long) minutes. If we were always within a row or 2, with Mom posted in the aisle seat, (waiting to move over when the elder arrived) Dad could easily spot us. Here we lived 3 blocks from church yet Dad insisted we arrive before 9 am when church didn’t start for another 30 minutes. Even back then, I understood their reasoning, but wasn’t crazy about sitting quietly for an extra half hour.

Mom rarely carried a purse but had her own version of toting essential items to church. Dad kept our weekly monetary gift in our family’s numbered church envelope, secure in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He would often hand me some loose coins before the deacons got to our row to add to the collection plate. The rules for this were explained beforehand. “Don’t you dare throw the change in and make a lot of noise.”

Mom’s wearing a pretty dress, modest length below the knee, nylons with a dark seam down the middle of the back of her leg. (girdle too, what a struggle on Sundays, although it was pretty funny to watch her gyrate around their bedroom, trying to tug it on. I think it was made of flubber. Vowed at a very young age never to put myself through that miserable ordeal-even for God. I would soon become less than enthralled with skirts/dresses/nylons/garter belt/heels in general). Then Mom would add clip on earrings, maybe a necklace and high heels, pulling the whole ensemble together. Making her even/steven or a titch taller than 6 foot Dad.

She would have shopped for the dress in Sioux Falls, (probably Shriver’s) hoping (praying fervently) no one else in the congregation had picked out the same lovely frock because that would definitely put a damper on the service. She never wanted to see the same outfit she bought (or wearing at the time) on someone else, especially someone she knew and attending the same service. If that happened, she would be less inclined to ever wear that particular dress to church again. I never thought of Mom as remotely vain though she might have been about her Sunday wardrobe.

If it wasn’t hellfire hot she’d be wearing a pair of short gloves, perhaps a hat, but on this day in my memory bank it was stifling in church. Benout. Dutch word for hot, humid, airless. She was holding 2 items in her hand. One was a freshly laundered, crisply ironed, sparkling white handkerchief which was beautifully bordered with colorful tatting. One corner of the hankie bulged out with a large, loose knot securing a couple of pink peppermints inside. Not the white ones, they were too strong and minty. The pink ones were perfect. They were not shared nilly-willy with her youngest child just yet. The peppermints were doled out as a distraction during the lengthy sermon/scripture/prayer part of the church service. And I was forewarned before getting out of the car to suck on the peppermint, not to bite it, disintegrating it in less than 30 seconds.

I was fascinated with the object in her lap at the moment, since the peppermints were off my snack list for the time being. In her hand rested a lavender patterned metal object about the length of a teaspoon and not very wide. There was a seam down the middle. Although both ends were closed, one end was clasped together and could be separated. When unhinged and spread apart a thin pleated accordion type colorful paper appeared, making the perfect Sunday-go-to-meetin’ fan. To aid in drying up any perspiration that might appear on Mom’s scorching forehead, rendering it shiny from her face powder, which had melted away in the heat. Although she wouldn’t let me play with the fan, (I would have wrecked it in a New York minute. What fun) there was an added bonus. When the heat became unbearable, (usually just before the long prayer) she’d open up her magical fan as unobtrusively as humanly possible and start waving her right hand, causing quite a stir. Like manna from heaven the air surrounding Mom and her unruly child would instantly drop a couple degrees. Actually caused a sigh of relief.

I’m constantly amazed at the obscure memories that niggle their way in when I’m thinking of Mom. Something I hadn’t thought about in ages. Our first church. Mom wearing fancy dresses that she prayed were not duplicated. Dad with the collection envelope in his jacket pocket. A precious, purple magical fan that cooled us on a sweltering hot Sunday morning. Extremely long prayers which meant sucking (not chewing) pink peppermints…

I’m not someone who’s glued to their TV. Except for 30 years of afternoon Cubs games, I’ve not watched daytime TV since some racy soaps during the 70’s. I’m particular about the shows I watch and tend to be very loyal to the series which I’ve become attached. There’s a period of mourning when something I’ve invested time in gets cancelled. Certain characters I’ve grown fond of and not ready to have them jerked from my life without prior knowledge or consent. It would be infinitely better for the networks to call me before chopping one of my favorites.

Most of the time I’d rather be reading or writing than watching TV. Still Hubs and I can usually be found after supper, hunkered down in our comfortable Lazy Boy recliners, (don’t even think about sitting in my chair-we’re not savages) doling out oral arguments on why one program is more worthy of our time than another at that given moment. We record everything so we can zip through the commercials (there are a few commercials I recall seeing through the fast forward blur for months and wondering what they were actually hawking) Sometimes Hubs asks which program I want to watch, other nights he just pushes play on one of his preferences.

There’s about 40 shows on our priority recording list, which are broadcast during different times/seasons throughout the year (not at all like when I was a kid. You missed your favorite program any week on one of the three (yes 3) networks, you were out of luck unless you caught the reruns during the summer. Who had time for TV when the weather was perfect? Then again most network shows ran from September to May, with breaks for Christmas specials, so maybe 25 or more episodes a year. None of this 8-15 shows a season, which is why you grew to love the characters so much. They were a bigger part of our lives.

Of these 40 I’m partial to a dozen. I refuse to give one minute of my valuable time (hahaha) to several on our recording list. Anything involving Oak Island, gold under the Great Lakes, digging for gold in Alaska, Australia or the Bering Sea, fishing for tuna, king crab or minnows, any talent show, Alaskan pioneers or people from the backwoods/swamp shooting gators. I have zero interest and will not be coerced. I have standards. Not all that high, but still.

There’s something comforting about watching a favorite series from year to year. You dread/anticipate the season ending cliffhanger because one of the show’s regulars may not make it. A couple of times losing one of the stars has been a dealbreaker for me and I stopped watching-cold turkey. No regrets. The one that pops in my head right now is Glenn from The Walking Dead. When Neagan smashed him to smithereens using Lucille, I said, “I’m done,” and walked out of the room. Haven’t watched a minute of the series since and I’m still ok with that decision.

Those season finales linger for months and keep me wondering how it’s going to turn out when the new season returns. Almost every regular cast member’s life was hanging in the balance on the last episode of Yellowstone when it aired a couple months ago, which has me worried about the longevity of my viewing pleasure should one or two of my favorites bite the dust. My saving grace has been that Rip appeared unharmed, which awarded me some sense of peace this fall, while impatiently waiting for next summer.

Just read in my new TV guide (yeah, it’s still a thing) one of my favorite shows in their rookie season has been cancelled after they renewed it in May. Butthead network. It was called Stumptown and I loved every character. So was Bluff City Law, dang. And my favorite doc, Neil Melendez on The Good Doctor, (Sorry Shaun) croaked in the last few minutes. What about Max Goodwin and Helen Sharpe? Will they ever get together on New Amsterdam?

Things other folks do throughout the year seem to hold very little appeal for us. One is watching old series like Gunsmoke, Golden Girls, Hill Street Blues. Once in a while Hubs will try one like The Lone Ranger, which I find hysterical. Their clothes are immaculate after riding for hours and rolling around in the dirt. Nary a scratch/bruise on their clean faces after a fistfight. I just can’t. Hubs recently added The Honeymooners to our watch list. I couldn’t finish one episode. Jackie Gleason was mean and a bully, at least in the beginning. After belittling Alice for every conceivable thing under the sun for 10 minutes, he says, “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” That’s it. No, you’re an abusive asshole. Again, I just can’t.

The other thing is binge watching. The closest we’ve ever come are a couple series on Amazon like Jack Ryan which I think was offered all at once. You could watch/binge as fast or slow as you wanted. All these new series like Hanna, Bosch, Goliath, For all Mankind, Ted Lasso, The Widow, The Boys, The Morning Show are limited and have only about 8-10 episodes per season, which appeal to bigger stars because they’re not in a long, time consuming commitment. I think we watched all 8 measly episodes of Jack Ryan within a couple weeks for the first 2 seasons. But I do better with the standard weekly premise. Stretch it out.

Until the pandemic roared into our lives.

Like the rest of the country, early this spring, Hollywood shut down (now if they would just shut up). Some series didn’t have a season finale, they just sort of stopped. And the series which normally carried us through like Suits, The Mayans, Queen of the South, (I’m dying here-has my favorite dude James been resurrected to protect/love Teresa Mendoza after being AWOL last season? Definitely saw his handsome mug during the season finale for 2 seconds) but the summer fillers haven’t returned to the lineup either.

So I get these regular emails from Amazon Prime and Apple TV, letting me know what’s on that might pique my interest in returning hits or new series, plus movies galore, some free, some pricey. I noticed one that did pique, mostly because 5 seasons were included in Prime. We were hooked after the first episode. It’s called Chicago PD and premiered in early 2015 for 15 weeks. An ensemble cast in the intelligence unit who take on special cases in that crime ridden city. Led by Sargent Hank Voight, part criminal/part softie/full of empathy.

We watched 2 or 3 episodes a night for about 6 weeks, and didn’t want season 5 to come to a close. I guess as far as the real definition of bingeing, it wasn’t like we watched an entire season a night, but by our standards this was a very different way for us to watch TV. We’d look at our watch list or what we’d recorded, then just mosey over to Chicago PD, night after night.

Spoiler alert! Watching 5 seasons in 6 days or 6 weeks does not have the same affect on viewers (at least this one) as watching this series from January, 2015 to present. I’m just not as invested in the characters like I would be over the course of 5 years as opposed to 5 weeks. When Erin Lindsey left at the end of season 4, I shed no tears. (Probably my fault but her voice drove me bonkers. Big hearing loss here). No matter how far I turned up the volume on my cordless headphones, I always missed some of her dialogue because of her annoying, whispery voice.

However when Al (Elias Koteas) got shanked at the end of season 5, I felt really bad because he was such a neat character (plus Hank’s best friend/partner in crime with just as much empathy and very appealing). But had I watched detective Alvin Olinsky over the course of 5 long seasons with months in between the start of the next one, I would have been shattered for days about his death, not minutes. Dude I only knew and loved you for a couple weeks. Apologies.

Now we’re in a pickle because season 8 of Chicago PD is about to start, but I want to see seasons 6 & 7 first, yet not pay for every episode or stream it on my dinky iPad. What to do, what to do? Well I used some of my newly honed detective skills acquired during this binge fest to discover USA network plays Chicago PD continuously a couple days a week. I jotted down season 6 and 7 episode titles and have found at least half of them are on this week. They’re not all in the right order and include commercials but we will be caught up before much longer.

As far as binge watching goes, we just might be too old to adjust to this new fangled format. Too set in our ways and unwilling to change. However, the pandemic did get us to semi-binge and we found a new favorite show in the process. There’s that…

The kid packed a lot of life into 12 years, 2 months and 17 days. I’m on the cusp of observing my 70th birthday, yet he was awarded a mere 12 birthday celebrations here on earth. Wasn’t fair. Even worse, I was 4-1/2 years younger than him so I got shortchanged. The rest of the family had him longer than me, his biggest fan. I missed so much of his tragically short life.

The house where I hatched (youngest of 3) was on the west edge of town. Not a lot of homes or kids, so many days I followed him from sun up until the lightening bugs did their ritual dance in our backyard at dusk. He didn’t complain about his bratty little sister stalking him. He was my protector, advocate, friend and the boy who stopped me from eating rabbit turds beneath their cage when I was not yet 2 because someone convinced me they were raisins.

Because he was older, after we moved near the heart of Rock Valley’s downtown area, he could go farther from home with his friends, be away longer and stay out later. Trips to the sandpit, shooting his BB gun at the dump, exploring the Rock River, bike rides out in the country to look for wildlife, find new places to catch pigeons while I was not yet in school. Still, he often had friends over to our house (backyard usually). Our long driveway was mostly hardened pea gravel, with a few blades of grass and weeds in the center where no tires tread. Which made a perfect spot for shooting a game of marbles. I never understood the game, but Larry was a great southpaw shooting marbles. I watched him and his friends from the living room window, teasing and arguing as coveted marbles moved from one player to another.

After he died Mom would periodically take out Larry’s marbles and other mementoes. I think it was one way of keeping his memory close to us. We’d hold the marbles, remembering ones that were his favorites. His marbles were in a large tin can with a lid. I don’t remember if it was an old coffee can but it was heavy. Shooters, cats eyes, agates, clearies, pearlies. I believe Mom gave away his marbles, comic books and baseball cards. I imagine the cards (and comic books) would fetch some serious cash now, sporting baseball players from the 1950’s. Wish I had some displayed in my antique bookcase where I keep the things that were important to him. When Mom passed away I brought Larry’s clothes, trinkets, billfold, (filled with classmates school pictures), his baseball glove and BB gun home with me.

Larry borrowed my bike on that beautiful fall Saturday morning, because it had a basket. As he was peddling away from our house, he turned and yelled, assuring me he would give me a dime (and a surprise) when he got back for letting him use my bike. (He never made it home).

He was hauling some stuff he bought from town to our grandparent’s house on highway 18. Highway 18 was a wicked stretch of road. Why someone would design highway roads with added curbs was puzzling. In this case, deadly. I’ve heard many renditions of Larry’s accident. The version always given to me by my parents was a car’s tire caught that curb, which made the car swerve up on the shoulder where Larry was riding, striking him and killing him instantly. Flung far from Larry’s lifeless body was my broken bike with a caramel apple near it (my surprise for him using my bike).

Though I was not yet 8, there are many things about Larry which remain crystal clear to this day. I remember how he talked. He always called mom Mother but couldn’t pronounce his r’s, so it come out like ‘mu-tha,’ or quarter rolled off his tongue like ‘quaw-ta.’ Larry picked out and brought our Christmas tree home after we moved. I believe there were fresh trees for sale near the Western Auto across from Koster’s grocery store. For Christmas one year he bought Mom (mu-tha) an 8 inch frying pan and lid from money he earned catching and selling pigeons. That pan was her pride and joy for years, even after the black composite handle fell off in chunks leaving bare metal, which got hotter than a pistol, so you had to use pot holders all the time. She always made our popcorn in that pan, shaking it back and forth over the gas burner, dividing it up in bowls, then melting real butter in the pan for our popcorn topping.

I can still picture him and dad in the backyard playing catch. Larry was the only lefty in our family and it looked odd to have him throw left handed and wear his glove on his right. He was crazy about our mutt, Spitzy and the feeling was mutual. Larry was the only one who slept downstairs, so Spitzy stayed with him at night.

He would take a couple of his baseball cards and attach them to the bicycle frame next to the spokes (with a clothes pin)? so it made this clicking noise. All the boys did it. (Hope it wasn’t a Mickey Mantle rookie). There were days we ‘went to town’ together after school, stopping at the dime store to buy candy, doled out by weight on a scale. We each got a good sized bag of Malt balls, chocolate covered peanuts or chocolate stars for a nickel.

But there are some things about Larry which I no longer remember either. For the life of me, I can’t picture him eating at our supper table. (Our family sat down for supper together every night). I want to see him eating left handed so bad, but it’s just not there. After I started school, I don’t remember walking to school with him ever. I only went for half days during kindergarten and I can remember walking with 2 neighbor boys, Arlyn and Gary but never Larry. I think he probably rode his bike.

So some memories of Larry remain fresh while others remain just out of my grasp. While he wasn’t a part of my life for very long, he left a lasting impression. I miss him still-even more on the day of his death-62 years later…

You ever feel like a segment of your life passed before your eyes and you didn’t even get a chance to blink? For me that swath of time lasted almost 2 decades. Holy Rip Van Winkle. Oh I was there for those 20 years and busier than a one-armed-paper-hanger. From approximately 1980-2000 it’s safe to say, I missed a lot of stuff. Too busy with motherhood mostly. Our completed family numbered 5, resulting with two harried parents who were now in the minority. Yikes! For this unorganized gal, my job was time consuming. Hauling kids around, doctors, sports, and never ending meal planning, cooking for appetites which were never sated.

During my 20 year time-out from what was going on in the rest of the world, all subjects-politics, wars, price of gas, celebrity marriages, fashion, took second fiddle because I was consumed with performing a decent rendition of raising 3 kids. But 20 plus years after the last kid headed for college, one of the things I missed the most during those busy years-was music.

I grew up on music. No kid in their formative teens (during the 1960’s) can say music wasn’t a huge part of their lives. Best music era ever. The Beatles, Beach Boys, The Doors, Rolling Stones, The Who, The Kinks, CCR, Simon & Garfunkel, Mamas & the Papas, Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Glen Campbell, Elvis, Roy Orbison, Aretha, Sonny & Cher. The list was endless. Yet ‘new’ music and groups were the first thing eliminated when I was pushed for time.

What was the catalyst that ‘woke’ me from my music malaise? There were 2. First I started walking in early 1998 to help with my diet and general health. Walking became a healthy habit-ok-obsession. At the time I was loathe to admit it, but all of my favorite songs from the 60’s-70’s had me bleary eyed and bored to tears. Simply heard them way too many times. I needed a kickstart. And there he was, my middle kid, Joshua swooping in for the rescue. Pretty sure I was still using a cassette player but would soon move to the next level of fine-tune listening-the iPod. Josh made tapes of singers and groups I’d never heard of. He knew the most important feature was a great beat to keep my feet (and butt) moving. Then he set me up to discover hip-hop and buy my own walking music.

Maybe I didn’t prioritize the time for new groups and songs because I became totally enamored with the Chicago Cubs in the early 80’s. We were living in Davenport (160 miles from Chicago) and one of my friends in town had grown up with the lovable losers from Chicago’s Northside. I’d like to believe when I became a diehard fan their luck changed for the better. Sandberg, Sutcliffe, Smith, Davis, Denier, Sanderson, Eckersley, Grace, Trout, Matthews, Moorland would win the National league’s Central division a couple times during the 80’s and should have played in the ’84 World Series against the Tigers. Guess I wasn’t the muse I thought huh?

Mary Ellen’s daughter lived in Chicago so we attended several games every summer because we stayed at Laurie’s place. (We always did projects for her, painting or refinishing antiques for her apartment). Good times. Those fabulous day games at Wrigley Field came flooding back to me this week as a side note to my niece Kelli’s husband’s post about the death of Eddie Van Halen. (Jason was an ardent fan). Van Halen was huge when music was not in my life. How could have I missed pertinent tidbits about Eddie through the years? He’s Dutch. I’m Dutch. Goodness, he was born in Amsterdam when I was 5 years old. I should have been a big fan, but was too busy with homework, meals, laundry and baths. I knew he was married to Valerie Bertinelli and they had a kid named Wolfgang. I remember reading when Eddie was diagnosed with throat cancer quite a few years ago.

But the real trigger for Van Halen with me was our Cubs connection. You could count on the beautiful ivy in Wrigley’s outfield, Wayne Mesmer singing the National Anthem, Milo Hamilton, Harry Caray, Steve Stone, Lou Boudreau, Dwayne Staats and Vince Lloyd up in the TV/radio booths. Just before the starting lineup was announced, Van Halen’s “Jump” could be heard throughout the city of Chicago. When I commented on Jason’s, Van Halen post I said it was the Cub’s theme song during the mid 80’s for years to come. But after I wrote that I thought, no I think it was WGN’s theme song when they broadcasted the Cubs games.

I didn’t know squat about Van Halen. Missed the revolving door of lead singers Hager and Roth and whoever else might have been in the group during their peak years. I have had “Jump” in my musical library since I started buying songs and always have it on one of my playlists. Whenever that catchy synthesizer beat begins, I smile and belt it out with Van Halen!

I get up, and nothin gets me down, you got it tough, I’ve seen the toughest around.

And I know baby just how you feel, you’ve got to roll with the punches and get to what’s real.

Ah, can’t you see me standing here, I got my back against the record machine

I ain’t the worst that you’ve seen, can’t you see what I mean?

Might as well jump, (jump), might as well jump. Go ahead and jump, (jump) go ahead and jump.

Eddie Van Halen, you still rock…

You’d be hard pressed to hear me criticize McDonald’s. (Who’s got the best fries, right)? Wasn’t crazy about the giant corporation, but I worked for a fabulous owner/operator for several years. I’ve blogged about both the job and ‘da owner, so I won’t rehash that story. Suffice it to say it was great working for him. I was just a lowly crew person but I loved it. If you wanna catch up on the years I was with McDonald’s, here ‘ya go. http://dvb517.blogspot.com/2014/08/the-boss.html

A couple weeks ago I wrote about some of the odd adventures on my (mostly fabulous) walking path I utilize everyday. My biggest concerns are stones that find their way on the blacktop path from the road’s shoulder, where I have the unlucky knack of placing one foot or the other in exactly the wrong spot resulting in a nasty spill. I use a walking stick which helps, but I’m constantly watching the path right in front of me to ensure I make it back home sans injuries for another day. Another dicey concern is how close the walking path is to the road at times, which is busy with distracted drivers and has a speed limit of 50.

A couple days after posting that story, I was on the last leg of my walk (3/4 mile from home) when I heard sirens. I’m profoundly deaf so I’m listening to funky music through headphones which are pretty jacked up. (I’ve tried several varieties of ear buds. I hear nothing through the left one and the sound in my right ear is like someone provided me with with a string and 2 cans. One can is at the bottom of the pond and the other is hooked over my ear. Tinny, muffled, garbled are all appropriate adjectives that fit).

I have an awful time differentiating which direction noise is coming from but soon see a couple sheriff’s department vehicles and an ambulance zoom past me from behind. When I’m about a half mile away I notice all cars/trucks are hitting their brakes. Soon I see what has caused the ruckus. A tan Ford Bronco has jumped the curb and is resting smack-dab on the walking path right in front of McDonald’s. Had I been 6-8 minutes earlier the tan Bronco would be sporting a mega sized, white haired hood ornament. Namely me.

Before the Ford got to his embarrassing resting spot, he hit a smaller SUV (with considerable force) who was trying to turn into the entrance of McDonald’s. That poor dude got hit so hard, it was resting in the south lane. Upside down. A deputy noticed me slowing down, (hard to notice, I walk the speed of sloth) ambled over as I was taking off my headphones and said, “ma’am, could you either turn around or use McDonald’s parking lot to get to the corner?” “Sure, no problem.”

This particular ‘still frame’ remained etched in my head for several days. You just can’t help but think-I’ve walked that exact spot hundreds of times. My number would have been up for sure and it wouldn’t have been pretty. Yikes. (Why did I not take a picture? I’m the only person who never takes pictures of these moments as they happen. There was nothing gory to see as I approached).

Three days a week I see a couple guys about my age (Lord they seem much older but gotta admit they probably aren’t. Sigh). They drive to McDonald’s, park their car and walk part of the path. I usually stop and talk for a minute (goes against everything I believe in about my walking protocol, but they are nice and I’m trying to be kind. It’s a stretch. The struggle is real). I usually pass them going in one direction or the other which is astonishing. But I’ll take it.

Just a few days after the Mc-upside-down-car vs. Dude-I’ll-park-on-the-Mc-sidewalk-and-show-you fiasco, I’m nearing the two gents, about to overtake them with my great speed and agility, so I give them a hearty hello and zip right by them. I have Meniere’s which causes fluctuations in my inner ear, causing balance issues, so I use a walking stick to help steady me. Meniere’s usually affects one side of your head/ear. Mine causes a lot of racket in my left ear, leaving it virtually useless other than keeping my glasses on my mug straight. Looking right causes no problems but glancing left is better served when I come to a complete stop and slowly turn my head back and forth.

As I’m closing in on the McDonald’s drive through entrance I glance up to make sure no one is in the middle turn lane on the road, then make a quick swipe left to eliminate someone from behind who might have their blinker on and turn in front of me. (I know the pedestrian has the right of way but there are numerous walkers, joggers, bikers, runners who are dead from having the right of way). I step from the walking path to the McDonald’s cement entrance and get about 2/3 the way across when my peripheral vision picks up something huge on my left side. I pause, look left and a car has run into the curb, six feet from where I stand. I look at the driver who gives me a scathing look and throws up his arms in disgust. What the hell! How could he not see me? I’m as big as a barn and wearing a bright salmon colored jacket.

I start walking again, glancing right at the McDonald’s exit (some of these folks have come close to hitting me too. They’re digging in their McDonald’s bag for the hash browns and bacon, egg and cheese biscuit and don’t always remember to look both ways as they stop (or not) to avoid adding me to part of the Walking Dead outtakes). I stop at the corner, look both ways, cross, happy to have 3 more blocks before home. But I’m shaken up as I relay the story to Hubs.

Two days later I bump into the two walking dudes and both hold up a hand, indicating ‘stop woman.’ “Ah, after you went ahead of us on Monday, do you realize how close that car came to hitting you?” “No not really until after I got home. Looked pretty close from behind did it?” “Yeah, lucky he ran into the curb. Guess he didn’t see you until he was turning in.” (Oh my goodness. Thanks God).

After confirming the car nearly hit me, I couldn’t stop stewing about another close call on my seemingly safe, carefree walking path. There must be some way to eliminate all these hazardous crossings which seem determined to undermine my wellbeing from day to day. There is a second exit at the back of McDonald’s lot which I walk past everyday. I could just bypass the front entrance and exit. It would mean walking the perimeter of McDonald’s parking lot. Since COVID the parking lot is nearly empty because the dining room is not open. Some customers do go into the lobby and order, so there are a few cars in the lot but 90% use the drive through lane. I would be sharing the front entrance for a few feet to get back on the walking path, but it would be off to the side and head on from my view.

I hashed it over with Hubs and decided that’s what I’d try. Can’t imagine anyone from the store confronting me about walking in their lot for 2 minutes and no one has this week. A maintenance man was cleaning/sweeping the lot one morning and said good morning. Have gotten a couple strange looks from customers who run in for food, then eat in their car. Must feel like I’m intruding or invading their space. I try not to make eye contact because I’m concerned what lies ahead for my feet, but also keeping a watchful eye on cars that might be backing up. That would just be my luck, right?

I kept track, glancing at the sticker stuck on the inside of my windshield every once in a while. The date on the sticker read 6-09-20. Don’t know why I’m secretly pleased when I get past 6-09-20 and my time is not up yet, like it’s a contest. It’s not. Still it pleases me nonetheless.

Had it not been for COVID this winter/spring/summer/fall (geesh) the Jeep would not have made it to 6-09-20. Lucky to make it to 5-1-20 because we would have tacked on a couple thousand miles with a trip to northwest Iowa in mid-April. Hubs brother Jimmy was diagnosed with acute leukemia and given days to live. We certainly would have driven to see him before he passed away, plus attend the funeral and visit with the family. (It’s odd-what a difference it makes when you don’t participate in the visitation/funeral. You’re left hanging without closure. Even more odd, knowing this, I want no service for myself. Maybe denying others closure? Don’t know or understand that either).

There were federal mandates about attending funerals. Basically the whole country was shut down. Who knows how many restaurants, gas stations, motels remained open? Plus we’re at that ‘vulnerable age’ and told to stay home at all costs. So the days ticked by with the Jeep tucked in the garage and rarely driven. I went to the grocery store about once a week, which felt like part vacation, part-if I leave my house I’m gonna die.

Finally, by September, 3 months later than usual, the Jeep was due for a oil change. Made an appointment at my dealership which is about 15 miles away. I grabbed my book and headed to Chelsea.

Drove through a service door, turned the car off and waited for the tech (Matt) to get my information. “What ‘cha in for?” (5 to 10 which I didn’t voice out loud) “I made an appointment to have my oil changed and my tires rotated. One of my tires has an issue. The right rear has a slow leak and my husband adds air every couple weeks, especially if the Jeep sits for a few days.” (Pandemic) “Ok, that’s going take some time, maybe an extra hour. You gonna wait or are you leaving it?” “I brought my book, I’ll just wait.”

I wander through the door to the customer waiting room, watch 3 minutes of those twin brothers who remodel. Lost interest and turned to my real time filler, John Sanford. (Only because I’m done with my Jack Reacher series. I’m so homesick for Jack. I feel like he’s my best bud who just moved across the country-without me. More on Jack later). After 90 minutes, Matt says my car is done. I have a coupon for a discount 4 pack of oil changes I slap on the counter. “Well this is gonna cost you more because the Jeep uses a semi-synthetic oil, and 6 quarts instead of 5.” “Umm, I got the last packet of 4 without any additional cost. What’s up with that?” He didn’t even try to explain his reasoning. Just tallied up my charges for the day. Ka-ching.

Gave me a copy of the service sheet to sign and hands me my keys. I walk out to the Jeep which is still dripping water from their complimentary wash. Nice. Turn the key and the ‘low tire’ warning starts flashing. Shut the Jeep down, walk back into the service department where Matt is sitting in the back office but the door is open. “Hey, my low tire warning light is on again.” “Don’t worry about it. After you drive a few miles, it will reset. Nothing to be alarmed about.” “Ok but it wasn’t on when I drove in today.”

Walk back to the Jeep, start it and realize it’s after 2 o’clock and I haven’t eaten today. (No I’m not one of those crazy people who say, oh I just forgot to eat. Trust me, I never forget to eat, but the car dealership is on a very busy road. Either I walk to a Big Boy (without sidewalks on uneven surfaces which is like expecting/accepting I’m gonna fall) or play ‘frogger’ trying to get to McDonald’s or Coney Island across the road. So I didn’t eat while I waited and waited for the car.

I go through the drive through, order, pay, get my McDouble and park the car and eat. Call the Hubs and let him know I’ll be home shortly. Start the car and listen to the low tire warning again. Drive a half mile to the stoplight, take a right and ease on to 94 west. As I merge, doing about 60, two more warning lights pop on. My red battery light and a big gold A with a circle around it. (This is a default button which turns your engine off when you are stopped/idling at a light. I detest it and disengage it every time I start the car. I learned to drive during the time where cars stalled frequently from rough idling, popped clutch, you name it. This gas saving device just conjures up bad memories for me).

About a mile ahead is an exit which goes right back to Chelsea and the dealership. So far I’ve driven about 4 miles since the oil change. I limp into town and about 2 blocks from the service door when I lose my power steering. (Another memory of some of the older cars from the 50’s I drove as a kid where turning the wheel took some effort). I wait for the automatic door to raise and smoke is pouring out beneath the hood. Stinks to high heaven. I turn it off and Matt-my dude lumbers up. I hand him the keys with, “when I arrived for a simple oil change and tire rotation my Jeep was running great with 26,000 miles. Now I have 3 warning lights, no power steering and it’s billowing smoke. Fix it.”

Forty five minutes later he brings me a small black circular (broken) wire thing and says, “this is an O-ring on the bottom of your new oil filter. It’s not supposed to be broken. Oil was leaking out all over your engine.” “I want a picture of that O-ring to send to my husband.” He obliges. He stands there for a couple minutes then says, “it’s gonna take awhile to check everything out and make sure there’s no damage. I’m gonna give you a Jeep Wrangler for the weekend while we work on the Cherokee. Call us on Monday. And I’m reimbursing your payment for the oil change. It’s free. So you still have 4 left on your plan.”

Whoopee.

Jeep Wrangler’s are not for great grandmas. They’re high, huge, no room inside and the door feels like it’s made from tin. Or maybe aluminum foil. I didn’t dare to park in the garage for fear it was too big with the truck beside it. We drove to get an ice cream cone, otherwise it sat in the driveway for the duration of the weekend until Monday when I got word my Jeep was ready.

Matt assured me the Jeep was fine and still had 3 quarts of oil in it when I brought it back. They washed the engine numerous times with degreaser and taken it out for several test drives over the weekend. Hands me the keys and says, “you’re good to go. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Umm, there’s no paperwork?” “Ah, no, you want something?” “Yes I do.” Brings out a service sheet that says customer brought in a car with steering issues and smoking. “No, this isn’t going to work. I need documentation stating a brand new oil filter failed and leaked 3 quarts of oil out, interrupting my power steering after I’d driven it 5 miles. Total.” “Well that’s gonna take me awhile.” “Fine, I’ll wait.”

What’s the big deal? Isn’t the broken O-ring protecting the dealer because it was a faulty part? (Actually Hubs thinks the oil change guy just tightened it too far). With a second service sheet explanation in my hand a half hour later I start the Jeep and drive away. Sounds good, doesn’t smell or smoke and I notice the dealership has tacked on about 50 miles since I dropped it off the second time. Doubt if anyone was carousing around but merely testing it after degreasing, driving, rinse and repeat on Saturday and Monday.

We went out for supper for our anniversary a day late and drove to Lansing and back (maybe 75 miles cause I needed a sports store for a pair of New Balance shoes). Jeep’s running great (so far) and I’m hoping no permanent damage was done. But feel at least I’ve got the documentation needed if things with the Jeep go haywire that’s it’s not my fault. Crazy but sometimes it’s the simplest things…

We’ve all seen them on our newsfeed. Someone moved into a new house and needs a local plumber or electrician. One friend started off with, “my hot flashes are killing me. Actually killing me.” I need recommendations for sheets that are literally forming ice. (Hahaha, I remember those days mostly because I’ve been cold my whole life except during menopause which lasted a long miserable decade).

But recommendations and opinions (except on my blog, love the comments. The comments are consistently better than what I write) are not something I’ve ever asked from a whole group of people/strangers before. I guess I could have just blipped out 2 sentences on Facebook and called it good, but that’s no fun.

First day of fall and already I’m dreading what comes next. It’s not like the changing seasons make a huge difference in my life. I’m a homebody. I love being home which is why the 6 month (so far) Covid lockdown in our state hasn’t impacted my life very much. Weather permitting I get outside every day to walk for an hour. That alone helps my mood, my outlook, my overall health and peace of mind. But the key words here are “weather permitting.” Another 60 days and my outside activities will be seriously curbed for months. Ugh. Just the thought causes my smile to droop the other way.

Never been a lover of winter. Freezing temps, wind and snow, it’s all so unappealing. Winter in Michigan lasts forever. One of the real downers is how many cloudy days we get. Sometimes days and days in a row. Not as bad as winter in northwest Iowa where I grew up but it lasts longer here. Iowa is colder with more wind, (but also gets much more sunshine though it may be 19 below) Michigan might win on the snowfall totals. Whatever. I truly detest it. Not kidding.

So Hubs and I are mulling over leaving before the worst weather Michigan has to offer hits for months without ceasing. Which is from November through April. Again not too much of a stretch. Really the most offensive months are January and February. But we don’t have a clue where to go. Money plays a role or we’d just go for the best weather in the world and hang my walking shoes in Hawaii for a couple months. We don’t need perfectly, warm, always sunny weather for the duration, nor a fancy condo facing the ocean or gulf.

Just decent accommodations (probably an over 55 RV Park rental) with milder weather than our northern states. I’m ok with temps in the 40’s at night, 60’s or 70’s during the day. Some flurries won’t kill me, but not snow that stays on the ground for 2 months straight and has the flexibility (and coloration) of hardened steel after a week.

We don’t want to fly or we’d have to rent a car for the duration. We spent time in Arizona 2 years in a row (though not for 2 months) which seems to be one of the more popular spots for folks in the Midwest. Hubs brother and his wife winter in Arizona, but we’re 800 miles further east than they are. Is Michigan even still considered the Midwest? Shouldn’t be, we’re in Eastern time zone. New Mexico, Arizona, California are just too far west for us. They’re has to be warmer, affordable places but not 2,200 miles away. We’re about 1300-1400 miles from Texas or Florida.

So we’re looking for a decent rental for 2 adults for 2 or 3 months. Since we stay in a lot I’d need a functioning kitchen. Could be southeast or southwest but within 1500 miles of lower mid Michigan. The important part is south which means warmer. We’d rather be in a smaller city or on the outskirts. Pool, community room, laundry facilities, somewhere to walk would be advantageous. I think John would like to go deep sea fishing if there’s a big body of water within a few hours.

So friends gimme some suggestions. Anyone know of an area in the south with mild winter temperatures with a decent ‘over 55’ rental unit in a large park? We’re semi-civilized, can speak in 3 or 4 word sentences and completely housebroke…

The word longevity popped into my head recently and hasn’t left the premises yet, but I’m ok with it. I was thinking about how long ago Hubs and I got hitched. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance of 3 months consisting of 90% lust and 10% love. We dated (and broke up more than once) for a long spell, but it wasn’t getting any easier mostly due to my overbearing parents. So we opted to tell no one and simply eloped in a neighboring state where our marriage license would not get published in the Sioux City Journal. The reason? Most of our home town read the Journal daily. Mom and Dad would discover our diabolical plan early enough to intervene (again) or would get a phone call after the first newspaper hit the front porch of almost anyone in town.

I don’t think we spent 50 bucks on blood tests, gas, marriage license, fee to the Elk Point, South Dakota judge who met us at the courthouse at 6:54 pm on a Monday night, September 22, 1969. We were walking back out of the joint by 7:03, legally bound by the institution of holy matrimony. (My lavender dress was one in my closet and had been worn several times, nothing special so it didn’t set us back anything. Hubs had to dress decent for work at Channel 4, so he wore something already in his closet with a sports jacket). You can chalk up another $50 for the fancy supper after our elaborate ceremony with our 2 witnesses (mum’s the word) before heading to Sioux Falls for a 2 day honeymoon, which was spent trying to garner enough courage to make that dreaded phone call to mom and dad. One night we went to the Macamba Club, listening to Stan Kenton (yes we sprung for a terrific band. Really, no one besides our witness and friend Dale knew where we were, and we had every intention of heading to the Black Hills, but lacked money and time. I don’t remember why they let me in the door of the Macamba Club, I was just shy of 19. This was a regular bar and you had to be 21).

Using your keen math skills tells you in a few days Hubs and I will notch anniversary number 51. (I know, I can’t believe it either. I’m way too young right)? Most of the years have flown by in a blur-but that’s looking at them in the rear view mirror. At the time some of those years slogged along painfully slow, held down by insufficient funds, too many bills and dead end jobs. But we persevered. Always.

But when ‘longevity’ niggled in my brain it really wasn’t OUR marriage I was reminiscing about. I was thinking about our little one-stoplight-town in northwest Iowa, where we both grew up. While I was one of the firsts my age to get married, soon after we celebrated our 50th, the line behind us was crowded with classmates, acquaintances, friends, relatives, waiting in the wings to hold their own milestone anniversary party.

I know we’ve made huge strides in the last half century to lengthen our life expectancy but when I was a kid it was highly unusual for couples to celebrate 50 years of marriage. (My parents made it to 62 years, John’s parents celebrated 58 years together). Those who made it had a real cause for celebration. That certainly doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I think we ought to give credit where credit is due, don’t you? I’m just gonna state the obvious. It was the water in Rock Valley. Duh.

I haven’t checked any state by state comparison statistics on marriage and divorce but I gotta believe northwest Iowa is (or was) below average in the divorce column, at least when a marriage was initiated in the 50’s, 60’s & 70’s. Marriage longevity could also be pinned by our fondness of Taverns, but I’m gonna stick with our drinking water. We all consumed the water and they’re might have been a few folks who didn’t eat taverns growing up. What? (We might want to check the divorce rate among those couples). I know of no one who didn’t love Taverns as a kid. I think I’m on to something here.

I’m not trying to prove any kind of bizarre points on the sanctity of marriage. I firmly believe not every marriage is made in heaven and have nothing against seeking a divorce if it’s not working and is never gonna work. My biggest beef/bitch/gripe about marriage oddly enough, is the actual wedding (not the exchange of vows). The engaged couple spend months searching for the perfect venue, purchasing a big enough diamond to bump the bride’s weight up a size (to her dismay), fine tuning a delectable menu, trying on dress after dress for the most exquisite gown, flowers, 3 story high cake, tuxedos, reception, honeymoon. And then many go their separate ways after a couple/few years or even months. If couples put in as much effort in the first 5 years of real marriage as they do on the one outrageously expensive day to ‘get’ married, the divorce rate would plummet. But I digress.

It’s been heartwarming to see some of kids we grew up with as they start celebrating milestones of their own, some with golden anniversaries and many with 40 or more years. Celebrating with the same spouse they started out with all those decades ago. Did any have misgivings/cold feet/doubts before the wedding? Can’t say I did. I just assumed everything was gonna work out ok. However I’d be the first to say, I wouldn’t give you a plug nickel for the first 5 years. They were tough. And we knew each other well. Probably should have waited a couple years to get better established and a couple more to have our first kid. But we can’t do that. No way, because in that one moment and only that moment Shannon became a person. Then Joshua, then Adam. No, there’s no way I’d ever consider changing those events in my life. Who would want to?

I think congratulations/well wishes are in order for all of us mired (maybe not the best word choice, but hey it fits) in the institution of wedded bliss for decade upon decade. Much like getting older, marriage is not for sissies. Keep reminding ourselves, it’s a journey not a sprint. You don’t want stop before the finish line. Keep moving forward. Most of it good, some of it not, but in it for the long haul. With God’s help…