Something’s been bothering me since I visited my home town, Rock Valley, Iowa this August. Like a little bobber on a fishing pole, dipping under the water for a nibble, tug and a miss, then resting back on the water’s surface.

The place was never much to look at, but to my folks, it was almost unattainable, thus putting it on the same level of importance and beauty as the Taj Mahal. Buying their first home after 13 years of marriage (and 3 kids). I’ve talked about the house before so I won’t go into details about the constant work Dad did over the years (under Mom’s strict tutelage and guidelines after several firm requests).

My folks lived in that house from 1955 until 2005. A half century. By the time they moved into the house on 15th Street, it was probably already 50 years old. (Generally once folks hit a certain age they grow weary updating and remodeling their homes). The same was true of my parents, but let’s say they kept updating for at least 40 of those 50 years. During those 40 years they (let’s be real-he) remodeled the kitchen and bathroom. Each twice. Tore off the long front porch and enclosed a smaller one. Added a breezeway with a zinger step, leading to a new double garage with a turn so tight, often rendering an experienced driver into a panic. Landscaping they were so proud of. New siding, roof, windows.

Added a large bedroom on the main floor, eliminating the need to sleep upstairs as they got older. The staircase of our old home was not for the feint of heart. Narrow, steep with a couple of turns that could send you sailing backwards down the steps much faster than it took going up. My bedroom, so stinking hot during August, Mom would pull my bed up to the window facing south to try and catch any breeze. The smaller bedroom behind mine with the wooden covered attic opening which is still home to a killer I saw during the night when I was 7. I had serious issues walking in there when I was in my 50’s. No one can convince me he’s not real or still up there, waiting for me. With a knife. And a wide mustache.

Much like the unique style of the rooms, (fabulous dining room) our house included an odd assortment of steps going from one room to another. Crazy. These were mostly the fault of my father (the builder-without firm plans or drawings), though it was never on purpose. From the tiny 1-1/2 inch step from the beautiful oak dining room floor to the living room carpet, to the enormous/scary/unusual plunging step of 9 inches plus from the kitchen to the breezeway, which was anything but a breeze in utter darkness. (There was a pull string just out of reach until you landed safely with both feet planted. Or not).

With all the wackiness of the rooms and odd steps, add to the mix that our family did not have many years of happiness living in the house in the middle of the block. My brother Larry was killed riding his bike 3 years after we moved to 15th Street. That right there set in motion years of mourning and slowly drifting apart from which we would never recover. A senseless, tragic death that changed everything. For all of us.

I went through my rebellious, teenage angst in that house. My sister Mona couldn’t wait to leave, marrying at 17. I left at 18. But I still have many fond memories of living in that house. Mom, sitting in her favorite chair, knitting up a storm. Her beautiful flower bed and Dad’s garden-loaded with tomatoes the size of his fist. My play house and the swing set he built. The huge unattached garage out back where Dad painted the signs for his highway outreach ministry.

Coming through the door after school, getting hit with the smell of homemade cinnamon rolls permeating through the house. Walking home for lunch and having Mom surprise me with, “let’s go shopping in Sioux Falls this afternoon, I’ll call school.” Mom making popcorn on top of the stove, covered fry pan sliding gently back and forth over the blue flame from our gas stove. Dad’s black lunch pail setting on the counter, waiting to be refilled by Mom (everything wrapped in waxed paper-even his daily banana) for another work day. Me watching (but never helping) Mom make 7 minute frosting (the absolute best, I’m still so intimidated by her ability-I have never tried to make it myself), fudge, penuche or divinity. Dad’s corner of the kitchen table holding the Bible and variety of religious material used during our lengthy devotion time before and after eating supper together.

Not everything about living in the middle of the block was unhappy, which enables my strong feelings for the home I’ve not lived in since the late 60’s. After Mom passed away in 2004, Dad was so done with that house. Duh, he worked on it non stop for 4 decades. I was ok selling the house, but honestly would have (should have) paid to keep the Gerritson phone number intact. Giving up that number (which was a lifeline when I was a teen) still hurts my heart.

So while riding around Rock Valley, we were reminiscing about classmates, homes we’d been in during our youth, places nearby where we hid while making out, old businesses, changes in our growing community. We rode past Hubs house and mine. His old house has seen many changes. New porch, addition on the back plus a garage. My house has seen many changes too, none as positive as John’s. Backyard weeds were tall, shed looked dilapidated. The blue spruce shrubs Mom planted and loved on either side of the front step were gone. Driving slowly down the alley I stopped, idling. The shingles on our steep roof were literally curling like taco shells. Now why should something like that hurt so much?

I know the house wasn’t much but my parents always had (and showed) pride in their home. It was fixed up, paid for and I dare bet, one of the cleanest homes in town. (Mom was anal about cleanliness, floors, furniture dusted, windows sparkling). Some of my friends had nicer homes but many classmates had homes similar to ours. I was never ashamed to invite my friends over. But seeing its dismal condition recently really has me in a funk about it.

A couple weeks ago my friend Wanda messaged me, “hey Denise, I think your old house is for sale.” What, we were just there. I checked but couldn’t find anything until she literally sent me the link. Sure enough, there’s my childhood home. Looking sad, even a bit ratty, but the pictures weren’t too bad (except for that damn roof, geez slap on some new shingles please).

What can I say? That it would make a good investment for a decent rental with a few bucks stuck in it. Maybe the amount of money needed exceeds the income it would generate for a new owner. Or maybe it’s a hopeless case, and the neighborhood would be better served if someone bought it, tore down and started over. As much as it would bother me having it torn down, seeing it go downhill reminds me how much I dreaded seeing my parents fail the last few years of their lives. It’s just a house. I know. A neglected, worn out house. But for many years it was my home and got me (us) through some tough times. I wish it was fixed up, looking spiffy. Nurtured and enjoyed by a family who took pride in ownership again…

I’d forgotten how upset I was after receiving the first letter. It’s been a long time, but when the second envelope arrived, it all came flooding back. Thinking about the circumstances leading up to my rather unattractive meltdown. Ugh. At least I’d been alone. It’s been about 15 years. I would venture everyone thinks about how they’d react, what’s expected of them if they’re selected. I did. Being responsible. Making a difference.

The 5 years preceding the first summons had been tumultuous for me. Mom and Dad were both on a downward spiral and I was 750 miles away. I visited for a week about every 3 months but it’s not the same as hopping in the car for a half hour ride to their house every couple days. Like clockwork I noticed with dismay, the changes in their demeanor, behavior and overall health every time I stepped foot into my childhood home.

At the time, my job consisted of 20 hours a week, and I could set my own hours, which was helpful taking all those trips to northwest Iowa. I was Parish Visitor and the ordeal I was experiencing with my parents was happening to most of the folks and their families I visited on a regular basis. Still, it’s much harder to deal with all the complexities involved when it’s your own parents. A small part of me was resentful every time I went home. (Not about the time spent with them, helping with chores and cooking. Those I really kind of enjoyed and knew how grateful they were for my help. Some peace of mind when their freezer was fully stocked with measured out meals, sweet breads, cookies, soups, even homemade fudge and penuche). But I didn’t want and wasn’t ready to face the new crop of health and emotional issues every time I came back. I wasn’t ready to accept that during the last 90 days one or both had slipped another notch.

I was going through some stuff myself. Menopause had struck, rendering me irritable, forgetful, sleepless, losing my hair, developing homely new age spots on my hands and face, plus hot flashes (without warning) at the most inopportune and embarrassing times. What a freakin trip. Man wish I could have a do-over for that half decade.

Then this whole ‘noggin’ issue started up. What first felt like weird allergies/cold/funny feeling in my head in the beginning eventually led to a hearing loss diagnosis. Which did not seem like such a big deal. My ENT’s recommendation was getting a hearing aid for the ‘good ear’ which then sent magnified sounds to my impaired ear. Which worked well-for a couple years-until I began losing hearing in my, thus far, perfect ear. Well heck. ‘Lefty’ was losing the ability to hear and understand clearly at an alarming rate so the consensus was to deal with my right ear exclusively and get a new hearing aid.

My hearing loss was now saddled with 2 complications. First and foremost was the noise. How is that even possible? If you’re deaf, your world should become silent. Oh what I wouldn’t give for golden silence. Complete quiet. My head feels too big-oversized (no, we’re not talking ego, introvert here, try to keep up), filled with constant racket. Sounds like a wind tunnel, chain saw, dentist drill, snow from a TV station off the air, live wire pinging on the ground after a lightening storm. All these loud sounds at different times. But never given a break from them all at once. Since 1998 I have not had one second of silence. Not one. Ever. This is caused by my brain trying to help me as I continue to struggle deciphering the spoken word. As more sounds become garbled, my brain started making goofy noises to compensate for words I had trouble understanding. These words are not unfamiliar to me but cause me all kinds of problems because they’re somewhat similar. Like late and lake. Only one letter difference but to a deaf person, I don’t often hear the end of a word. (Not helping brain-at times it’s enough to drive me crazy). The other biggie is Meniere’s syndrome, which causes fluctuations in my inner ear affecting my balance. Holy cripes. (Still, could have been much worse. At least it wasn’t my eyes. Thanks for that God).

And that’s when I got the first letter. Jury duty, in the form of a summons (basically no choice-it’s your civic duty, which I wholeheartedly endorse and agree). But I had huge misgivings about serving. Would if I were seated on the left of a testifying witness? Well forget about it. No way I’d understand what they’re saying. Same if a young child was giving testimony. So I called my ENT and asked what I should do? “No problem, we’ll write you a note.” (felt like I was back in school). “Pick it it tomorrow and send it along with your jury questionnaire.”

When I picked up the doctors note it was in an envelope but not sealed. After I got in the car I took out the letter and read it. Besides a hearing aid this was the first concrete documentation of my deafness. I thought I’d never forget the stark realization of those words but I simply can’t remember them verbatim. (And why didn’t I make a copy? Now that was dumb). But the message came through clearly. Something like, “Denise has a PROFOUND hearing loss and does not have the necessary tools to adequately serve as a juror. Please excuse her.”

The word profound hit me so hard, I just sat there and sobbed. ‘Profound’ made it so real and inevitable. This was never gonna go away or get better. Probably get worse (which it has). No it wasn’t a serious or terminal diagnosis like cancer, merely a tiny blip in my life. But both ears. Why both? One was bad enough. I felt pretty low for weeks. In a funk, wallowing in self pity.

Well I just got another jury duty summons in the mail. We moved 150 miles east 4 years ago to be closer to our kids and grands. Guess county jury duty information, exemptions do not move along with you. My first instinct was to make an appointment with my primary care guy and have another note written to excuse me again. I happened to mention it to my brilliant clinical psychologist daughter who then asked, “why don’t you want to be on jury duty? I think you’d find it very interesting.” “Well because I think I’d have a lot of trouble understanding what’s being said.” Shannon responded, “Mom, I was just testifying in court and the defendant couldn’t hear. Took them about 2 minutes to hook her up with headphones. It’s not a big deal. What’s the worst that will happen? You’ll be excused. My guess, you probably won’t be called at all.”

So I resisted the urge to get an excuse for sidestepping my civic duty. Filled out my questionnaire, stuck it in the prepaid envelope and threw it in the mailbox. Assuming most courtrooms now come equipped with headphones. I’ve been using headphones for years in movie theaters and at home to watch TV. They’re cordless with adjustable volume control. And if they don’t offer headphones, or I pose problems not foreseen, I’m sure I’ll be excused. Not as big of a deal as I surmised. I can do this. Just hope they’re patient and ready for-“huh? Would you mind repeating that? What? Did he say cat or calf?” Oh brother duck….

You can’t really argue. We’ve all got them. Insignificant telltale signs which make us unique. These very personal oddities don’t require a label or diagnosis from a highly educated professional. We’re perfectly fine. Really. Except for a few crazy quirks.

I’ll start. One of my Mom’s favorite colors was orange. For a time during the 1970’s she had orange kitchen cupboards, plus loud curtains and bedspreads sprinkled liberally with orange, lemon yellow and avocado. I like orange too. My high school colors were orange and black. I can picture a couple of tops in my closet right now that are orange.

When we moved to Jackson 4 years ago, we had our bathroom gutted and remodeled. I couldn’t decide on a color scheme for accessories. Rugs, towels. I’ve never embraced the theme of bath, hand towels, wash cloths, with matching rugs. It’s just too much. Wash cloths are my downfall. I can’t buy matching ones because they’re usually way too plush and thick. So my bath towels are deep plum color and match nothing. My stack of hand towels are stripes of grey/turquoise/black/tan striped with another couple along the same line but with periwinkle/maroon/black/tan. (I am a hater of any bathroom accessories containing white. Think make up, dirty hands, shoes, feet and toothpaste). Then I bought a dozen colorful wash cloths-just for my face. Robust, bright colors, not too plush, but just the right thickness. Because I’m worth it. Yellow, lime, hot pink, lavender, aqua and orange. But I had an immediate aversion to the orange wash cloths. Makes no sense. Whenever I open the cupboard for a clean wash cloth and an orange one is sitting on top, I gently place it on the bottom of the pile. This way I have several preferable colors before I have to turn away one of the 2 orange ones. The easy way out is just to remove the 2 orange wash rags from my rotation, yet I’m compelled to leave the two offensive orange ones with the rest of their siblings. They never get washed so remain a bit brighter than the others. This my friends is one of my quirks. But I’ve accepted this handicap and moved on with my life. For now.

Facebook posts. Not so much memes friends post, most of them make me laugh out loud. (Not even going to start on the political crap-for now-I’m still ignoring them). Stay strong Neese, scroll right on by or hide those suckers from your newsfeed. Don’t get pulled in, there is no chance of reasoning or winning. Ever. But once in a while someone posts something so vague, I can’t imagine what they need, or are even trying to say. These are different than when a member of your family is facing a serious health issue they’re not ready to share, thus only prayers are requested without any details. I’m fine with this vagueness. The posts that trip my trigger will read something like this: “Well, that made me feel like shit today.” No explanation, nothing further. Do you give it a thumbs up, a heart, a wow? Any comment is borderline crazy because you might really be indicating the wrong thing. So you’re left out in the nether regions with a furrowed brow thinking, why even post something like this? What are they trying to achieve? Makes no sense. Makes me nuts (maybe that was their goal all along). Ha, guess they showed me. Well played vague Facebook post. This is one of my (many) irks.

Some of you must have issues with robo calls. Most of these calls will originate from your own area code. Their rationale is you’re more likely to answer the call if it’s local. My robo call randomness seems to go in spurts. One day I might get 6, then nothing for a day or 2, followed by a phone feeding frenzy from everywhere. I haven’t had a call from intimidating, female monotone “courthouse official” saying they’re issuing an arrest warrant for me in a while, so that’s been a pleasant respite. But I have had a half dozen calls from freaking Liberia. What in the world is that about? I’ve pretty much accepted there are approximately 2 dozen people in the world who might want or need to call me occasionally. Everyone who’s actually friend or family knows of my hearing loss. So they text, iMessage or use messenger. (A note about me and my friend the messenger. I like to think of it as a means to have a private conversation with someone (or several someones) without using an actual phone. I’m not crazy about memes sent to me to be forwarded. I don’t and won’t. Isn’t that what Facebook’s about? Wanna talk to me, use iMessage or messenger. Want me to see something funny, post it on Facebook. It’ll be on my newsfeed, not to worry. I follow all my friends). I guess our government is tired of hearing folks complaining about robo calls and is looking for ways to stop them. Yup robo calls are a definite irk.

I might have a problem with toilet paper. Sigh. Since I’m the one who removes and replaces the roll (it has to be Northern-does this qualify as a quirk? Asking for a friend). I place the roll going under with the paper against the wall or cabinet. It’s just the person I am, although I’m in the minority on this from what I hear from the haters. Everyone else in the world puts the roll on ass backwards over the top. I’m not trying to change anyone else’s mind, but as for me and my house, the roll shall remain ‘going down under.’

So I made a small turkey (with all the fixings) last Sunday because it’s Landon’s favorite meal (he leaves for Holy Cross soon). There were 10 of us but I’m discounting Jovi, the Hubs, Landon’s girl friend Lainie because she’s never been to our house before, (therefore uninformed of my toilet paper rules), and me from this dastardly incident. One of the remaining 6 suspects replaced the toilet paper roll-GOING THE WRONG WAY. In my own house. Yup, that’s the thanks I get for cooking a great meal including fresh peach cobbler and strawberry pie. I’m thinking of hiring Liam Neeson, including his phone. He will find you. You’ve been warned. Irked-up a notch.

Little did I know 4 years ago when I attended Landon’s first varsity basketball game that I was starting a tradition that would require absolutely no changes in the way I kept stats on the kid during his prolific high school career. I bought this small, neat leather journal to use. At the time I didn’t know how much information I wanted to keep so part of his freshman season is a bit sparse. But I got better at counting his minutes of playing time and some stats I didn’t deem very important but others do. Like assists, rebounds, turnovers, fouls. I was all about the minutes played and points. But I got in a certain rhythm with his stats. I’d chart the date, opponent, if he started on top. Draw dividing lines (not always very straight) to track each quarter. Down the left side I’d start with LU (layup), J (jumper), 3 (3 point shot) and FT (free throw). Skip a couple lines and follow with the rest that didn’t get tracked as well, adding minutes and the score. Twice in 4 years I veered off course with some disastrous results. Once I forget the journal at home and had to use a scratch pad. Number 3 had an off kilter game, plus they lost when they should have won. The second time I messed up I filled out this sheet at home on the afternoon of the game. Wrong. I needed to do this while I watched him warm up right before tip off. Duh. Not good for Landon’s game. My fault. Sorry dude. Quirk.

Inanimate objects. My anger has no boundaries. Dumb stuff like dropping the end of a radish or a lid on the floor. Missing when I try and scoop it up. Twice. Or not paying attention and miss the doorknob hauling in 3 bags of groceries. Certainly all these little blips from life are my fault-maybe that’s why I get so irked. But from failing to snag a Kleenex to trying to start a grocery list when the first 4 pens will not write-truly drives me nuts. Irk.

What remains? Oh right, still my # 1-irk of the decade. Driver’s who camp out in the left lane. How can it be so hard to pass a car and return to the right lane? Do you feel threatened when someone wants to drive faster than 68 or 71? Not your fault or responsibility. Let them get the ticket. Laugh when they get pulled over. It’s the small joys that give your life meaning. Give them (me) some space and move over…

I’ve lived in Michigan almost half my life, yet consider Iowa my home. There is a deep abiding affection when I reminisce about my native state. I hold my home town, Rock Valley close to my heart. I can’t foresee a time when I don’t get choked up thinking about Iowa. In my immediate family however, I’m in the minority with these heartfelt thoughts. Our three children have all lived in Michigan much longer than Iowa and none nurture that strong pull/loyalty/love for Iowa like I do. All have graduated from high school, college, graduate school, found spouses, had kids-in Michigan. This is their home. I get it.

You’re gonna think I’m being petty. Perhaps you’re right. A piece of my heart literally broke in Iowa recently. After all these years of my undying loyalty and warm fuzzies. Really, where is the love? Ever since we left Iowa in 1987 there’s been many reasons to go back. Family was a biggie. Both sets of parents and all siblings still made Iowa their home. Most of our vacation time was spent in our native state. For decades. And what do I get in return? Nothing. It’s over. Kaput.

See it was all a ruse. I methodically used, “yeah, I gotta go stay with my folks for a week.” Cooking and baking for days so their freezer was packed like a can of oily sardines before I left for the airport again. The martyr visits, fooling people into thinking I was really ‘there’ for them and no other reason. I lied.

It started several months ago as I perused Facebook. Something was afoot in my favorite state. (note: I didn’t say favorite spot. Not gonna fib about this. Favorite spot is Niagara Falls-hands down). Some seriously rich guys were investing mega bucks into something very dear to my heart and taste buds. No, not corn, beef or hogs although I’m partial to all 3. Much more significant than just what keeps Iowa’s farming economy revved up. And it does have a strong connection with moo cows.

It’s all about the Wells. A band of brothers with more money than they know what to do with (think heated driveways in Iowa-what a hoot, second, third and 4th homes and probably as many wives). These guys have had the world as their oyster for decades. A few years ago they opened a quaint ice cream parlor on Highway 75 in the ice cream capital of the world, Le Mars, Iowa. A quirky establishment with an antique restored milk delivery truck permanently parked outside. Couldn’t rake in the bucks fast enough, so they up and moved the store. Huh? Chose a building a few blocks east on Le Mars’ main downtown strip. Spent major coin designing another cute ice cream/souvenir shop. Place could handle a pretty good size crowd. Nostalgic tabletops showing how Wells Blue Bunny got their start-with black & white photos. You were happy to sit and enjoy a scoop, sundae, shake, cone, and revel in the cuteness of everything Wells. Oh cripes.

But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. So another huge remodel got underway last fall. New color scheme, conference room, and party room. Roof top seating covered with solar shades to ward off some of Iowa’s glorious sun. The souvenir shop size was diminished and moved. Wall art was added. I was giddy with anticipation. Couldn’t wait to visit and order my ice cream. Sorry ’bout the drool.

It’s my goal to have ice cream everyday I’m in Iowa. Every. Single. Day. It’s not that I’m crazy about ice cream in general. During the summer, I eat a soft serve twist cone once a week in Michigan as a treat. But there’s this thing about Wells Blue Bunny ice cream. They make this flavor I can’t get anywhere else. Blue Bunny Ice cream wasn’t even sold in Michigan until recently. And only like the top 10 flavors. Not the ONE flavor I’ve literally traveled thousands of miles for in the last 30 years. (Kind of like a religious pilgrimage/while scamming everyone that I was really there to see them-ha).

I’ve enjoyed Wells Blue Bunny Ice Cream since I was a little girl. Their extraordinary flavor is called CHERRY NUT. Pink colored ice cream with chunky pieces of maraschino cherries and hunks of chopped walnuts. That’s it. Not readily available anywhere, it remains the number 1 reason I continue to drive 750 miles west. I kid you not.

We arrived in Le Mars late one morning last week to take our nephew Andy out for lunch. We’re all hungry for Mexican food and meet him at a joint. Food was ok. Andy’s on his lunch break from work but has just enough time to scoot for a scoop at Wells. We walk in and I wander around for a few minutes, admiring the wealthy boy’s (probably closer to my age. I’ve got to stop calling them boys. They need to be held accountable for their bad decisions). The decor is cute, but not any cuter than the last 2 times they opened a parlor for their money-making-shtick. Eager young faces peer at me from behind a long, long counter, courting multiple 5 gallon round cartons of every imaginable ice cream flavor known to mankind. “I’ll have a good sized bowl of CHERRY NUT please.” Well(s) had flavors up the wazoo-everything but-CHERRY NUT.

I felt light headed, the fringe of my peripheral vision dims. Voices sound very far away and I think I’m gonna faint. “You don’t have CHERRY NUT? Now? You ran out? I can wait.” The only worker who’s older than 12 steps conspiratorially close to me and softly mumbles, “no ma’am, they’ve discontinued CHERRY NUT. Permanently.” Well(s) my life’s shattered. There is no reason to go on (ok, I’m still planning on attending my class reunion-but as a broken woman-without purpose. No goals. I’m seriously in a funk). “How could they? Do they realize what they’ve done? That I’ve driven to Iowa every year-for 3 decades-just for WELLS BLUE BUNNY CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM? 750 miles. For ice cream. Would it help if I bought some cherries and walnuts? Did they finally run out of money?”

“I’m very sorry. We don’t understand the reasoning in their decision either. They discontinued peach about a week later. CHERRY NUT is no longer available in the grocery stores either, I’m afraid. I can relay your disappointment, but your disapproval would have much more of an impact if you complained to the head office.”

“Oh, those little shits are gonna hear about it. Mark my words, they will see the error of their ways. After all the money/praises I’ve lavished. How could they? Honestly, how could they hurt me so? Umm, I’ve never been in this position before. I don’t know what to order. I’ve never tasted another flavor. I’m lost and afraid. Please help me.”

“Well(s) we have butter pecan, moose tracks, strawberry, blah, blah, blah.” Just stop, I’m gonna be sick. The rest of the day was a blur. I think I gave Andy a hug goodbye and pushed him towards work but I really don’t remember.

My sister-in-law Mary Jane came through though, after we had supper with them at Archie’s. She had a half gallon of bootleg CHERRY NUT. (That woman remains a mystery. I didn’t ask how the CHERRY NUT was obtained-she just knows people). CHERRY NUT has always been made by Wells, then packaged for various grocery chains. After a great steak I wasn’t craving much of anything but I did myself proud. Ate as much CHERRY NUT as I could. Took one for the team. The CHERRY NUT flavor was somehow enhanced with the realization this might be the last time I’m ever really happy and content for the rest of my life.

Two odd things happened since. Well more than 2 really. My vision eventually returned which was good. You know how I am about ‘real’ books. I want to hold them, turn the pages-literally-while I read. I had some catching up to do with an author I love named John Sandford. He’s written a series for 20 years about a cop from Minneapolis named Lucas Davenport. So I ordered the last several in the series and was on maybe my 5th Lucas book in a row. (Sandford writes an even better series about a coworker of Davenport’s named Virgil Flowers. I love him). Anyway, I’m reading this novel about this gorgeous young woman who’s running for the Minnesota senate. She’s a freakin nut case/psycho but Lucas can’t prove it (actually pretty close to the whack jobs we have in the senate now-truly not funny-but certainly resembles some of the lifers we continue to elect). Lucas needs to question her while she’s campaigning and she walks out of her trailer, eating an ice cream cone. Lucas thinks it’s CHERRY NUT, one of his favorites. (Just shoot me now. He’s going to be so disappointed too).

Recently I read a comment on my last blog story (about my class reunion) after I failed to hook up, (time was of the essence and mine was running out) with one of my Facebook friends, Renee’ from Rock Valley. She invited me to her house next time I’m in town-for CHERRY NUT ICE CREAM! Now how am I supposed to deal with that kind of negativity in my life? Living/coping/pretending-in a world that’s Well(s) CHERRY NUTLESS….

Long ago, in a small Dutch town, the choices were not only limited, we had no say in the matter. Doesn’t sound fair does it? Adults weighed the pros and cons without seeking any advice from us on the matter. What these parents may have considered a minor decision of no consequence would have a huge impact on a group of 45 pounders, happily playing outside during the last, lazy days of summer during August, 1956.

What we didn’t realize, (we were only 5 at the time) the conversations of our parents that summer would be life changing. For some families there was no discussion, others might have been torn trying to decide which way to go. Could really go only 2 ways. You either sent your kid to Rock Valley Community School or the Christian School.

The church my parents were attending for the 3 years prior preferred sending their children to the small Christian School exclusively. But for some reason Mom & Dad sent me to the public school (a mere 2 blocks from our house). Don’t know if they couldn’t afford the tuition for 3 kids because I never asked. In my heart I know I would have been just fine had my parents chosen a different school choice path for their youngest wayward child, but that’s real hard to see when I’m reminded of the life long relationships with the core group of 5 year olds I met on those first days of school.

Our initial kindergarten group wasn’t very big. Two classes, morning and afternoon, each about 20 kids. But Rock Valley was growing and it was with manufacturing and retail, plus a few more farmers. A couple of factories were booming, more workers were hired, bringing in new families. Over the years families moved in and out, (Reinke’s in-Harmon’s out) but this initial group remained-bound at the hip. For better or worse. By the time we were finished meeting on a daily basis, the class of ’69 would number closer to 60.

Did you catch the part about ‘on a daily basis?’ Think about that for a minute. Say what you want about a humongous graduating class of 350, 500 or more, but this fact remains. The starting team of our 1956 kindergarten would attend school TOGETHER over 2,300 days. With 180 days of school a year averaging about 7 hours, we were TOGETHER over 16,000 hours. Just in class TOGETHER. Yes there was an imaginary (social) caste system (ha-ha-gotcha, I did learn something in school) some cliques, friends for life while other friendships faded, but our basic group remained intact. And those were just the required hours of learning.

Extra curricular activities, speech, sporting events, shopping trips, bowling alley pizzas, camps during the summer, Lake Okoboji, cheerleading, swimming, yakking on the phone (my phone number was 691), slumber parties, pep rallies, bus rides to and from games, field trips. The class of ’69 spent some quality time together. Seriously. For 13 years. Longer than many marriages these days. Wow. We did good. Really good.

From tears on the first day of school with some frightened tykes wanting to go back home, to skinned knees, resisting our nap time with the shades pulled, broken bones from playing too rough during recess or PE. Watching one of our classmate’s tongue get stuck to a frozen slide pole during a cold spell (I’m being kind here. An Iowa cold spell means not getting above zero-sometimes for several days in a row, but we still played outside for recess and after lunch).

At the beginning of each new school year as our class continued to age and grow, you were never guaranteed who would be in your class, which fabulous or so-so teacher you might have. This was good and bad. You might be separated from your bestie for 7 hours a day, but it was a unique opportunity to get better acquainted with some other kids who weren’t in your (social circle) the previous year either. And everyone from our class still had lunch together and recess.

So do kids from gigantic schools have the same ‘close’ feeling like our core group from a small, rural Iowa town? I find it hard to believe that a group of 350 just goes around hugging everyone in the class during reunions, but hey, maybe they do. More likely though, you stick with your small group of kids you ran around with most of the time when you were in school. That’s how the caste system really works.

As hard as it is to fathom, my class of ’69 had another reunion last weekend. I wonder if anyone ever actually thought about being OUT of high school for 50 years? I sure didn’t. Our turnout was terrific. I was hopeful 20 classmates plus spouses would show, and the number was about double that. My theory on this is things change drastically after your 25th reunion. Everyone’s pretty much done with one-upping anyone, no one cares if you’ve gained weight, got new joints, have less or no hair, nor the color. We’re way past house size, and high paying stressful jobs. Our conversations now include bragging about the kids and grandchildren. When those subjects have been depleted, we’ve all got health issues that require second, third or 4th opinions.

Still it’s scary when you walk in (like the first day of a new school year). Unless I’m friends with them on Facebook, there’s only a handful of kids I actually recognize. It’s the truth. And no one recognizes me. No one. Ah well, it is what it is. There were several tables set up and 30 people milling around when Hubs and I arrive. I’m looking for ANYONE who looks vaguely familiar and praying there are name tags or I’m gonna have to say Denise Gerritson 50 times throughout the night. Although I can’t remember who said it, this is one of the best lines I heard, “we were sitting at the table when you walked in-trying to figure out who you were. After we decided you were Denise, we all could pretend to know who you were all along!”

I talked with several friends I hadn’t seen for decades, but it wasn’t at all awkward. It was, I’m glad you’re here, let’s catch up with each other-time. Good for the soul visits. Let’s not wait so long again in between chats. You look great. How’s the family?

I wasn’t the nicest kid in school. Heck, I’m still not nice. But I have matured a bit. I want to thank each of my superlative classmates from the bottom of my heart for their part in my story whether it was huge or tiny. When I was a shit, I apologize, even though it’s come years too late. (Yes, I see several nodding heads. Don’t know if you’re in agreement of my shittiness or just dozing off out of boredom). Back then, I didn’t realize what a huge impact all of you would make on my life. How often I’ve thought about being on the playground with different kids, telling scary stories on the merry-go-round as daylight faded, or an evening school party that’s made me smile and give thanks I was along for the ride.

There was a memorial board at the reunion with notes about the classmates we’ve lost over the years. Eight kids-gone too soon. Over 10% and none of us have reached the age of 70 yet. A sad and sobering moment. Laura Vogelzang, Pam Bunch, Harv Voetberg, Wayne Miller, Rod Hulsolf, Tom Gayer, Andy Kaupins and one of my best buds from school, Randy Vandevelde. You are missed and thought of often.

A special shout out to one of my oldest buddies, Dave Suter for remembering the horror movie, Mr. Sardonicus we saw during a blizzard in 5th grade. I was so petrified, I begged Dave to walk me home from the theater in waist high snow.

A big thank you for the crew of classmates (led by Sue) who threw our reunion shindig together. You guys did an awesome job and we appreciate the effort you put into our special night together. Another heartfelt thanks to Robert and Lorna Huyser for hosting the venue. Next time, let’s shoot some hoops! So, no sarcasm, no tall tales, just love, appreciation and a grateful heart on how lucky I was to be included in the class of ’69. Thanks for that. Neese…

Have you ever mulled the time frame of your birth? Not something minute like the exact minute but more like a certain era, decade or century? Wish you’d been born earlier to experience some part of history you’ve only read about? Or perhaps a few years later-or farther into the future? When I reminisce about my 1950’s-1960’s childhood, there’s not much I’d change. I’m forever grateful when and where I was born, although I really could stand to be a few years younger. I’d take better care of myself. Hindsight. Karma.

After discussing Hubs’ childhood, here I am typing about the dude again. I guess it was the part where I listed all the different crap (useful stuff though) he can do, most without formal training that brought this on. He’s just a handy guy. So when he says- “man I wish I’d been born when”- I can’t really roll my eyes too far back. (makes me dizzy anyway) Because with Hubs capabilities, he could have easily made them a reality.

When we’re watching a western this is how the conversation starts. He’ll say, “I wish I’d been born when the West was young.” (Just shoot me now). He gets giddy (up) at the prospect of being part of a wagon train. A. Wagon. Train. For real. Covering a whopping 10 miles a day over rough terrain, (much like Michigan’s roads today, just at a faster clip to fully experience the sheer magnitude of our ginormous potholes). No rest stops or bathrooms smelling of disinfectant. Nada on the fast food restaurants or hotels offering clean, hot showers and freshly laundered sheets. With king size beds. I mean, where’s the appeal in that?

Staking his claim to 40 acres and living off the land. Plowing virgin fields. With oxen. (I don’t even know what they are. Or care). Hubs, a sweaty hot mess, tripping over rocks, tree stumps, but happy and content. Listening to his iPod while plowing:

Me & you and a dog named Boo

Traveling and livin’ off this land.

Me & you and a dog named Boo

How I love bein’ a free man.

Building a log cabin before winter sets in. With his bare hands. Emailing his list of construction requirements to Menard’s, anxiously awaiting all the lumber, plumbing, wallboard, cordless drills, (has to be cordless because there’s no electricity out there yet) nail guns and fixtures to be delivered. Right. Being several miles from your closest neighbor. More than that from the closest town. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

Not to this chick. I’ve come to terms long ago and readily admit to being a loner. For the most part I enjoy my own company and don’t feel the compulsion to be entertained by others. But I’m not crazy about back breaking work either. Truth is, I’m lazy. There’s something very appealing about a warm/cool, well lit home with scads of unread books at my fingertips. Spiffy new glasses when I notice the fine print is getting harder for me to read. Fresh, clean tap water with the touch of a handle, not pumping outdoors during all kinds of inclement weather. Maybe if I’d never experienced some of these luxuries, I’d be more inclined to hop on that wagon train with John.

OK, I’ll just come right out with it. I’m a wuss. Although I hope never to require the use of many of these products, their availability is highly appreciated-like antibiotics, novocain, epidurals, root canals, hospitals, grocery stores, ready made clothing, comfortable shoes, refrigeration, natural gas, crisp, soft sheets on an 18 inch mattress. Love my Jeep with heated seats, air conditioning, waiting in my garage until I decide I need to go somewhere.

Hey, its not like I’m without some of the necessary skills. I can sweep, mop, clean and cook. Even can my own meat, spaghetti sauce, veggies, jams, pickles and beets but everything’s been simplified for me. Dependable stoves, pressure cookers, jars, lids, hot running water, Dawn. They’ve just made it too easy for me to backtrack. Here’s the real game changer. I’m so spoiled when it comes to canning. Just check my canning journal, see when it’s apricot season or cucumber time. Find the dude who grows what I need, hop in the car with some cash in hand and off I go. I grow absolutely nothing. (That’s why God made Farmer’s Market). I don’t want to grow anything. Weeding doesn’t make me feel good. Preserving fruits and vegetables makes me feel good. And tastes good, but I’m not compelled to grow it myself.

I don’t think I would have made a very good pioneer woman. There’s not a lot of appealing lure for me to wear flouncy, stiff fabric dresses, corsets, shawls (I’d probably start myself on fire) or clunky, ill fitting shoes. Here’s the deal. I’m more of a shower, wash my hair everyday kind of girl. I get bitchy if I miss a day of either one. I guess that’s why I find books like The Outlander series totally unrealistic and implausible. (I enjoyed reading them but some aspects are so far from reality). Here’s my cliff note version.

The weather has been a constant, bone chilling, freezing rain/drizzle for 5 days straight while you and your significant other travel 4 miles a day with one horse so you have to take turns walking. You’re hitched (arranged marriage so you’re still virtual strangers in every department, except sex. Exploration there has been a rousing success. Every which way and constantly, even though he suffered a serious stab wound a week prior and his shoulder was dislocated). He’s valiantly trying to outrun a band of ne’re-do-wells who are hell bent on killing the hurt husband and doing some indescribable icky stuff with you, letting every lucky guy in their crew have a turn. Your one meal a day consists of a small piece of tough as nails jerky and a biscuit that’s showing some colorful mold, is hard as a brick, (so you haven’t pooped for a week, plus you ran out of Charman 2 weeks ago). You’ve been sitting on a stinky horse 6 hours a day, walking for another 3, don’t own a toothbrush or a bar of soap, your hair’s so greasy it hangs in attractive clumps and smells much like the hog yard. Yet you can’t wait to stop for the night so you can jump Jaime’s bones every freaking night for hours. On the ice cold, slick, sleet covered ground. Without a shower or warm bed. Because he’s just so hot. It’s true, you can make this shit up! Nope this is one scenario I never daydream about. This is like my worst nightmare. Sorry Hubs…

I haven’t specifically talked about my long, long, long time spouse since I started blogging. He’s actually an integral part of my life. A huge part of my story. Maybe I’ve been remiss. Often the idea of my next blog post of this never ending story just kinda writes itself (I just tap out a few keys). Still, most of my life has been intertwined in the life of Johnny Wayne. (He’s been ‘John’ ever since he left Rock Valley in 1966). So here’s a snippet of the Hubs’ childhood.

The youngest of 5, his birth was not planned. When he was born, his 4 older sibs ranged in age from 4 to 18. (When I think of how Shannon would have reacted had I told her I was pregnant when she was a senior in high school, I still get a dry mouth and a twitch in my eyelid). But birth control was quite limited when John was conceived in 1947.

John was born handy. He’s just always known how to do stuff. (Although I don’t think he was taught a lot by his dad, who was 40 when he was born). John’s able to change the engine in a car. Run a natural gas line so I can have a gas stove instead of electric. Wire electricity through a new garage. Plop a sump pump in the basement. Dig a sand point well for an in ground sprinkling system. Design and build special machines and transfer lines. (Truthfully, I don’t know what half this stuff is, but have heard about and witnessed such miracles my entire married life). Lay a ceramic tile floor. Install a sink, toilet, water heater, new brake pads, rotors on a car, a muffler when we were too broke to take the car to a shop. Utilize 20 cartons of dirt cheap old 1936 Chevy car parts, and voila.’ Hubs rebuilt a cool antique car before he was 30. I don’t know how he acquired this vast array of how-to-knowledge, he’s just always had ‘it’. (However, he was born with a built in dislike for any particular-color-pattern of wallpaper he’s ever seen. He might not know how to hang a double roll of wallpaper).

When Hubs was ready for kindergarten, Mag was working full time, so he learned at a very young age to be self-sufficient. He was making eggs on the cook stove by the time he was 6. He still bears a nasty scar where he dropped the lid (where you stuff the wood) on his hand because it was too heavy for the little squirt. His daily whereabouts were not closely monitored. We lived in a small, somewhat isolated town. There wasn’t much to be scared of in Rock Valley. No one seemed very worried about how much mischief he could get into. He had the “run of the town” (like most of us kids) but wasn’t too much of a hell-raiser.

Still there were some special family moments he remembers quite clearly. One summer the whole Van Berkum clan (his only sister, Elly had been married for several years by then and had 2 or 3 kids of her own) were going to Newton Hills (about 15 miles away) for the day. Little Johnny drove his mom nuts with giddy anticipation on when exactly they were leaving. Zhanicked (Dutch word for whining) until she banished him outside while she prepared a feast for the picnic (and Mag could cook up a storm). So the caravan finally arrives and everyone’s busy unpacking at this beautiful woodsy park. Kids are running around, acting crazy and no one notices that Johnny Wayne is not among them. Finally when it’s time to sit down and eat, someone asks, “where’s Johnny?” No one knows. Each driver is asked if Hubs was in their car? No one knows or remembers. (This was the original installment of Home Alone). Finally they come to the conclusion Johnny’s really not there and send someone back to Rock Valley to fetch him. Even worse, he was now locked out of the house after he saw everyone drive away and eventually climbed back down from the tree. He was 8.

By the time John was a teen, he was hunting pheasants (often bringing his shotgun to school and keeping in his locker so he could walk nearby corn fields after the last bell rang). Or go fishing at the Rock River, swim in Rock Valley’s new fangled cement pond on days when he wasn’t baling hay for one of the local farmers for a buck an hour in the sweltering 95 degree Iowa summer. After a spending the day throwing bales of hay in the hot sun, his hands and arms would be full of small, pus filled slivers of hay. He would invariably fall asleep on our date that night from sheer exhaustion (which never did much for my whole sex appeal image I was going for back then).

It was the summer of ’63 (catchy phrase, someone should use it in a song or something) John was 15 and had found a new passion (no, not me-yet). This was a 4 legged variety, not 2. Horses. The kid was obsessed with horses. He was working for a dude named John Blom, just east of Rock Valley. Mrs. John Blom (why on earth would any woman in their right mind call themselves Mrs. husband’s first name plus his last name? I can’t believe my Mom actually signed checks, Mrs. Richard Gerritson for years before she was hit hard with a case of women’s lib. After that she signed her checks “Florence Elaine Wanningen Gerritson.” Her signature took 2 lines- hilarious-go Mom! End of rant).

Anyway, Mrs. Blom kept her homemade root beer down a root cellar in glass jars. It was a rare treat when she’d offer John a quart while he was taking his break. He still talks about how good that root beer tasted. But you had to stop drinking it before the jar was empty. The bottom half inch was solid, dark brown yeasty stuff that was far too strong to consume. Mr. Blom had a special needs brother living with them who’d grab the jars after everyone was done, then finish every single drop of dark brown goo that was left.

Back to Hubs new fascination. He bought this horse from Mr. John (not Mrs.) Blom and named her Comet (the horse, not Mrs.). Spent weeks breaking Comet, getting her used to a bridle, saddle, his voice and gentle leg commands. John had to ride Comet into Rock Valley for a distemper shot from either veterinarian, Simonsen or Mouw. But Comet was still a little skittish. When 2 kids on bikes zoomed around the corner towards Hubs, Comet reared back, throwing John off-then landing on his foot. The bone from the ball of John’s foot was exposed-busting right through his shoe. Yikes. Our miracle working town physician, Doc Hegg rushed to the scene but knew immediately this was beyond his field of expertise (and that field was vast indeed). An ambulance ride to Sioux Falls (45 miles west) was warranted but expensive, and they had no medical insurance. Hubs instinctively knew and asked mom if his oldest brother Jimmy would take him to the hospital? Jimmy had an F-85 maroon Olds.

(This story really encapsulates the true meaning of Murphy’s Law. Anything that could possibly go wrong after John started riding Comet into town-did indeed go wrong). With Johnny writhing in pain in the back seat, Mom fretting in the passenger’s seat and Jimmy driving like a bat out of hell, they were off. Zipping to Sioux Falls, about halfway they had a flat tire. Jimmy gets out and jack’s the car up. The jack broke. (You think I’m kidding? Nope) He’s frantic, John’s in shock, losing blood and delirious and they can’t change the dang tire. Mama Bear (Mag) explodes out of the front seat, literally picks up the car by the bumper and Jimmy slaps the spare on. I. Kid. You. Not.

They finally arrive in Sioux Falls-and neither of them knows where the hospital is. (Why Lord, why)? They race over to Elly’s house, she jumps in the car and gives directions. Hubs is rushed into surgery to fix his foot. Mag and Jimmy go back home (they gotta both work tomorrow. Jim and Mag visited when they can. Elly visits everyday, but Dewey (Elly’s husband) needed their only car to go out of town for work, Elly had no way to get to the hospital. John is crestfallen when she can’t visit, so she walked 20 blocks to visit her baby brother. Awww.

Long about day 5 of hospitalization, there’s a sudden change. John woke up and there’s a basin of acid next to his bed. The nurse’s were covered from head to toe before they walked into his room. The doctor came in and explained that gangrene had set in. They need to take his foot off at the ankle or he’s gonna die. John went nuts. Mag came in to try and convince John. “No, I’d rather be dead than to lose my foot. Can’t you try something else first? Find another doctor. Please?” A different surgeon came in and said there was a slim chance of opening up his foot, cut out the infected part, wash everything else with disinfectant, close it up and pray they got the infection stopped. If not, he’d have to take his leg off at the knee. John finally agreed. But the wash bath worked! Doc said he’d be in a cast, use a wheelchair for months and never walk without a limp. Dude was playing football and wrestling in less than a year! One tough little shit…

I had knee replacement in April. Seems like I waited forever to get my surgery date, then-bam-3 months flew by. While I’d definitely have the surgery again, I’m surprised (and disappointed) that I haven’t bounced back as fast as I thought. Guess that’s what happens when you’re not 20 anymore. Or 30, 40, 50. You see where I’m going with this? Everything I do takes longer, including healing. While that sucks, I can think of many folks who aren’t around anymore who’d love to be healing at a snails pace. So not gonna whine about getting slower. At least I’m getting older. Here’s my recovery update. Yay.

Third–The Good:

11. I’m finally starting to sleep better, except for an occasional night. If I maintain a certain consistent bed time, place an ice cold gel pack on my knee and read for about half an hour, I’m usually drowsy enough to fall asleep. Staying asleep is still an issue, but I’m doing better.

R. The Chelsea Wellness Center is changing companies/policies/personnel, so while I consistently had one main guy named Rob, (who was awesome) my exercise program person changed almost every session, so there wasn’t a lot of continuity. So glad I’m finally done with going to therapy.

7. Hoping this week’s visit with Dr. Carpenter will be my last (forever! Please hold out and behave left knee). I’ve already seen him twice post surgery and was surprised when another appointment was set up for me.

XII. I am making some strides with my knee. Kind of strange because it happens when I’m not thinking about certain movements. There seems to be no noticeable change for a week or two, then one day I automatically pick up my leg and slip it into a pair of capris instead of putting the pant leg near the floor and sliding my foot through. One night watching TV, I notice both my knees are bent in a V shape with both feet flat on the recliner, although my left leg is snugged more tightly towards my butt than the other. But I did it without thinking (wincing, groaning, tugging or swearing) which is a major accomplishment.

T. While I have some aches and stiffness in my hamstring, the pain in my knee is gone. The place I find quite tender is a couple inches just to the right of the bottom of my incision. The gel pack sits there for the first few minutes.

First–The Bad:

LL. I’m still not comfortable venturing outdoors without a cane. Sigh. While that makes me feel old, inadequate and decrepit, it’s far better to use it than falling. This extra needful-artificial-appendage disgusts me, but I seriously doubt it has much to do with my new joint. I think it’s linked to Meniere’s which has haunted me for 15 years, stemming from my hearing loss. My balance is not the best on a good day, which has now been complicated by my new ceramic joint and knee cap.

6a. Dang back has been a thorn in my side lately. I go months without a flare up, then all of a sudden I bend down to pick up a “plueshie” (Dutch slang for a crumb or fuzzy on the carpet) off the floor and I feel it slip out of place. A swollen lump the size of Milky Way candy bar forms low on the left side of my back. Nuts. I find my prescription for Flexeril, stick on a Solanpa patch, get out my heating pad and try not to move (which is a two-edged sword). The more I don’t move the stiffer I get. When I try to stand, I’m literally hunched over at the waist for the first excruciating 30 steps, then I usually manage to straighten mostly upright. But that’s not the worst of my back issues when it’s acting up. The worst happens when I’m laying down and try to sit up or stand. Electric shock spasms shoot from the lump down my leg to my toes. (This is to be avoided at all costs. Feels like I’m grabbing an electric fence, which I’ve done). Those little sharp spasms occur mostly in the morning when I’m trying to get up, but were consistent this time for over 3 weeks. Infuriating and actually kind of scary with my sometimes wobbly leg.

E. Stamina is an issue. I’m pooped after shopping an hour at Meijer. This is so embarrassing, goodness that’s hardly getting started at my favorite store. I’ve already accepted not running multiple errands on any given day, I now have to choose and limit myself to one or 2 when heading out. Last week however I managed to get in and out of the car 5 times, during one outing. Yes, I was quite proud. And totally shot for the rest of the day.

8. Therapy took forever. Sixteen sessions, should have finished in late June. We were out of town for a couple days so I had to reschedule one appointment, which brought it into July. Then my back went out and I couldn’t stand up straight for over a week. I closely resembled an upside down capital L, which put all leg exercises on the back burner for 10 days. Trying to reschedule, the only open spot was one day at 8 am, meaning my last appointment went into the next week. Ugh.

P. I used to walk at a nice clip. No more. Now I have to come to a compete stop if I intend to turn my head in either direction or I lose my balance. Arghhhhhhh.

Second–The Ugly:

5. I wasn’t limber before surgery. I have not been able to squat down for at least a decade. Thus it shouldn’t be surprising to anyone that my knee does not want/like to bend. Straight and extending is great, but damn if I didn’t fear/stew/worry/constantly about going to physical therapy because I could not make my right knee bend comfortably beyond 115 degrees. Until the last day! Rob was loosening my knee up and for the first time he was forcing it a bit further in every direction. Not white knuckle pain but not very comfortable either. He gave me the old, “come on Iowa Hawkeye fan, you can do this,” routine with his little gauge propped up while I slowly inched my flat foot backwards towards my butt. It wasn’t easy, had look ugly and hopeless but I finally made the bend to 120 degrees. He assured me my bending degree will continue to improve for up to a year so I’m hopeful.

6b. The bruising that appeared about a week after surgery was horrendous from the bottom of my heal to mid thigh! While the bruises have faded, I’m not very happy with the skin discoloration that seems to linger. Even the nurse’s first IV attempt bruise is still visible. Is this because of my age? Or am I lacking something? Will it ever go back to normal? Enquiring minds wanna know.

In Conclusion:

17. Please tell me I can’t be the only person who finds almost everything about Battle Bots totally asinine like a bad joke? (Except for the actual Bots engineering teams which show some very clever ideas) From the corny hosts, the hopeless announcer, a much too enthusiastic audience, to the dimming of the lights leading up to the 30 second pause before the green light comes on, I find this program one of the dumbest. No, I don’t watch it but have walked into the family room when Hubs is immersed in an episode.

And Lastly:

C. Just as oddly, why do I totally love Forged in Fire? What’s up with that? I mean it’s about 4 competing blade smiths (vying for $10,000 prize money) making their own knives in 3 hours, usually out of materials that would not be their first choice. Love the host Wil Willis (I know his name is wacky but he’s appealing) and the judges, J. Neilson, David Baker, Doug Marcaida (“this knife will keel.” What a hoot) and sometimes Ben Abbott in place of Neilson. Ben’s a wiry little shit who’s amazingly strong. It shouldn’t appeal to me at all, yet I look forward to every episode. Can’t figure it out but I’m hooked…

It doesn’t seem fair. I already did this. Willingly took one for the team. With hardly any tears. Why is it happening again? I swear it’s a flaw in my DNA. Four years ago Hubs and I were in the midst of a major downsize, anticipating a move to a much smaller home. We had collected ‘stuff’ with reckless abandon for decades and it was the time to pay the piper. The collecting wasn’t done with much forethought. Furniture that appealed to us but needed work. We just kept accumulating more and more-stuff. The kids left one by one and we filled every nook and cranny of our house.

John and I accepted the challenge to downsize seriously. Went through boxes, closets, plastic containers, basement and garage with the intention of getting rid of absolutely anything we couldn’t live without nor would have room for in a smaller home. Or so I thought. The antique furniture was hard to let go. Many pieces were acquired when we got caught up with restoring and owning old oak furniture from 1970 until recently. The kids took most of the good pieces, but it was hard realizing our antiques were gone.

The number one clue that I hadn’t fully embraced my new leaner way of life was of all things, containers. Yup. When we put the lake home on the market, Mary gave us strict instructions to pare down every room in our house. For better eye appeal, and make our home look roomier. Not knowing how long it would take to sell (forever) or that we’d have to decide what to keep, store or toss, without knowing what kind of house we were moving into. So I bought plastic containers of various sizes by the carload. Lovingly wrapped and packed most of my doodads, because I wasn’t ready to give anything up just yet. Rented a storage unit and stuffed it to the ceiling with furniture and containers.

Once we knew our move east was imminent, we sorted through most of the containers, donating literally tons of stuff. But I didn’t throw out one plastic container. Not a single one. We now had about 20 which were empty. I insisted we move them all. I needed to first see where we were gonna live, what fit, what pieces I loved too much to part with and what I had foolishly hung onto for no good reason.

A few months after we moved we finally got to the last of the boxes and containers which were taking up half of our garage. Donated more stuff and felt pretty good about what we were keeping and what we no longer needed. (It’s inexplicably therapeutic after I’ve made the decision to “let it go.” It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Then why do I dread getting rid of excess un-needed stuff? Yes, I’m conflicted). Hubs said I needed to donate a dozen empty containers but I could not. I just knew as soon as he dropped them off, I’d need a particular size for something that needed storing. (This was my unconscious way of allowing new clutter to fester and grow. It’s kinda like unwanted mold).

We have 5 closets on our main floor besides the pantry. I now have some of my ‘stuff’ in 4 of them. It started innocently enough. A few months after we moved, I got a part time job in the infant room at a fabulous daycare a couple miles away. I love those babies with all of my heart but dang it, they’re the messiest bunch of little people. Drool, spit-up, poop quickly became part of my wardrobe. I threw every piece of clothing I wore that day into the laundry. Then decided I needed easy care fabrics, just for work. For me that’s not only tops but another shirt/sweater to wear on top of the top, because I’m always cold. (Total count on white/off white sweaters I’ve pitched with multi shades of formula and breast milk spit-up all over the shoulders and sleeves stands at 4). Since I went to work at 6, I used the spare bedroom closet for all my work clothes so I didn’t have to rummage around in the dark in our bedroom while Hubs was cutting z’s.

See how it starts. If I wanted to use my new living room at all, I needed some place that’s comfy to sit, so I bought a nice Lazy Boy. Still rather empty and if anyone wanted to sit and visit me (a room without a TV) they could sit on the floor. Umm, no. Went to a nice used furniture place and bought 2 odd chairs. Yup, pretty much wall to wall furniture in there now. But it’s not the furniture, although one antique piece is driving me crazy. It’s a beautiful oak blanket chest in the spare bedroom which gives me about 18 inches to walk through to the other side of the bed. How often is that you ask? Maybe once a week. But I’m just stubborn enough because I’m still smarting after I had to get rid of my gorgeous wardrobe. If there had been a choice I would have kept the wardrobe. We could get it in the bedroom, but then we eliminated a doorway so we couldn’t get it back out. Ever. So I gave it to Josh & Erica for their early 1900’s house they’ve been remodeling for a couple years. It still stung though.

No, it’s the damn containers I keep filling up and storing that’s driving me bonkers. If I die before I go through each and every one of them again, all 3 of my kid’s eyes are gonna roll right out of their heads. So much useless stuff. And I don’t have the willpower to toss any of it away. Hubs doesn’t want any of these containers in his garage so they’re stacked in several rows, 3 high in my laundry room. Most of it’s from my parent’s house in Rock Valley. Handwritten sermons my Dad wrote 15 years ago. One container is filled with hand knit wool sweaters Mom made me 50 years ago. Over. Fifty. Years. Ago. One is stuffed with afghans Mom crocheted. Two are so heavy I can’t move them an inch from where they’re sitting. It’s gorgeous china (Apple Blossom by Haviland) I bought at Mildred Johnson’s auction. In North Muskegon I displayed the enormous set of dishes in a china closet and actually used it once in a while. Have not used the china in 4 years. I would love to give it to someone who would cherish and use it, but no one in the younger generation wants to use old fashioned china. But I can’t part with it. It would be a huge betrayal to Mildred. (I loosely took care of her for a couple years, got her groceries, took her to the doctor, and her unruly cat, Charlie to the vet. Unfortunately, I discovered Mildred a couple days after she had passed away. Cried about that for months).

Now I’ve noticed my closets are way too crowded. Purses, jackets I’ve not worn in 5 years (boiled wool), and crafts. You know I’m the least crafty person in the world and my almost 10 year old grandson Graham is past these silly art projects we used to do. Yet one closet has at least 20 canvases waiting for someone with talent to paint. Yes, I should keep a couple because 2-1/2 year old Jovi is almost to the age where she’ll eagerly do projects with me. But 2 tubs of small bottles of paint? Goodness, whatever possessed me? How many different shades of green does one need when one does not paint?

I looked up the word purge. To get rid of. Exactly. I’m starting with the closets (mostly because I’m still not ready to deal with sermons, sweaters and an 12 place setting of china with accompanying pieces). I decided 9 months ago I was done dyeing my hair after 35 years. It took 8 months to get rid of all the fake brown color off my short hair. For longer than those 9 moths I’ve had 7 boxes of L’Oréal Dark Blonde sitting on the top shelf (quantities buyer-don’t ask). No more. It’s the first thing I emptied from the linen closet that is going to St. Vincent’s. Right after I load some more ‘stuff’ into the Jeep…

I was a car buff before I hit my teens, although I didn’t know the difference between a 283 and a 327. Or care. But even as a snot nose kid, I could grasp the importance of this mode of transportation. Yes, for the first time, I was looking at the bigger picture. Cars were the means of getting me from one place to another. Didn’t get any better than that. I have enjoyed driving everything from a Nifty-50 (1950 green Chevy with a defrost fan on the dashboard. Cutest thing ever with a 3 speed on the column) to my favorite luxury car, a 1995 El Dorado, that was an absolute dream to drive, and every car in between the 2 green extremes. I love cars!

I learned to drive when I was almost 13. Right on the streets of Rock Valley (think Mom would have been more nervous teaching me on a gravel road) while Mom’s car was at Santema’s Chevy garage for some reason. Mom and Dad never drove automatics and this loaner from the dealer was an automatic. Mom thought it would be easier for me to learn on it. I think it was a ’56 or ’57 Chevy. I did great and loved tooling around on the widest streets in the county. Much like my obsession after I smoked my first cigarette, I couldn’t wait to drive again (legally or otherwise). Soon I would be taking driver’s training and could drive with a parent in the car.

Driver’s training was thorough. Many hours in the classroom and more hours learning to drive in town and on the highway. Stan Negaard taught driver’s training during the summer. At this point I really didn’t give 2 hoots about classes during the school year, but this class was different. Excelling in this would mean I would be driving very soon. During one of Negaard’s classroom sessions (yes, I did study for this one) he was yakking about something to do with transmissions. I raised my hand and piped up, “it’s because the gears are sanforized.” (How embarrassing, sanforizing was a fabric treatment for cottons. How did I ever even hear that word? I’ll never know). Negaard’s eyes glazed over as every boy in the class started laughing and a couple shouted, “synchronized transmission-not sanforized.” Anyway, you can see I had a bubbling enthusiasm for one class in my life.

Soon Mom was brave enough to teach me on our car which was a 1958 Chevy Biscayne (Canyon Coral, somewhere between pink and taupe-hideous) with a 3 speed on the column. (I don’t remember Dad teaching any driving lessons with me, only Mom). I really didn’t care who was with me as long as I could practice driving around town. The true test came when she had me drive across the railroad tracks (past the Lutheran and Methodist churches) to my grandparents house. Their house sat on the crest of a steep hill, right off Highway 18. This highway (very near where my brother Larry was killed when he was hit by a car) had a fair amount of traffic, but that wasn’t the hard part. The tough part was keeping the clutch and brake depressed until traffic cleared long enough for me to scoot out on the highway. Which meant easing the clutch out, giving the car enough gas so I didn’t stall or worse, start rolling backwards. Yikes. My knees were shaking so bad I can’t believe I didn’t stall it. Luckily, there was no one stopped right behind this brand new driver. You can’t believe how many times during my life where someone was literally up my tailpipe on a steep hill. But it’s been very seldom when I stalled a car. That was the only good coordination God ever gave me.

So it makes sense when one loves to drive, there’s nothing more frustrating than getting in a great set of wheels and it won’t start. It’s not a hard concept. I want my car to start and run perfect every time I’m ready to go. Anywhere. Any time. It’s not too much to ask. Everyone says they’re making cars better than ever and they can easily be driven for a couple hundred thousand miles. Right. I get twitchy when my car hits 50,000 miles. I don’t want a fan belt to fly off, an alternator or battery to go kaflooey, the check engine light to shine bright. I just want the car to start and go without issues-ever. Every time. Every. Stinking. Time.

But I know better. Life is messy and things go wrong with inanimate objects. (I have a healthy amount of rage for inanimate objects). A goodly amount of disdain. Just putting it out there, keeping it real. In my life time I have owned and driven some great cars and fair amount of sour lemons. In no particular order, these are some of my more memorable sets of wheels during my life.

1. The first new car we ever bought was a 2 door, shit green 1972 Chevy Vega hatchback. Shannon was 2 and called it, “my Bay-ga.” The payments were around 70 bucks (that was high for us). I had my heart set on a stunning orange Monte Carlo sitting on the dealer’s floor. But in comparing prices, the diarrhea Vega was around $2,400 versus $4,100. for the Monte Carlo (as close as I can recall). No way could we afford that. But I sure coveted the 1972 M-Carlo for a long time.

2. During some of our leaner years we drove a 1965 International Harvester pickup. The clutch went out, but before we could replace it, we’d park on the top of a slight incline, then push in the clutch and start rolling downhill, then “pop” the clutch with the gear shifter already in second or third. Talk about jerking and grinding! But the worst part was the passenger door kept flying open when we turned a corner. Shannon would be standing in between us and we’d each throw out an arm to keep her in place while I grabbed the fly-away door which was trying to swing me right out of the truck. Fun.

3. I was a stay-at-home-mom (meaning we only had one car through our first 18 years). Soon after we moved to Michigan in 1987, we bought a 1987 Chevy Astro Van (and my first automatic) with 12,000 miles-the first time there would be a car at home for me. Wow. Hubs was driving a 1983 Chevy S-10, meaning we had 2 reliable means of transportation-AT THE SAME TIME. I babied that mini-van as though it was worth millions! It was the answer to our prayers. We were 750 miles from family in Iowa, John’s Dad was critically ill and there was ample room for the 3 kids to stretch out a bit. Shannon got the back seat to herself so she wasn’t required to breathe the same air as her 2 gnarly, younger brothers. Best thing we ever did was purchase 2 Game Boys, which kept them happy and occupied.

4. The most luxurious car I ever owned was a 1995 2-door Cadillac El Dorado. The doors each weighed as much as a Volkswagen. No outside noise, Bose speakers, heated seats. It was luscious. This was after the Astro Van and 2 of the nerds had graduated and were in college and Adam wasn’t driving yet. (We got him a car when he turned 16, no way was he driving my Caddy). If I could find another El Dorado with low, low miles, I swear I’d sell my Jeep.

5. My first SUV and only Buick was a 2005 Rainier. Loved it but it was one size too big because most of my driving was now solo. Kids were grown up, Hubs kept getting new Chevy pickups so we took the truck if we were antiquing or hauling anything. I sold it to Shannon, who was now a mom to 3. She drove and loved it until she hit a deer which totaled it.

6. When my Dad moved from Iowa to Michigan at the young age of 88 after Mom passed away, he was driving their 4th Ford Escort (I think, after they moved up from the no-longer produced Chevette). The Escort had seen better days and Dad wanted something new-and different. He bought a 2006 PT Cruiser. (We searched for days because he would not even test drive one with an automatic transmission). When Dad passed away in 2008 I drove the PT for a couple years. It’s doors weighed as much as a newborn-preemie. But I had fun shifting a 5 speed for a couple years.

7. The coolest, hottest, neatest car we ever owned was a 1964 Chevy Stingray Corvette, 327- 365 HP, 4-speed on the floor. Hubs bought in 1992 and we it kept for more than 20 years. What a beast! We drove it a lot. Parades, car shows, Friday afternoon movies, church on summer Sundays, ice cream cones after supper. He spent most of those years dinking around with it. Lots of new parts, carburetor, tires, paint job back to its original Tuxedo black. It was a fun project for him-like a savings account that just kept gaining interest. Very cool muscle car.

8. Oh the irony. The name of my story implies a Ford Mustang is somehow involved (or maybe just because I love Wilson Pickett’s version of the song-Mustang Sally, Guess you’d better slow that Mustang down). But no, that’s not it. I still feel bad about our Mustang. I bought it by taking over payments from this young couple from South Sioux City, Nebraska. In those days I didn’t have to refinance, they just signed the car over to me. I gave them a small amount of cash and they handed me the remainder of their payment book, taking themselves off the hook. They were about to lose the car so it benefited both parties. The car was a year old with hardly any miles. They had one child and were expecting another so their family of 4 would have been crowded. Tragedy struck a few months later when their whole family was killed in a car accident. Mom called me after she recognized their names in the Sioux City Journal. That 1968 Mustang however, was the biggest lemon we ever owned (and the only Ford). Should have been a couple of recalls but neither issue was ever addressed. The bucket seats were junk. The passenger seat broke almost every time someone sat in it. Half of you would end up in the small backseat, unable to get it (or you) back upright. Even more frustrating was a starting problem. If the weather was damp-between the temperatures of 28-40, it refused to start. Would not start. New battery, new starter, nothing worked or helped. When we traded it in, it had 38,000 miles on it. John told the dealer to ship it to Florida because it and Iowa weather definitely didn’t mix…