It happened in a New York minute. Honest. One night I walked into Ann Arbor’s Pioneer gym, sat in the wrong section on the wrong side and watched Rex, the coach of my 15 year old grandson Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) put him in his first varsity game during the first quarter as a high school freshman. Not a terribly exciting game but Landon played about half of each of the 4 quarters. When the final buzzer sounded, he had 7 points, Pioneer had it’s first victory of the season and Landon had just started his prolific high school basketball career of scoring well over 1,000 points as their point guard. I swear it was last night.

The realization of just how good and how much potential Landon had came a few weeks later when Pioneer was playing their inner city rival, Skyline at home. Landon was still playing about the same amount of minutes, 18-20 per game, but was really starting to make an impact and getting noticed. He swished a long 3-pointer in front of the student section and the kids went nuts, screaming over and over, “he’s a freshman, he’s a freshman.” That’s when I knew. And wanted to make it last as long as I could. But no. His basketball career simply shifted to warp speed and this slow grandma was left with a dumbfounded look on my face thinking, what just happened? It can’t possibly be over. He just started high school. But it was.

This is the same kid, who as a 3 year old gave me a friendly swat on the butt and some encouraging words (Landon was included in this strange sports phenomenon during high school basketball practice where his dad was coach. He actually assumed he was on the team when he was 3). After I finally sunk a shot while getting my ass kicked by him in a game of H.O.R.S.E. this little boy (in my eyes) was suddenly choosing which full ride college basketball scholarship to accept. How in the world did it go that fast?

Landon chose Holy Cross college in Worcester, Massachusetts. (Pronounced “Wooster” which makes no sense, but hey, tell that to Brett Favre, pronounced Farv when it looks like it should be Favor). His first few months as a committed freshman hasn’t been without some drama. The head coach who recruited him retired without warning this summer, plunging the team in dire straights and coach less for a bit. A couple of the upper class players chose to transfer elsewhere (their option when a head coach leaves) so there were relationships, goals, unity, camaraderie that needed to be started all over. (It wasn’t all bad. The dude who wore # 3 left giving Landon the chance to keep the number he’s used during a decade of basketball).

The first non conference game for Holy Cross happened to be against a Big 10 team, Maryland, who’s ranked 7th in the nation. Oh boy. I wondered how Landon would play initially. Would he be hesitant about shooting or go full throttle? He’s always played with and against older, more experienced players and has never been intimidated. Not to worry, he was the same experienced, aggressive player I had grown accustomed to watching. Confident, assured, calm with that unique ability to see the whole floor unlike a lot of players. Holy Cross lost but Landon played fantastic, scoring 24 points. Second game Landon put up 14 points in their second loss and was named Rookie of the week for the Patriot League. First week as a freshman in collegiate ball and he nailed it. Dude. Really. Dude.

The season isn’t getting any easier for the Crusaders. Two more games, both resulting in losses. Holy Cross is essentially starting their basketball program from scratch. New coach with basically a new team of very young players. It’s gonna take some time to mesh. (However, my favorite player is chugging along like a well oiled machine).

The Hubs and I were chomping at the bit to see a game in person. (He’s about 750 miles away-sob-sob). We can get most of his games on our iPads-and a few on TV, but seriously it’s not the same. I’m trying to keep stats while watching on my mini and it kinda sucks. Still better than not watching at all, but during the last several years I’ve only missed a handful of his games and believe with all my heart, he does better when I’m there. I know I do.

We thought the week before Thanksgiving would be great because Landon doesn’t get to come home for the holiday. The Crusaders are playing in a tournament in Florida. A least the weather should be awesome. (And I’ve promised him his favorite meal of turkey and all the fixings when he’s home for 3 days at Christmas time).

We flew in (direct flight from Detroit Metro to Worcester-only about 2 hours) on Thursday, issuing an invitation to take him out for supper after he was through with practice. Man it was good to see him again. He’s acquired some muscle mass in the weight room since we saw him in August and is in fine form. John and Landon wanted seafood so we went to Sole Proprietor and had lobster (I’ve never ordered lobster in a restaurant before because I’m such a mess when we eat it at home. I can barely see out of my glasses when I’m finished). Well neatness be damned, we all ordered different size lobsters, and it was very good!

Probably the highlight of the weekend was the added bonus of Shannon, Ari and Jovi flying in Friday morning for the game. Jovi loves her uncle Drewy, (they Skype each other) and they belong to a mutual admiration society. We met them (not Landon, he was already with the team) at the Hogan Center, which is home to a huge store filled with memorabilia, gifts, clothing and souvenirs. Everyone found some Holy Cross duds we couldn’t live without (Ari and Jovi got matching purple stocking hats).

After we were done shopping, John and I each got a pop (soda-they’re so weird. Soda is what we use in baking) and sat down for a bit. On our table was the Holy Cross school newspaper (which looks a lot like a shopper or the old Doon Press). I’m perusing collegiate life when I spot the sports section (The State of Hoops on the Hill) written by staff writer, class of 2020, Jack Milko. Here is his take on the young season thus far.

The Men’s Basketball Team

At the 11:11 mark of the first half, Holy Cross held a 22 to 21 lead over the No. 7 Maryland Terrapins. From that point on, however, Maryland outscored Holy Cross 74-49, ultimately winning by a score of 95-71. Although the Crusaders lost its season opener by 24 points, there are some positives to take away from it. Holy Cross managed to hang tough with a national title contender for the first ten minutes of the game. The freshman tandem of guard Drew Lowder and forward Joe Pridgen were certainly thrown into the fire, playing in front of a hostile crowd of 13,633. Nonetheless, they exceeded expectations by combining for 36 points on 16-28 shooting from the floor. 

Four days later, the Crusaders played in a high-scoring affair at New Hampshire, a game in which UNH won 87-83. Lowder and Pridgen combined for 27 points, but the star of the game was freshman guard Ryan Wade, who came off the bench to score a team-high 24. Then, last week, in a tough overtime loss against Fairfield, four Crusaders managed to score nine or more. Lowder again played well as he had 16 points, which included four huge three-pointers in the second half. Pridgen also had a solid game with nine. Junior forwards Austin Butler and Connor Niego also provided some offense, combining for 26 points. Ultimately, the Crusaders will have to continue to lean on their youth movement as they are now the only team in the Patriot League without a victory so far this season. If they keep to their up-tempo style, and continue to play hard, then their first victory will come soon.

We arrive at the gym about 45 minutes before game time. We find the table with our tickets that Landon has reserved for us and start walking around their incredible new facility called the Hart Center. A few feet away I spot a table with assorted paraphernalia about tonight’s basketball and hockey games. Oh Lord have mercy, Landon’s on the front cover of the program. I. Kid. You. Not. I ran (ha-ha) gimped my way over, gushing to the young men sitting at the table. “That’s my grandson Landon on the front cover!” (I’m sure they thought I was a complete wack job since I didn’t even use the name he uses and everyone else knows him by, but they smiled and said, “that’s cool.” Damn straight).

Jovi is fascinated with everything during the game. A baton twirler in her glittery costume was practicing her routine near where we were sitting. Jovi could not pull her eyes away from her and finally convinced mommy to ask to have their picture taken together. As if that weren’t enough, they’re was a dance troupe routine and some holy Cheerleaders. By the end of the game, Jovi ran out to center court, did some pirouettes, holding up her hand to stop mommy from getting too close. The Holy Cross cheerleaders saw the cutie, ran out to her, gave her some Pom Poms, a big white bow like they had in their hair, which then piqued the interest of the team photographer who snapped some shots, asking permission to use them on the website. (And then Jovi told them about her favorite Uncle Drewy).

The Harvard game was a tough one to lose. We kept the lead well into the second half. That’s 2 games the Crusaders should have gotten the W. It sucks for the team and coaches (yet it’s hard for me to feel awfully bad because Landon’s doing great. Much like I felt years ago when I was an avid bowler. If we lost but I bowled at or above my average, I just didn’t feel too bad for the night. Wasn’t my fault and I did my best).

Just read on Holy Cross’ website: For the second week out of 3 during the early basketball season, Landon (Drew Lowder) # 3 was named Rookie of the week for the Patriot League. What a great start for this fabulous young man. “He’s a freshman, he’s a freshman!” Indeed. Go Landon, go…

Obsession. Such a strong word with some negative appeal. I don’t think I’m obsessive. Well maybe a little. I prefer to think of it as liking something very much and sticking with it until I die. Is that the definition of obsessive? These are products I’ve become attached to. Once I find something I really like, my mind (and nose) can rarely be changed. I just can’t imagine my life without said product. Although they’re not essential to my life, they are needed to make my life better. Just call it my relentless product loyalty.

First thing I remember becoming (alarmingly) attached to was in Davenport, 35 years ago. I loved to sunbathe (I know, my bad) and my lips were always as dry as a popcorn fart. I stopped at our neighborhood Perry Drug store and bought a small tube of Mentholatum Natural Ice lip balm. A strange feeling accosted my lips when I smeared some on. There was a slight tingling/burning sensation. Oooh-that’s the way-ah-huh, ah-huh-I like it. Since that fateful purchase, I can’t remember a solitary day in my life hence where a tube of Mentholatum has not been in my possession. Choosing my favorite (and only) cologne for the past 25 years would not be my top priority if I were stranded on a desert island but rest assured tubes of Mentholatum, my toothbrush and toothpaste definitely would be.

I panicked a few years ago when all my local haunts stopped carrying Mentholatum in Michigan. Damn Burt’s Bee’s and Chap Stick and their 50 freakin varieties take up half the store shelves. I finally found Mentholatum online and ordered 20 tubes at a time (since I cannot face the possibility of ever running out). A few years ago I discovered several stores in Iowa still carry Mentholatum so we’d stop at every Hy-Vee store from Davenport to Sioux Falls. (Often when we made this trip it was hotter than Hades in the Midwest). There I was traipsing across 4 states lugging little bags of Mentholatum with me to eat or antique because I feared they would melt in the hot car until we finally settled in a cool hotel or back home.

My next loyalty award arrived by accident 15 years ago. A span in my life which consisted of driving from mid-Michigan to northwest Iowa every couple months. Sometimes I flew but usually drove the 750 miles. Mom was slipping and it was harder for Dad to care for her. He was out of his element in the caregiving department. But they both made due for as long as they could, until they couldn’t.

On the way to Iowa I usually made several stops. None were out of my way but an excellent excuse to get out of the car and stretch for a bit. Two stops were Outlet Malls, one in Michigan City, Indiana, the second in Williamsburg, Iowa. The other 2 were huge antique malls, one close to the Michigan City Outlet, the other near Peru, Illinois.

I had been watching (longing/coveting) a Waterford lamp in Michigan City for a couple of years. It was a bit out of my price range and I kept hoping when I stopped that the price had either dropped or someone had finally put me out of my misery and bought the dang thing and it would be gone. No such luck. There it sat, lit like a lifesaving beacon during a storm. Taunting, exquisite and dusty. Shoot, it wouldn’t get dusty at my house. Oh alright, I lie, dusting is right up there with root canals-but still, the lamp would look far better lighting up my cozy little nest. Same stinking price, dealer wouldn’t come down a nickel. Well then rot on the shelf. (I have since snagged 2 Waterford lamps).

Before heading west again on 94 west and weaving my way around Chicago I was ready for some lunch. I’m almost done eating when I picture my makeup bag on top of the dining room table at home. Don’t know why that image popped in my head but it did. Are you kidding? No makeup, shampoo, conditioner, brush, nothing. Did I actually forget to pack it in the car? Trot out to the car, pop the trunk and go through everything. Nada. Well there’s money I don’t want to spend. Shoot.

I’m trying to get by as cheap as I can. Stop at Walgreens, pick up a small deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, and shower gel. Can’t get chintzy with moisturizer for my dry skin but buy the smallest jar, adding the bare essentials for makeup, eyebrow pencil, powder, concealer. Now I just need hair stuff.

I don’t want full size bottles, they take up too much room. On a shelf I spot a package introducing a line of new products. Tiny 2 oz. bottles of hair care products, shampoo, conditioner, gel and hair spray by a company named John Frieda. On sale for $4.99. Enough to get me through a week. Sold.

This particular trip I’m spending one night in my old stomping grounds, Davenport for a rousing night of double deck Euchre with my former bowling buddies. We have a great time catching up, eating, playing cards. I spend the night at Jeanne’s. I still have a good 6-7 hours to drive so no dawdling in the morning. Fine except for one problem. I can’t get out of the shower. Nothing physical, it’s that new shampoo. The smell is incredible. Damn I smell good. Really good. I’m hooked. Where can I buy this stuff by the gallon?

It’s a win-win I stumbled upon these hair products. They’re actually for color treated hair. I’m cruising through year 20, using L’Oréal every freakin month (another loyal awards user, hadn’t received “the sign” to stop yet. That would take this slow poke another 15 years-sigh). This was just the best accidental find in my life. Until it was snatched from me 10 years later. I’ve always been a quantities buyer. A sucker when something I use regularly is on sale. So I always had 3 or 4 bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the linen closet. But it had been a few months since I bought any. I was checking the shelves and prices at Meijer. The usual spot was sporting some other dead bed-head crap. I looked in clearance, zip there too. Drive over to Rite Aid and find one bottle of hairspray. Grab it and have an awful feeling that Neese is not going to smelling nearly as awesome very soon.

I’m (still) not an online shopper. When I need something I go to the most likely stores which should carry what I’m looking for. (I’m hopelessly outdated). But for this delicious, deliriously smelling shampoo and conditioner, I am the ultimate online shopper with a goal. And it wasn’t hard to find. I ordered a dozen bottles of each and guarded my stash in a hermetically sealed safe at an undisclosed location. (Which only accepted my iris to unlock).

That was in 2014. After repeated trips to the underground, 12 inch thick, reinforced concrete facility, my world changing shampoo was disappearing at an alarmingly fast rate. Went back online to all the surplus outlets which carry discontinued (hurts my heart to even write it) products. After an hour long search I found 3 bottles of shampoo. Three bottles for 99 bucks. That’s right folks, 99 dollars. And I gave it careful consideration. Tried to convince myself that 30 bucks for an 8 ounce bottle of shampoo was worth every penny. Who am I trying to kid? Could not do it. The conditioner however was readily available much cheaper as was the hairspray. So I bought a dozen bottles of each (Such a creature of habit-it’s disgusting).

Now I’m down to days using my favorite smelling shampoo. Mere days. I’m adjusting to the change in my life without my signature smell. (Actually with enough conditioner and hairspray that’s gonna last way past my expiration date, I will still probably have the same scent wafting off my countenance). But it’s the shampoo I attribute the smell with. But it’s not all bad news. I woke up one morning a year ago and made the simple decision to stop dyeing my hair. (Only took me 35 years). And my John Frieda ‘root awakening’ shampoo is for color treated hair-which I no longer have! Got off that miserable train wreck. Yay me. Just another sign that this well adjusted grandma (ha-ha no one is ever gonna buy into this old dinosaur is adaptable) can easily change too…

I wasn’t always like this. From the time I was quite young, the magnitude of my beliefs were well rooted and firm. What the heck happened? When I think how I’ve changed I just shake my head. How did I get to this hopeless point? Was there a pivotal turning point somewhere that I’ve not yet realized or recovered?

I’m not content. I wanna be but there’s this restlessness inside. I’m searching for something. Every few days when I weigh the pros and cons and end up no closer to an answer or relief, I simply put the whole matter on the back burner and coast. I’m a good coaster. And very good at ignoring issues I’m uncomfortable dealing with. I’ve never been good with confrontation-even when I’m confronting-me. It’s painful, distracting, frustrating and causes negative feelings to surface which puts me in a funk. I don’t do well in funky town.

From junior high until I was about 40, God had a steady presence in my life. It’s not like I stopped believing after that, I just stopped going to church for several years. Just as suddenly I started attending again, but not the Reformed Church of America where I had been raised (aha, maybe that’s my problem).

This last span of time, I went to church faithfully for about 15 years, but those years were filled with conflict and angst. (Here I am, trying to be churched, contented and filled with the Holy Spirit. Why am I then so conflicted)? Well I can spot one huge issue. I got too involved-my fault. Volunteered too much, heard too much and witnessed too much, including the uglier side of organized religion-politics. Politics within the church from the movers and the shakers. During this time I worked for 4 pastors while I was Parish Visitor. Four. All had some good qualities, either with the youth, could preach a sermon which helped and made you think, had a real soft spot for the elderly or community outreach.

Both churches stated frequently, “the church is the people.” To which I say hogwash. Of course the congregation is vitally important, but unless you have a dynamic speaker who can lead a flock (and encourage new folks/families into the sanctuary on Sunday), give a meaningful message to help get people through another tough week of life, your flock is going to seek guidance elsewhere or just stop going through the motions.

Which is what happened to me. I was hurt, angry, resentful, unfulfilled and felt organized religion was out of touch. Maybe even vindictive. Overall attendance was in a tailspin. I simply stopped going. It’s awful to say but I didn’t want to miss the things that are included with a Sunday morning worship service. But I miss those very things so much. I miss saying the Lord’s Prayer in unison. Long to be among those reciting the Apostles Creed even more. I miss hymn singing (I only lip sync the songs since losing most of my hearing-can’t carry a tune to save my soul). This old-fashioned doxology fills my heart with hurt and happiness.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow

Praise Him all creatures here below

Praise Him above ye heavenly host

Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen.

Since 2013 I have been in a few churches-but very few. Several funerals before I left North Muskegon. A couple years ago, Angie, a devout Christian and a coworker invited me to her church for their annual Christmas program because her 2 adorable kids were part of their large children’s group participating. I didn’t tell her I was coming (that way it was easier to chicken out and stay home). I thought I could snag a back row seat, be in and out without anyone noticing me. As it happened Angie was walking through the narthex as I waltzed in the door. (Thanks for that God). So I was included with the whole family, taking up 2 entire pews. But I didn’t go back. Knew God was nudging me but I can be very dense when it comes to subtle hints. It’s called denial. See I didn’t realize there’s a problem with me-it’s everybody else involved with church who has a problem.

More recently I saw a Facebook post from my friend Sabrina. She posted two of her four daughters were being baptized a few weeks ago. Don’t know why that post hit me so hard but I couldn’t get it out of my head. Never uttered a word to Sabrina, just looked up the address of the church and showed up for worship. This time I made it through the door unnoticed and was slinking towards an out of the way ‘Russian seat.’ (‘Rushing’ to be first out of the door afterwards). Well Sabrina rushed me like an all American linebacker before I was even seated! I sat near the family group congregating for this momentous occasion when someone plops Sabrina’s new grandson, Greyson on my lap. Darling little guy was full of smiles for this virtual stranger. Kortni and Ali’s baptism was sacred, touching and heartwarming. (Don’t know the girl’s exact ages, maybe 14 and 11). But again I didn’t go back. The minister was young and had a good message but the service was very contemporary. Just not what this old dinosaur is longing for.

So that’s been the extent of my worship participation in 6 years. Not a very good record or anything to be proud is it? If I’m searching so hard for ‘something,’ it can’t be found if I’m not even willing to look. What’s prohibiting me? My regrets, sins, old grudges which are still simmering near the surface? Probably all of the above. I don’t want to be part of the world’s Christianity decline, yet here I am-living the nightmare.

I’m what’s wrong with Christianity. I long for/expect the perfect church, the perfect preacher and a united congregation that loves/respects each other. Well none of that is feasible in the real world is it? Life is messy. We’re all sinners and preachers are just as human as the rest of us. So how can I break away from these high expectations I seem to cast the church and its inhabitants on? How (and where) can I find peace? Yes, I’m conflicted. Big time.

I need to recognize the church for what it really is. A mish-mash of assorted sinners coming together to worship God. Period. People with differing opinions, beliefs, goals and gifts. A church whose needs often are monetary. I’ve got to stop giving up on God because the pastor does not meet my stringent specifications. Period. God has hope for me and has stuck with me-warts and all. How come it’s so hard for me to do likewise with my fellow man?

Although it sounds lame, shallow and insincere, I’m church shopping. Sigh. Trying to find my own niche with God by my side rather than leaving Him at my back door. I feel like I’m just going through the motions without a home church. I’m lost and alone. I need a closer connection. So I’ve been jotting down some church addresses and times of worship. Last week was my first attempt. Not impressed, but the list of churches in Jackson is significant and I’m going to keep trying until I find what I need. It’s not been a hymn recently looping through my head but a twist on Del Shannon’s song, Keep searchin’.

I gotta keep searchin’, searchin’, find a place to stay

Searchin’, searchin’ every night and day

If I gotta keep on the run, I’ll follow the Son-wee-ooh,

Follow the Son-wee-ooh…

I assumed everyone ate like my family when I was a kid. (I don’t mean manners, scripture, prayers and table setting. This is about actual food). I didn’t think a favorite, familiar dish of mom’s was unusual. Or odd even. I grew up in a small town in northwest Iowa (predominantly Dutch) and thought every woman in town used the same brands, bought the same meats and cooked exactly like my mom.

My first inkling that not all foods were served (or even offered) the same in Rock Valley was discovered when I was in junior high. One of my close friends came from a much larger family. Her mom was a good cook (mine was too) but Char’s mom definitely cooked different than mine. Their clan was basically a 2 family home. Char’s mom and dad had several kids, waited a decade, then had another 4 girls, bam-bam-bam-bam. The second bam of the second batch was my bestie Char. Her house/family life was the complete opposite of mine.

By then, we had lost Larry, Mona was married, thus making me like an only child. Char’s household (the older kids were long gone with families of their own) had one in high school, Char in junior high and 2 younger sisters in elementary. A couple of the first group moved away but one older sister lived within a few miles. She and her family (she had a couple kids by then) came over to her parents every Sunday night for supper. Nearly every week I weaseled my way in for a supper invite too. Really how much work is it to feed one extra kid? There was so much activity at their house, they barely noticed me. My house was very quiet in comparison.

We were all headed for the evening church/youth group services so everyone was expected to pitch in to get the table cleared and kitchen cleaned up (even me, who did absolutely nothing to help in the kitchen at my own house). Char’s mom always cooked great meals on Sunday nights. Most times there were 11 or 12 of us. One of her best meals was roast beef and mashed potatoes. I know there was a vegetable and always dessert but it was the mashed potatoes I remember. She mashed potatoes in her mixer! What? With milk and butter (duh, a given) but those spuds were as smooth as pudding. My mom would never get her stand mixer out and mess it up for mashed potatoes. Ever. Our mashed potatoes were thicker and had a few lumps, (but they were good). It’s the way I’ve eaten them my whole life. But I will never forget watching Char’s mom dump a huge, hot pot of potatoes into her mixer and whip those suckers smooth as a baby’s butt. (Maybe not the best way to describe her mashed potatoes). She also made twice baked potatoes to die for, using the same method. Dug out the potato insides, keeping the potato peel intact and whipping the spuds in her mixer. Then plopping a good sized dollop back in the peel and baked ’em a second time. Dang she was a good cook. I’m eternally grateful for joining their family as often as they let me.

This old memory popped up from a comment on my last story about my poor Mom who got lost frequently because she wasn’t good with directions (try hopeless). The comments were about us shopping at a fabulous department store in Sioux City. First Ray asked if Mom and I ever ate at the restaurant in Younkers? About 99% of the time we went to a fabulous place called Bishop’s Cafeteria. I remember Younkers candy counter but the actual restaurant in the store, no. Then Glenda commented she’s been trying to duplicate Younkers Mac & Cheese recipe for 50 years, without much success.

That’s when it hit me. We never had Mac & cheese when I was a kid. Ever. It was not on Mom’s food repertoire. Seems like it should have been. Some kind of melted cheeses over elbow macaroni because Mom loved all kinds of casseroles. America cheese was the only kind in our fridge though. Served on Hillbilly Bread with butter or as a grilled cheese sandwich, just flipped the buttered side on the outside.

Dagwood Bumstead would have starved at our house. There were no messy, mayo, lettuce, mustard, pickles, ham, pastrami, provolone sandwiches served in our kitchen (or eaten over the sink). We really didn’t do sandwiches, maybe a BLT or Reuben occasionally. The Gerritson idea of a sandwich was an opened can of Red Sockeye salmon with all those nasty bones and slithery silver skin removed. On buttered bread and a nice leaf of iceberg lettuce. Ta-da! (First time I served it for supper as a newlywed, Hubs gaped at me like I had grown a third eye, and refused to eat it. What’s even worse, he eats the same exact salmon, plus the bones and slimy skin parts on soda crackers. Now really, who’s the freak here)?

The Gerritson refrigerator never held:

“my bologna has a first name, it’s Oscar,

my bologna has a second name, it’s Mayer.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, I love to eat it everyday,

if you ask me why I’ll say–

cause Oscar Mayer has a way with–B O L O G N A.”

(Sorry couldn’t help myself. Loved the commercial, the kid and song)

So I’m at a loss when once a week I see a picture of curled up fried bologna on Facebook with someone asking, who ate their bologna like this? Not this girl.

The Gerritson (or Van Berkum) cupboards have never held a can of Spam. I’ve never tasted it. Ditto for Campbell’s Tomato Soup. I did eat Campbell’s Vegetable Beef, Chicken Noodle and Bean with Bacon. And if Mom was making a casserole which called for a cream soup, 75% of the time she used Cream of Celery, the rest of the time Cream of Chicken. Never Cream of Mushroom, she said it was too strong. (I don’t have to tell you I lean the same way as Mom, right? On occasion when I use Cream of Mushroom, stroganoff comes to mind. But when I make stroganoff for Hubs I rarely eat it. I’ve managed 68 years without consuming Brussel sprouts, zucchini, squash, egg plant or the one I get razzed about most often, biscuits and gravy, none of which hold any appeal.

I was at least 30 before I tried Chinese food. It was offered on vacation once when I was a kid, as was Mom, but since she turned her nose up and would only drink the tea, well there you have my initial reaction. I was older than 30 before I ever tried broccoli, cauliflower or get this-SHRIMP. No, I’m not kidding. Pretty much, the only sea food we ate came from cans, Starkist Tuna (Sorry Charlie) and Deming’s Red Sockeye Salmon.

We never had Kool-aid or Tang in the house when I was a kid, although I was always allowed to have pop with my lunch everyday (RC Cola, 7-Up or Pepsi). I didn’t realize how fond of broccoli, or cauliflower I was until I’d been married for years. (My kids however grew up on Kool-aid and Kraft Macaroni & cheese, not as a meal but an after school snack).

So what did we consume at the Gerritson abode? Tuna salad, fresh tomatoes on bread topped with sugar all summer long. Any leftovers from supper the night before. I’d warm up a dish of casserole in the oven. And soups. Soups (always homemade) were a mainstay at our house. Chicken and rice, Navy Bean and Ham, whole Pea with pork hocks or ham, Chile and Vegetable beef.

If I was craving something sweet and Mom had not baked anything lately, a slice of buttered Hillbilly bread covered with a half inch of light brown sugar did the trick. I still eat one every once in a while. My kids grew up eating them as a treat. I know when I actually write it, I find it kinda weird too. Excuse me while I run to the kitchen for a minute. Sorry ’bout the drool…

I sometimes forget how smart Mom was. She had an unbelievable thirst for knowledge. A voracious reader, she always preferred non-fiction. She loved biographies, exact opposite of my reading preferences. I’ve always felt I have enough reality in my life. I read novels to escape.

Mom bought the finest, most expensive set of World Book Encyclopedias when I was in junior high to help with my homework assignments. As if. But her interest (and constant use) far outweighed the times I was forced to look something up for school in one of our many green and cream leather volumes. Every year thereafter she’d send for the new yearbook. World Book’s way of updating us on everything important from the previous year. She just couldn’t get enough of what those pages had to offer. She wanted to know everything.

She was a great bookkeeper. Mom kept track how of much interest each CD was paying, how Dad’s IPERS account (Iowa Public Employee Retirement System) was doing from year to year. She was frugal in many ways, yet extravagant with her money in others. They never financed a car that I know of but wanted nothing more on a car besides tires and a steering wheel. (Neither of them ever drove an automatic). Yet she thought nothing of buying Shannon a wool plaid winter coat which she would only wear to church when she was 3 years old and wouldn’t fit her the following winter. I bought Mom a new paring knife after the one she’d used for 40 years had lost its edge. She just couldn’t part with the $2.99 for something she deemed unnecessary.

Mom kept a small tattered box in the cupboard above her spotless refrigerator. That box was filled with several standard sized plain white envelopes. Each envelope was marked, IPS, Bell telephone, First Reformed Church (tithing), spending money for both of them, groceries, De Boer’s (fuel oil for the furnace and gas for Mom’s car, Ver Berg Gas Station for Dad’s gas and maintenance on his car). Never did figure out why they used separate businesses (2 blocks apart) for each of their cars, she simply preferred one, Dad the other. They were funny that way. When it was payday, Mom (don’t think direct deposit was an option back then) would trudge to the bank (after forging dad’s name) to cash the check-literally. She’d leave a small portion in their checking account but for most things both of them used cash (thus all the envelopes).

When she got home from the bank, she’d reach up and snag the envelope box. Take them all out and divvy up the amount that each envelope required. Patiently wait for each bill to arrive, grab the money from the appropriate envelope, head downtown to pay the bill. She did have a credit card for Sears and Penney’s but paid each in full every month there was a charge on the card. Not to minimize her savings ability, next to tithing, savings held a high priority for both of them.

I don’t think Mom was ever stumped with a knitting or crocheting pattern. She would tackle the most complicated projects. I was amazed at her talent and ability. She tried to teach me but I could only add stitches, tackle collars, armholes, sleeves, necklines, or anything harder than the stockinette stitch (the easiest of them all) if I was sitting by her side. So I never really learned how to read patterns like she did. She’d just show me how to do something and it would magically get done, but I didn’t retain what I’d learned.

So this woman kept her house spotless, saved money even when it was in short supply, read an entire set of encyclopedias, who frequently wrote politicians scathing letters during the 70’s & 80’s on what irked her on world matters in her beautiful cursive prose. When shopping (she was a clothes horse) Mom could (and did) easily rattle off 20%, 25% or one third off to other customers frowning nearby when trying to figure out how much the jacket cost because it was on sale. (She’d mumble to me later, “how can these people not know that 25% off of 30 dollars is $7.50? Then they have trouble subtracting $7.50 from 30 bucks.” This really frustrated her). She worked hard, cooked every night but Saturday and could turn the toughest knitting patterns into works of art.

Mom did have a couple weaknesses. When forced, she could replace a button on one of Dad’s dress shirts. But had to be coerced to do it and hated every minute. (I inherited her sewing gene). And the poor woman didn’t know which way was west. Or north. Or south. Nope, not east either. She had the worst sense of direction known to womankind.

This was not much of an issue when I was a kid. She knew how to get to our shopping spots in Sheldon, Le Mars, Sioux Falls and Sioux City whenever we left the safe confines of Rock Valley. There were specific locations she was very familiar with. She knew how to get to downtown Younkers in Sioux City, Shrivers in Sioux Falls, but we never veered far off the beaten path either. Her lack of knowing where she was headed flew out the window once I got married. Things would have been so different for Mom if she’d had a cell phone with Siri to help her navigate those confusing directions.

We were living in Sioux City, 1973. Our precocious toddler, Shannon was 3. She and Mom (Mimi) were headed (by themselves-oh Lort) to Bellas Hess in Morningside. Right on highway 75 at Glenn Ave, probably 5 miles from our house on 23rd Street. Once Mimi managed to find Highway 75, (a half mile from our house), it was a straight shot. No turns. Absolutely. No. Turns. Just follow Highway 75 due south.

The good news, they found Bellas Hess. I’m sure Shannon zhanicked (begged and whined in Dutch slang) until Mimi bought her something outrageously expensive. Leaving Bellas Hess proved to be more difficult for Mom though. Out of the parking lot onto Glenn Ave., to the stop light at Highway 75, Mom however turned south instead of north. And drove. Then drove some more. Shannon finally said, “this isn’t the right way Mimi. Our house isn’t this way.” Indeed little one. Mimi and Shannon were close to Omaha-about 80 miles from Sioux City. They finally stopped at a truck stop seeking help/advice and got turned around. They were gone almost the whole day. And we had no clue what had happened to them.

As long as we lived in Iowa Mom did fairly well. Eastern Iowa got a little hairy the first time, we lived in several nearby towns around Dubuque. The second time, we moved to Davenport, we lived a couple miles off of I-80. She knew if she crossed the mighty Mississippi, she had gone too far. But Michigan was another matter. Part of the problem was Mom and Dad refused to come visit us together. Another strange quirk of theirs. They treated each visit like a competition between them. Each one would trot back to Iowa and brag how cute/darling the kids had been. Actually making each other jealous.

One of them would come for several days, a couple months later the other, so I got to worry about their long travel time (750 miles) alone twice as often. Mom had 2 close calls. A couple of years after moving to Jackson she was on her way to our house. Chicago’s not the easiest city to get around, but it’s I-80 east until you reach I-94. Mom didn’t wait to hit 94, she turned north on 294 and drove to Milwaukee. Oh my word. Since her little jog cost several hours both ways, Mom ended up spending a night in a hotel as soon as she crossed the state line into Michigan. (At least she was in the right state now).

The last disaster could have been just that-disastrous. Mom was on her way back to Iowa from our house when she realized, after several hours of driving, she didn’t have her seat belt on. She stopped on the shoulder of I-80 west, snapped herself in, signaled with her blinker (yay Mom), engaged the clutch, and shifted to first gear in her 4 cylinder Ford. Instead of getting some speed on the shoulder, she felt her blinker was sufficient and pulled into the lane of traffic, all of whom were clipping along at 70 mph or better. She got rear ended by a semi and THOUGHT IT WAS HIS FAULT. She was not hurt thankfully, and she was furious when she got a ticket. Oh Mom. She didn’t drive to Michigan often after that which was fine with me. I just went to their house more often. How I wish I could go back and visit them one more time. I should have been more attentive and written things down. I still have so many questions…

I wrote a story in January, 2015 called Plaid Pants. Filled with disdain, (not the pants, but the feelings which were well deserved) about pretty much anything to do with U of M. How I acquired these feelings of disgust and scorn though started much earlier in 1987. The year we moved to Michigan and pritnear lived in the shadow of the Big House.

When we moved to Michigan I was filled with hope. Yes, it was a jaunt from our Iowa home turf but the climate was similar, we were still in Big 10 country and now living about 30 miles south of Michigan State and 35 miles west of the University of Michigan. When I was growing up, I concocted these fantasy images about Ann Arbor. Not only a neat name but sounded like the perfect college town. These fantasies were about to receive a brutal reality check. Live and learn.

Rest assured, I’ll not repeat the Plaid Pants story (it is pretty cute though). Suffice it to say I feel like I’ve known Jim Harbaugh all of his life although I’ve never been with 500 feet of the man (damn Restraining Order-I’m kidding-lighten up). Jim grew up in Ann Arbor and went to Pioneer High School until his family moved to California. He then got a football scholarship and was starting quarterback for University of Michigan in the mid-80’s. I watched my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes beat Jim and his cohorts 12-10 in one of the best college football games ever played at Kinnick Stadium in 1985, never realizing in less than 2 years we’d be living 30 miles from the Big House instead of 50 miles from Iowa City. Life is messy. Things change.

Our first year in Michigan we got tickets to watch the Hawks play the Wolverines at the Big House. I was so excited to visit another football stadium. What a disaster! We lost big time, the fans were nasty and some old dudes in maize and blue plaid pants accosted us verbally during the long walk back to our car. I vowed that day never to step foot on that football stadium again. Any feelings I had for U of M, the city of Ann Arbor-poof-vanished that day-never to return. It’s now been 30 years with very little change in my attitude for anything Wolverine-ish. Really I should get some kind of reward for grudge holding. I’m damn near perfect at it. (You can message me for my winning tips).

I did have mild interest when U of M hired Harbaugh in 2015. Jim’s appearance back in the state was hard to ignore with the influx of articles and interviews as a daily reminder how important Michigan football is to their rabid fans (at least in their own minds). He’s done well too, now in his 5th season as head coach. Brought in a ton of money for the University with everything from clothing to season ticket sales (which I think hovers around 90,000) this year. Unbelievable. Ninety thousand season ticket holders. Wow. Don’t kid yourself though, Jim goes through the bucks too, recruiting, taking his team to Italy one year, South Africa another year. He’s is the second highest paid coach in the country-Nick Sabin rules). He’s very popular. Whatever.

My son-in-law Tracey is principal at Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor, which happens to be right across the street from the Big House (just shoot me now. What are the odds)? Pioneer’s massive parking lot morphs into a second city on U of M home game weekends. Parking in Pioneer’s lot costs a freaking fortune and is literally filled with hundreds of recreational vehicles who arrive to tailgate for the weekend. Before school started Hubs asked Tracey to look for tickets for the Iowa-Michigan game. I assumed Josh, Adam or Graham would be going with him. It wasn’t gong to be me.

I’ve never understood the reasoning behind “going” to the game as opposed to “watching” the game at home. Everything about the game is better on TV than in person. You don’t have to worry about the weather, parking, the humongous expense of tickets. You can watch all the replays, don’t have to stand in line for 10 minutes to pee. (One thing I noticed in the 30 year gap between attending games. The ‘official’s time out’ are more frequent and very, very long. It’s quite possible to forget what sporting event you’re attending). My snacks are better and I don’t have to pay 5 dollars for bottled water. It’s gotta be the atmosphere and camaraderie, but just how appealing is being scrunched in with 110,000 strangers, most of whom stand through most of the game? Nil. Absolutely zero appeal for me.

A month ago Shannon, Tracey and Peyton took us out for supper for our anniversary. A place we’d not tried before called The Black Rock. Unique joint, your steak comes to the table partially cooked on a 750 degree black rock (thus the catchy name). Your server tells you approximately how much longer to cook that puppy (steak really, there were no puppies on the menu) once you flip the meat for how rare you prefer). We got a fancy dessert afterwards and had a really nice time.

I opened our cards at the table and out slips 2 football tickets for Iowa-Michigan on October 5th. Oh. Well it has been 32 years. However, it didn’t feel like there had been sufficient time to let my grudge go. I’m still in the rookie phase. But the thoughtful gesture was unmistakable. Shannon had attended an event for a former high school classmate who had recently passed away. Her class was establishing a scholarship fund in his name. The U of M tickets were part of the silent auction that night (meaning probably one of the 90,000 season ticket holders donated their tickets for this event). Nice. Shannon kept bidding until they were hers. I mean ours.

The game was 2 weeks away, giving me only 14 days to stew about it. (Got the tickets on the same day I fell on my replacement knee so you can see why I had some misgivings). How was I gonna use a cane with thousands of people milling about? Our seats were section 2, right behind the Hawkeyes bench in row 51. Could not imagine walking up or down 40 steps with the masses. How crowded are the seats, how close is the row in front of me? Would I ever be able to stretch out my leg instead of leaving it bent for 3 hours?

The forecast called for cloudy skies, high around 60. Game time was noon, we left about 9:30. Tracey gave us his parking pass, saving us 50 bucks. (Thanks T). We turned into Pioneer’s lot and the first Michigan tailgater yells, “welcome to Michigan, Iowa fans!” (Who are these people? Hubs was wearing an Iowa hat which was easy to spot). We know this parking lot well, our grandson Landon just graduated from Pioneer and Peyton’s a sophomore. But many of the rows are cordoned off, giving the RV tailgating people more like small neighborhood squares. I ended backing up because several rows didn’t go through. Finally found a decent spot, got out and start lumbering towards the Big House. Most people are careful when they notice my cane. We have to cross one street with literally hundreds of fans, but no one is careless or going lickety-split. We walk around (the place is MASSIVE) quite a ways until we see gate 2. I buy some kettle corn and use the restroom, hoping I won’t have to leave again during the game. We walk through the tunnel and notice we’re farther up than I realized. I’m dreading how far away row 51 is when one of the ushers looks at my ticket and says, “This is your row, down one step, left and in about 6 spaces.” Our row had a cement back. Couldn’t have asked for better seats.

We did see a couple thousand Hawkeye fans, several right behind us. The game was not the best. I think it was much more important to the Wolverines than it was for the Hawks. Harbaugh and his team were soundly spanked at Wisconsin (good times) the week before and Jim’s job longevity might have been a bit shakey. (Even though Harbaugh’s averaging 9 or 10 wins a year, he’s kinda struggling because he can’t seem to win the games that mean the most to the Michigan masses, namely MSU, Big 10 Conference winner, the final 4 of the National Championship and the biggest doozy of them all, beating Ohio State). So he really needed to win the Iowa game. And our offense forgot to show up so there’s that. All my worrying was for naught. The weather was great, the seats were good, no one swore or threw anything at us, which was a nice change. I might go back in another 30 years.

The road in front of Pioneer runs north for 2 lanes and south for 2 lanes, with a turn lane in the middle. At the end of the game the police make everyone leaving the parking lot turn south. To make this more efficient, they make all 5 lanes head south. Which is the direction that leads us back to 94, so we’re good. It takes us about a half hour to get out of the lot. Most tailgaters have no intention of leaving just yet. They simply fire up the grill, grab a beer, pull out some chairs and keep right on partying.

As my Jeep nears an opening leading to the road, I spot a blue porta-potty in the parking lot. (Somebody actually brought this along to the game? Be serious! Yes, they did). Since I’m only moving about a foot a minute, I snag my phone to snap a shot of this hilarious scene. That’s it right there in a nutshell. A small sign screwed into the side of the porta-potty which reads-Private shitter-keep out. Can you stand it? Giving a whole new meaning (and totally appropriate) to U of M’s catch phrase, GO BLUE…

I’ve made some adjustments during the past year, most were forced. Guess it’s to be expected as I age. I remember feeling kind of resentful at times when this happened with my parents. Seemed like it was one thing after another. I’d adjust to their new ‘norm’ then something else would cuff me up side the head that required another adjustment. Now some of those same annoying inconveniences are happening to me and I resent it. I’m not ready to make those changes in my life. Enough already!

I fell 2 weeks ago. Just great. Shannon invited me to go along to a flea market at the Chelsea Fairgrounds. She went last year and stressed the grounds were very uneven. “That’s ok, I’ll use my cane.” Actually I’ve been doing great-5 months post surgery with knee replacement. For 2 weeks I’d been walking 30 minutes every day, amounting to a good half mile, not burning up the pavement or setting any land speed records yet, but it’s a start, and I felt good. Listening to my tunes, feeling back to normal. Almost.

I was doing great at the flea market. Watching the ground, inclines, declines, cement cracks/potholes (deep enough to lose a foot/small child), kids, strollers, pets, yakkers not paying attention. Most of the vendors offered shabby chic items for the home, some had clothing, others foodstuffs. One dude was giving out free samples of his canned goods. A large picture of him and his granny, circa 1950 was prominently displayed. He made a point of telling me many of his products were made using granny’s recipes. I’m game and ask for a taste of Bread & Butter Pickles. He grabs a plastic fork, plunges it into the newly opened pint jar and snags an 8 inch shoestring thick rope of pickles. I daintily shove the half jar in my mouth and struggle to chew and swallow. Nothing sweet about these puppies, they taste like dead cucumbers. I compliment him on granny’s great recipe and quickly move away lest I’m tempted to try something else he’s concocted. Um, no thanks. My big purchase for the day was a bag of kettle corn, just what I don’t need but I love the stuff.

Shannon bought some wall art for her office at home. Hubs and I had a big breakfast but Shannon hadn’t eaten so I sit-guard our purchases on a picnic table while she peruses carnival fare. She’s thoughtful and hands me an ice cold Diet Pepsi because it’s really hot. We’re done and heading back to the parking lot. The path/driveway is part grass, part gravel. Honest we aren’t 200 feet from the car when my left ankle encounters a rock on the side of my foot and I go down. Hard. I land on my left hand and replacement knee and instantly roll to my back. The sky is spinning and I think I’m gonna be sick. Can’t leave my head flat on the ground so I lace my fingers together and pull my head up. The spinning slows and finally stops. My knee burns like it’s on fire. Shannon asks how I am? Knee hurts, hand hurts (from the colorful bruise on my hand, I think the curved part of my cane was under my hand when I hit the ground). I can move all my parts but just laid there for a couple minutes. I know I can’t roll over, get on my knees and stand up and I need more than one eager person (Shannon) to help with that. I spot a women’s foursome heading our way and ask if they can help stand me up? (I hate this. Really. Hate. This). I’m finally up, full of dust and heartsick about the setback.

Good thing I was wearing capris. There’s a couple of scratches/dings on my hands and knee but not bad. I limp to a nearby fence, Shannon jogs to the car to swing by and pick me up. I need ice and Motrin. I have much to be grateful for. I didn’t break anything and I think my new knee is pretty much indestructible. Actually most of the pain is in the back of my leg. Feels like I maybe hyperextended it. Two weeks later and there’s still 2 lumps/bumps on my knee. Hope they eventually disappear.

For the following week I do the bare minimum in the housework/cooking/stairs departments (not a big stretch for this lazy slug) around the house. I called Dr. Carpenter’s office for reassurance there’s not much chance I really hurt my new joint, right? I can walk but going up and down stairs like a normal person is impossible (again) and bending my leg is still very limited. But I am moving. A tad better.

There are 3 issues I must address/accept about my leg (s).

1. I am sorely lacking strength and stamina in both legs.

2. I am fairly certain my balance problems have hindered my progress. This issue is not new. I was diagnosed with Meniere’s 15 years ago, but it sure seems much more pronounced since my bad fall last summer. This scares and worries me a lot.

3. This might seem like a prideful matter, but I view it as more of a crutch/dependency issue. (Weird choice of words). If I simply look back since surgery I can only think of one instance where I thought, damn, wish I would have left my cane in the car. (More on this bizarre shopping trip in a minute). Every other single time I’ve been running errands, walking on uneven pavement or very tired from getting in and out of the car numerous times I’ve thought, why didn’t I bring my cane? I would feel better if I had my cane.

So a week ago Monday I had an appointment. Decided to make one extra stop while I was out because I had done absolutely nothing the previous week. The Sunday paper ad for Aldi had humongous bags of Halloween candy on sale. (We get between 450 and 600 trick or treaters at our house). I used my cane when I got out of the car, then realized I had no change to retrieve one of their shopping carts. No matter, I’m only gonna buy a couple bags of candy. I walked right to the candy aisle (yes I’m familiar where the sweets are-don’t judge) and was searching for the bags of 250 pieces for $19.47 when I spot a seriously jacked up bag-400 pieces (about the size of a twin mattress, only harder to handle) for $23.97. See the problem is both Hubs and I are incapable of throwing one itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny candy bar the size of my thumbnail into a trick or treater’s pillowcase (which is usually larger than the kid). It just seems cheap and pitifully tight-assy. So we toss in 2, sometimes 3.

Still, if we stick to 2 bars each, this supplies 400 kids for 50 bucks, not bad. Might have to buy a couple extra bags just in case. (We’ve run out every year and had to turn our light off early, but 2 years ago we made a terribly embarrassing mistake). We were running low on candy and I remembered a good dozen plus full-size Hershey’s candy bars (for s’mores. Yeah that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). I run to the cupboard, rip open the packages and start handing out big candy bars. Word gets out-spreads like the plague. Soon the line to our front steps is 50 deep with kids and parents and we’re out of everything except Idaho potatoes, 3 stalks of celery and a half dozen eggs. I yell an apology to the masses, close the door, lock it in case they try to storm the joint and turn off the light. (We were pleasantly surprised the next morning that our house remained egg and toilet paper free).

Back to my woeful tale at Aldi’s. So I’ve got my cane, my purse, no cart and 2 bags of candy that are measured by the metric ton. I hobble to the checkout with my cane under my arm (it does a lot of good there doesn’t it), the 2 round hay bale size bags ripping out my fingernails with every uneven/unsteady step. Ahead of me in line is a very pregnant mom with 2 small girls who are both gaping at the size of my load. Mom says, “you only got those 2 big things? Go ahead of me.” “God love ‘ya woman, thanks!”

I pay, then awkwardly move my two Hummer size bags to the extra counter where everyone bags their own stuff. I slide/push/pull/yank them along until I’m at the exit. I feel like a total fraud (because I can’t use my cane unless I get rid of one of the smart car sized candy bags). I feel like everyone is watching/recording/ me. My cane is under my arm, one 55 gallon drum bag of candy held like a baby in my left arm. My purse is hung over my head, hitting me in the gut with every wobbly step. My right hand is clinging (minus 3 fingernails, hey who needs that extra weight anyway?) to the other bag which is now skimming the ground. Hefty, hefty, hefty (me and my 2 bags). This should be titled, The Longest Walk. My Jeep looks like a tiny dot on the horizon. Actually it was the third car (no I don’t have a handicap sticker) in the row just to the left of where I was standing. (And cursing my decision to make that one extra stop or try and buy those damn kids any stinking candy).

Please God let me make it to my car, please God let me make it to my car (sung to the tune of, Shall we gather at the river)? I can’t remember ever being so happy to heave my heavy burden in the Jeep. If you see a YouTube video gone viral (just my luck) of a good sized granny with enough candy to feed a third world country for a week, limping along without her cane, which is going un-used but not un-noticed, please show some empathy and compassion. She’s trying valiantly but not getting very far…

Almost 10 years ago already. That went fast. Our fourth grandchild was born. Graham Lucas, a beautiful little towhead, swept into our lives and stole our hearts. It had been 5-1/2 years since Peyton was born so a new baby in the family was welcomed and loved.

When G was a few months old, Sarah went back to work while waiting to get into RN nurse’s training. Adam was head chef and worked every weekend as did Sarah. So Sarah’s mom watched Graham 2 Saturday nights a month and Hubs and I gladly took the other 2. The problem with this was our location. Karen lived a few minutes from the kids, we were 175 miles away. But we were thrilled to see all of them (especially Graham) often so he wouldn’t forget who we were. As if. The kid was amazing.

When Graham was about 18-20 months old and talking very well for his age, we encountered a small problem. When it was our turn to stay with G, I brought him a treat. It wasn’t a big deal except Sarah was rather adamant that Graham not eat very much junk food. He loved fresh veggies, pasta, salmon and was a great eater.

I’ve been hooked on Brach’s brand candy since I was a kid. Malted milk balls, chocolate stars, chocolate covered peanuts plus all the non chocolates they offered. Chicks and Rabbits for Easter and my favorite, Circus Peanuts. Kinda orange/peachy/yellow colored marshmallowy candy about as big as my pinky. Sickeningly sweet. Yum. I started bringing 2 Circus Peanuts in a snack bag every time we watched Graham, but kinda without Sarah’s knowledge or permission. We’d give them to Graham long before supper or shortly after. That little stinker soon realized every time we walked in the door, there was a candy treat that would be his shortly. One Saturday he’s sitting in his high chair eating thin strips of yellow pepper when we walked in. Sarah’s running around, putting on makeup when Graham pipes up, “cirt-kus p-nups. Cirt-kus p-nups!” Sarah walks through the dining area, shoving stuff around in her purse, looking for her keys, frowns and says, “what’s he saying? I can’t understand him.” “Umm, I don’t know,” I said feebly, crossing every body part she couldn’t see.

Graham’s a remarkable little kid. By the time he was 2, his vocabulary was bigger than mine. He was obsessed (in a healthy way) with all things dinosaur. He had a book containing pertinent factoids/pictures/pronunciations on every dinosaur known to man (kid) kind. He knew his stuff. You could open that 100 page book anywhere and he’d rattle off the correct name, pronounce it right, the dinosaur’s size, what they consumed, (this was no Little Golden book) where the beast lived, slept, swam, how they communicated and what size poop one could expect to see after a meal.

One weekend Hubs looked over to what was holding G’s attention for so long. He had built a fenced in enclosure on the floor, filled with tiny, plastic dinosaurs milling around in small groups, palm trees and a lone male figurine smack dab in the middle of the whole works. Grandpa said, “oh that poor guy, he’s in trouble Graham. He’s going to get hurt or stomped on by one of those carnivorous dinosaurs, probably the T-Rex.” Immediately G turns to grandpa for a teaching moment, “no grandpa, he’s not going to get hurt. He’s a paleontologist.” (I kid you not). What a character. He was 2.

Graham and I looked forward to our Saturday nights together. We started doing the corniest projects, which was highly unusual, unbelievable even, because I’ve not one crafty bone in my body. I couldn’t think of something clever to make with a 3 to 7 year old kid if I was offered a substantial cash bonus! I am taking credit for a couple things we made together, but even those projects are dicey because I made the originals when I was in grade school. Guess I’m really taking credit for something my talented teachers thought up 60 years ago.

Even though Graham was a little young, he had the patience of Job and our Saturday night craft projects held his interest until he was around 7. By then he was playing outside with neighbor kids and my goofy crafts lost their appeal. (I’m about to start the same ritual with my great-granddaughter Jovi. Should be fun and I’m looking forward to learning lots from her). Of course, many of our craft projects revolved around snacky food ingredients like Twinkies, cupcakes, bananas, Rice Krispy treats shaped into snakes, cupcakes into an enormous centipede, dirt cake that turned my cake pan into a spooky cemetery. But a couple of them, one with clothespins glued on a tin can which made a neat pencil jar I hope mom and dad save for him. My favorite was something we made for Adam for Father’s Day. I took G to one of his and daddy’s favorite spots. A neat park/pond/playground near their home. We brought a bucket along and collected lots of small stones. At home we made a big batch of salt dough, (a favorite staple for craft projects) shaped it into an oval, poked holes on the top so we could hang it and stuck the pebbles in before we baked it. DAD ROCKS. Always have special meaning for both of them since they spent a lot of time at Mill Pond Park where we collected the rocks.

This was around the time we decided to move closer to the kids. If we weren’t driving across the state for one of 12 year old Landon’s travel basketball tourney’s, it was a Peyton school party, grandparents day, a dance recital or simply to visit. Josh and Erica lived in Detroit, Adam and Sarah in Ann Arbor, Shannon and Tracey in Jackson. All within an hour of each other-except us. We were 150-180 miles from all of them. It was crazy. We were retired, living in a house too big, too expensive and too far away. An easy decision to make. We’d move somewhere at least 150 miles east. We wanted to see everyone more often but without the 3 hour drive.

Selling the house took a lot longer than we thought so we continued our weekly treks to enjoy various events. We finally moved 4 years ago. What a wonderful difference. Should Sarah get called in for an extra shift, we’re available and a half hour away. If Peyton gets sick at school while Tracey’s stuck in Ann Arbor and Shannon’s testifying in court, we’re just a few minutes from picking her up, bringing her home or to our house. It’s rare we miss anything that’s going on where family is concerned.

Graham’s gonna be 10 in a couple weeks, hard to believe. Now he’s playing flag football, little league baseball and zipping through 5th grade when I think he should be a toddler. Still a wonderful, thoughtful boy who’s a joy to be around. Hope he never changes…

We say this frequently, but seriously this time, it’s just not possible. Could it be I’m missing an alternate universe clip from my life and Rip Van Winkled my way through 20 years? I don’t feel like I’ve missed much, yet a couple of decades have quietly slipped from my life without me even realizing it.

It was a mundane Monday. I was jittery. Stomach doing flip-flops, my mouth as dry as a popcorn fart and I had unconsciously nibbled a good sized chunk from the bottom of my lip, which would prove sore for the next several days. I was in cahoots with someone, keeping secrets, both which I’m pretty good at but this was different. Life changing even.

As far as I knew only 3 people in the world knew our secret (and one was a total stranger so I wasn’t expecting him to spill the beans and announce my intentions to the world). I felt like I was wearing something akin to ‘The Scarlet letter,’ emblazoned on my meager chest. Anyone glancing upon my countenance would certainly nod as they smirked, “I know what’s going on, you’re not fooling anyone.” So I looked no one in the eye during the preceding weekend leading up to the mundane Monday.

Johnny Wayne and I had dated/split/dated/split for several years, mostly through no fault of our own. Oh I’m responsible for a couple of them because I was a fickle, spoiled little shit, though most of our breakups were caused directly from above. My parents, (not God-He was on board except for the fooling around part) usually Mom. She didn’t view John as a suitable mate for her delinquent brat and voiced her strong opinions daily. I was neither assertive or strong willed enough to fight them on this matter. Except for the mundane Monday after the preceding weekend. I just kinda grew a set, said hell no, I’m not gonna take this anymore. Whoo boy. (There would be consequences from Mom, lasting until the day she died. She may still be holding a grudge).

During that fateful weekend, Johnny Wayne and non-confrontational Neese quietly decided to elope. To stay on the down low, we opted to get hitched in South Dakota for a couple reasons. Our impending nuptials would not be published in the Sioux City Journal where hundreds of folks from our hometown would read about it ahead of time, and there was no waiting period in South Dakota. We had our bloodwork done (soon-to-be-Hubs passed out when the needle was inserted. To this day-he’ll never live that one down-hilarious).

There were a couple of hiccups of course. Had a flat tire on our way to Elk Point on Friday when we were applying for our marriage license. This had to be done before they closed at 5 so we narrowly missed the deadline. And we had no money, no place to live, bills up the wazoo, but by this time there was no stopping us. No asking permission or forgiveness and no apologies. Let’s do this.

On that mundane Monday, September 22, 1969 we (I had to drive-soon to-be groom had lost his license from speeding tickets and drag racing-what in the world was I getting myself into?) I was 18, John 21. Parked my 1968 Ford (fix or repair daily) Mustang in front of Elk Point’s beautiful courthouse about 6:50 pm and waited for our witnesses to show up. (One was Hubs roommate and a friend from our hometown-thanks Dale, the other a teaching buddy of Dale’s named Ed something, his last name is illegible on our marriage license ha-ha. He was the stranger who knew about our secretive, devious plan).

Didn’t know if my legs would propel me up the concrete steps of the courthouse and I think John was more nervous than I was. Met in the judge’s chambers, stammered our way through 3 minutes of vows, and by 7:05 we were legally wed. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change one solitary thing. Not one. Don’t even get me started on spending thousands on a stupid wedding. Instead of planning for months, over thinking, over spending, fighting who sits at what table, changing your mind about insignificant crap, how about getting married with 40 friends and relatives present and spend all that extra time working on your first 5 years of marriage because they’re brutal! If there’s gobs of money, use it for a down payment on your first home. If this mode of thought was followed religiously, (BTW God is a big help in the area of marriage longevity) the divorce rate would plummet. Trust me.

Freshly minted Hubs and I took our 2 witnesses out for a steak supper in Elk Point and bade them farewell. The newlyweds were headed for the Black Hills. We got as far as Sioux Falls before reality smacked us in the face. We had very little money and only a couple days off from work. The parts that were still thinking rationally decided we’d just hole up in a hotel for a couple days, call it good and head back to Sioux City without a bigger credit card bill.

So here we are celebrating our 50th anniversary. Feels surreal. When I think back I realize it’s not always been easy. Our marriage didn’t always include the perfect job, a decent house, vacations, or enough money to cover the bills. Sometimes it was sick kids, lay-offs, broken down cars, arguments on child rearing. Unless you’re made from a whole different dye lot than we are, marriage is hard work. We were 2 individuals with very different ideas on everything from raising kids, jobs, religion, sex, and what to do with our money (or lack of it). However, we were deeply committed and in love with each other which is paramount if your marriage is gonna work.

Except for a couple glitches here and there, the years have been good to us and have sped by at warp speed. Our 3 children are grown, successful and wonderful people. They in turn have given us 4 amazing grandchildren and one great-granddaughter. Who knew how much of a blessing your kid’s kids would be in your life? I’m up in the card category during our many years together. Hubs forgot our anniversary once. In his defense he was working on a multimillion dollar project, requiring too many hours a day as his deadline neared. (He made it easily, under budget, saving the company a million bucks). Does not negate the fact I’ve now bought 50 anniversary cards while he’s only purchased 49. Slacker.

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A couple of anniversary memories come to mind. On our first I was 6-1/2 months pregnant with Shannon. I looked so cute and felt so good. We bought a crib at a garage sale for 5 bucks (the crib slats were about a foot apart), painted it bright yellow then got a 20 dollar mattress at K-Mart. I think our kids (plus Ariana) made us a fancy supper at home for our 25th anniversary in North Muskegon.

But the one that produces the most poignant memories for me was our 10th. We were living in Spencer, Iowa (loved it there). Shannon was 8-1/2, Joshua was 4 and Adam was 10 days old. His breech birth had been traumatic for all of us and I was recovering slowly. There would be no fancy restaurant on that September 22nd. Hubs and Shannon were making supper downstairs, Josh was playing with his Matchbox collection on the floor in our bedroom, Adam had just finished nursing (my only breast-fed baby) and was laying next to me. I could barely hear John and Shannon collaborating on supper chores, plus the sound of Joshua’s cars zooming up and down on the wooden floor. I was in a semi-stupor thinking about the previous decade. Totally amazed that I was the mother of 3 and had been John’s wife for 10 years! One of my favorite memories.

Hubs folks had 58 years together before Jim passed away in 1987. My parents celebrated 62 years before Mom succumbed to non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 2004. Average that and I come up 60. Another decade together. Doesn’t sound very long does it? (We are rarely satisfied and tend to always want more). But there are many couples who never reached 30, 40, let alone 50 years together. Thanks for the first 50 God…

I assumed once ingrained as a habit, it would remain as such forever. I was clueless yet again. No surprise there. How was I supposed to know this beast had to be nurtured and encouraged like my little tykes years ago? I was grateful it hung around as long as it did. But it’s my fault it disappeared, and now I’m fighting hard for its return.

There were a couple of glitches during the first decade, lengthy pauses, but I always returned with good intentions. Until I moved to Jackson. Can’t blame Jackson but a series of untimely events made everything go haywire, and I’m having trouble reviving my routine. I still think of it as my routine, but following through and actually completing the routine has not been a walk in the park. (Which is exactly what I should be doing).

Four years ago we were living with our daughter Shannon. We had sold our lake home, stored several tons of ‘stuff’ (this after a major purge, eliminating everything unnecessary in our lives, ha-ha) and bought a fixer upper (in our mid-60’s, what were we thinking)? At the time we didn’t give much thought and actually had a pretty good time working on our new crib. We moved a month later but there was still a huge amount of work to be done. The yard and driveway were a disaster but our main concern was getting the interior comfortable before winter, so we kept working.

It was late fall. For the first time in 20 years we were living in a different neighborhood. There was a small lake but no sidewalks which is different. I was accustomed to my morning walk along the lake and never wavered from the exact same route I lumbered along for 15 years. (Anyone watching me by day 2 knew where I walked, how long I’d be gone after I stepped out of the house, all no-no’s). Along my path everyday, I knew what time every man/woman left for work and what kind of car they drove. How many kids they had, who was getting divorced, if they got new carpeting, when they took vacations and where they worshipped. All because I walked past their house every day without fail. I memorized their license plates and knew as they drove past which driveway that car belonged in. But in my 4 mile stretch I knew the names of very few people. And I’m sure none of them knew mine. They might have had trouble recognizing me in a store when I wasn’t sporting dark shades, Mickey Mouse headphones, along with my long strides and swinging arms. To them I was invisible and I was fine with that.

Now in new surroundings, I looked up and down my long block (20 houses on each side) and didn’t know exactly where to begin with my good intentions. I needed a pattern which I was sure would become routine shortly. Late in 2015 I started ‘marking my territory.’ I wanted to utilize the pretty lake nearby because Muskegon Lake was a familiar, favorite part of my walk in North Muskegon. The lake here is a couple blocks away so I made it the focal point of my morning walk, going about a mile and a half from our house, then turning around. That lasted until winter hit hard near Christmas. I had taken 2 nasty falls (6 years apart). Both spills were when it was still fairly dark out and both resulted in a fractured left elbow. After the second break I determined no more walking when it’s dark or on a surface that is slippery. Period.

In February of 2016 we had some gorgeous winter days. Sunny with temps in the 40’s. And I was so ready to get back to my routine. Not a block from home I felt a searing pain in the back of my left leg. Wisdom wasn’t currently along during this walk, thus I decided to limp my way through the pain. The price for this little error was steep. Physical therapy, cortisone shots, prescriptions and a year away from ‘my good intentions’ before my leg was almost back to normal. Still had to be careful pivoting and squatting was impossible.

You know what happened during my year’s hiatus? I got out of the habit of walking every morning which I vowed would never, ever happen. I couldn’t imagine a day where I wouldn’t take a walk. (I can remember driving down Ruddiman on my way to work and being envious of a walker as I zipped by. Mind you, I had already walked 3 miles a couple hours earlier, yet I was jealous of her walking and me in my stinking car. What the hell happened to the gal who walked during torrential downpours, blinding blizzards wearing 3 layers, humid, scalding sun, winds that nearly knocked me over, live electrical wires on the sidewalk after a storm? Where had she disappeared? That euphoric feeling after the first half mile that lingered for the rest of the day. My daily mood enhancer. Didn’t I miss that? Heck yes, but obviously not enough to start anew.

Couldn’t get the gumption to get my fat ass moving every morning again. My good intentions were so far on the back burner my pilot light blew out. I reminisced about walking-how great my walks made me feel about life, how grumpy I felt if I missed a couple days. But the months passed with nary a guilty thought anymore. I took another fall which had nothing to do walking, (because the only walking I was doing was back and forth to the fridge) hurt my right leg and just for good measure, my left elbow for the 4th time. I waited a month (to see if it would get better on its own) before going to the doctor. The news wasn’t good. Neither of my knees were in good shape, the cartilage was gone and I was facing replacement, probably for both. The fall didn’t do that, it just finally made me go see an orthopedic dude. The pain wasn’t going away so 5 months ago I had my right knee replaced.

Unlike physical therapy for my bungled up elbow when Brunhilda (the PT sadist) harped, “time is of the essence and your window of opportunity for range of motion is slipping away at a fast clip,” my knee surgeon stressed my leg would continue to improve and get stronger over the next year. I was skeptical. But those darn professionals are proving me wrong again. I’ve noticed quite a change since I hit the 4 month mark. Stride is better, not using a cane, going up and down steps is easier, even my big issue-balance is much better.

So I decided it’s time to restart my ‘good intentions’ routine again. (For keeps I hope) First thing I needed was a walking stick (staff) for a bit of stability on our crappy, pot-hole infested, uneven streets. Had Hubs buy me this gnarly vine/branch. (I resemble Charlton Heston’s version of Moses parting of the sea. Perhaps I’ll try it on the lake when no one’s watching).

I’m on my second smart-ass phone (glutton for punishment with intelligent gadgets smarter than me). Once I started walking in 1998 it became mandatory to listen to music while I walked. I could still daydream, plan my workday, but to keep moving I required tunes. At first it was the Beatles, Doors, CCR but that grew tiresome. (Sorry favorite bands, I still love you) Face it, I’ve listened to those groups for 50 years. Josh, my tech guru ‘woke’ me to pop music in the early 2000’s. I listen to different music. Good stuff but a little raunchy (it’s ok, I’m really deaf so most of the lyrics could be spoken in Latin and I probably wouldn’t notice the difference, but it keeps my feet moving and my butt in arrears).

First walk was down to the corner and back with my walking stick. Nothing else. But if I’m serious about getting into the swing of things, I’ve got to go back to what was successful for 15 years. Music. I’ve used a cassette player (which was so big it also doubled as a weight around my waist), a CD player that skipped notes with every other step and drove me insane, and a tiny iPod, which is like an antique in the electronics world. Since I’m up on all the latest technology, I thought I could use my latest phone for music while I walked. (Honest to God until a few days ago I did not realize all my music was already on my phone). Sigh.

I couldn’t remember where anything was, my shoes, special socks, headphones, iPod but it didn’t take me long to rustle up everything, and get them charged. I looked all over my phone but could not find the small round hole to plug in my headphones. (This is so lame and makes me feel old and out of touch, yet Josh never belittles or tells me I’m an idiot when I ask stupid questions). Seems I need an adapter (which is more than Apple could afford to include with my iPhone 8. You think they’re made outta money)? So my 12 yr. old iPod will suffice for now, we’re old pals.

I’m not gonna tell you all is kosher in my walking world. It’s not. Geez I need some stamina, but it’s a start and I feel good. (I’m cranking out a half mile but still getting outpaced by a garden slug). My decision to start walking and how much improved my mood is afterwards. Actually it’s been my non-surgical leg that’s been more painful and tired. Gotta say, I did get a little weepy when I reviewed my old playlists. I won’t be shopping for any new tunes just yet. Black Eyed Peas, David Guetta, Enrique Iglesias, Flo Rida, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole, JLo, Ke$ha, Kylie Minogue, Maroon 5, P!nk, Pitbull, Usher, Kelly Clarkson, Lady Gaga, Train, plus all my old favorites from Huey, Neil, Johnny Cash, Beatles, Doors, ABBA and more! (Although I don’t have any tunes by Willie, I am on the road again. Yay. Appropriately enough, the last song I listened to while walking this morning was Johnny Cash’s, Sunday Morning Coming Down). I can’t remember how to buy music anyway, plus I’m overdrawn on my dumb question quota for Josh in September…