Couples who have been married a long time (like me and the Hubs) rarely learn anything new about each other at this stage of the game. For the most part, we’ve seen it all, been through it all (at least, we hope, the tough stuff), learning along the way and had each other’s back. Some things were assumed, some by trial and error and others had to be repeated numerous times before we learned our lesson the hard way.

From the get-go we had a true appreciation for all things old, except appliances. We learned ‘new’ came with a warranty, which was better but not always affordable. We both liked oak antiques which were often out of our price range, but Hubs was handy. I didn’t hesitate buying a piece of furniture that had seen better days. If the price was right, I brought it home and John could visualize what was needed to restore it to prime condition. He did the repair work, I helped with refinishing.

For our first decade of wedded bliss we lived in several rentals. Most were basically the same, just with a different address. The owners were reluctant to invest much money because you never knew how much damage renters were going to incur. I think we were good renters but we had pets and small kids which invariably caused damage to most everything they touched. For the most part, flooring was painfully thin carpet or cheap linoleum. Showers were rare, a claw footed tub was the highlight of the bathroom during the 70’s.

Rooms were small, walls were painted white, yellow or green. If there was woodwork it was painted or covered in contact paper to look like wood grain. Kitchens were modest with cheap, used appliances. Painted cupboards were standard. Heck I grew up with painted cupboards until I was in high school and dad remodeled the kitchen. While I don’t ever remember saying, “we’re never having painted cupboards in our home,” it was a forgone conclusion that painted cupboards or antiques would never find a place in our home. You don’t cover up beautiful wood. Ever. You just don’t.

We held to this ‘gold standard’ of never painting ‘good wood’ for 50 years. When we listed our 20 year old lake home a few years ago, Mary our realtor, strongly suggested we paint our oak trim and wainscoting. We both looked at her as though she had grown a third eye. “No, absolutely not,” was our reply.

When Joshua, our middle kid walked into the house we bought eight years ago, the first thing he said was, “what color are you painting the cupboards?” “Ha! Never,” I replied. True, they needed a good scrubbing but they were modern and oak. You don’t paint oak. We needed new flooring and appliances but never gave a thought to changing the look of the cupboards.

Now the countertops, sink and faucet were a different story. Soft, faded yellow Formica probably installed when the cupboards were replaced 25-30 years ago. There were scratches and stains, no backsplash, and the sink was like me, showing several age spots. Still I doused it with Clorox/water once a week to keep the stains from returning to a minimum (the sink, not me).

Suddenly last fall, the guy I’ve lived with over 50 years spouts, “I wanna paint the cupboards, take out the dishwasher you’ve never used, get a new sink, faucet, garbage disposal, backsplash and countertops. I think you’d like navy blue for the bottom cupboards and linen on the top.” “What have you done with my husband? Where is he? I’m calling the cops.” (The only thing stopping me was this guy knew my favorite color has always been navy).

“Where in the world is this coming from? You know the rules. We DON’T paint wood. Are you ok? Do you know what day it is? What’s my name?”

“Very funny Neese, I’m serious. You spend a lot of time in here. I don’t but I’m sick of looking at this drab kitchen, especially the countertops. They’re pitiful. It won’t cost that much because I’m going to do the painting. You’re gonna love it.”

Ok, but he’s never liked painting anything, or been very good at it. He tends to put too much paint on the brush which causes runs. “No, I’ve been watching videos on YouTube.” (Oh boy) He assured me it’s a different way to paint cupboards with different paint and brushes.

Still skeptical he’d been replaced by an AI, I acquiesced. Just as he was ready to order the paint I changed my mind. Not about painting, just the colors. Decided to go with light and dark shades of gray instead.

Hubs started by removing the unused dishwasher-no easy task, then bought an unfinished matching cupboard with three drawers to replace it. (I’ve only had 2 drawers in my kitchen and one is 8 inches wide, only good for pot holders). Each one of the cupboards doors got labeled with a number to its original opening. Prepping the wood was next. My participation in this endeavor was minimal. I helped pick out the countertops, backsplash, sink and faucet. As he was painting and had finished for the day he asked me to go over the new paint and point out spots he missed. Now this is a task where I excel and was only too happy to point out (his) minor infractions. (He says I’m an expert on this, I tell him it’s because he gives me so much practice-hahaha).

We hired a contractor to install the countertops, sink, disposal and backsplash. Ta-dah! (To be continued. Next time on-“Let’s improve the lighting with Neese”)…

Television was not a big part of my life as a kid, and I was forbidden to watch on Sundays. I missed the Beatles debut on Ed Sullivan, and never watched Bonanza until I got married (we had church on Sunday night and attendance was mandatory). I remember watching Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver, Lassie, Gunsmoke, Paladin and Combat.

I still don’t watch a great deal of TV. It’s never on during the day, but usually by 8 pm we’re watching a couple of our favorite programs unless B1G sports (Iowa Hawkeyes) or our grandson’s college basketball game (Cleveland State) is on.

So I’m kinda perplexed why I became fixated with the TV guide magazine years ago. I can’t remember not reading the TV Guide. Although grocery money was hard to come by, I always added the Guide to my grocery cart. A few years later I bought subscriptions whenever a good deal was advertised. (I’ve added to my subscription so often the magazine will arrive years after I’m no longer around to read it). Back in the 70’s it was the size of a fat Golden Book. Several years ago they changed their format to publishing every other week, then scaled back to every 3 weeks during the summer when it was mostly reruns. Now they deliver every 3 weeks permanently. I hate that change. And life around me stops until I read it cover to cover. I read about every soap opera but haven’t watched one since the mid-70’s. I pour over program details/stars that I absolutely have no interest in-ever. Weird. For decades I was the queen of TV/movie trivia. When the kids were in college they often called when stumped over an obscure line/scene from a show or movie. It was rare if I couldn’t come up with a quick answer which was usually right.

Most of my inconsequential nonsense has been forgotten (like what I made for supper last night). But I’ve not given up reading the TV Guide from the cover to the last page every time it arrives (although I don’t retain these obscure details like I did 20 years ago), I’m still compelled to read every juicy detail. With all the streaming services when I spot a program that interests me I’ve got to write it down or I’ll forget the name of it but I’ve always been a multiple list maker so I just make more.

The mail fetcher at our house has changed hands. When handwritten letters/cards were commonplace I loved running out to the mailbox but those personal correspondence days don’t get much traction these days. I used to be good and faithful at writing cards and notes to friends but arthritis in my hands/knuckles has ended that practice. I still miss writing unimportant notes though. I have no desire to pick up our bills so Hubs has taken on that daily routine. He plops the TV Guide near ‘my nest’ and I immediately go through and remove all advertisements that have been inserted throughout. I give them a quick once over in case another offer (too good to be true) for extending my TV guide reading enjoyment past 2030-hahaha.

And then it’s time to get serious with the inside cover, top shows for the week, renewals, premieres, finales and cancellations which can be a downer if I hadn’t heard one of my programs wasn’t renewed for next season. They write a few daily tidbits included in each of the 3 weeks and now highlight when the program is N (new). If it doesn’t have a capital N in red, you’re looking at a rerun (but there’s usually several mistakes). This season has been especially thin/short because of the writer’s/actor’s strike with regular programs adding up to only a dozen or so before their season finale. (When I was young regular programs totaled about 30 episodes, now 20 is considered a long season, and many stop at 8-10. It’s like a miniseries with long stretches of time between seasons. Enough about lamenting about something I shouldn’t care about at all.

So here’s what happened. I’m about 2/3 done reading this guide dated April 1 to the 21st when I spot, “What’s Worth Watching” for 4-15 through 4-21 and my eyes do a double take. WHAT? A small paragraph with a picture the size of a postage stamp.

WNBA BASKETBALL

7:30/6/30 ESPN WNBA Draft

The Indiana Fever have the first pick in the WNBA Draft in Brooklyn. No surprise: They’re going to select Iowa’s Caitlin Clark (above) the NCAA’s all-time leading scorer.

Holy moly! I know that young lady! (No I really don’t but feel like I do. Been watching her (and the rest of Lisa Bluder’s Hawkeye team hoop it up with Caitlin breaking scoring/assists/3-pointer records and setting attendance records wherever they play). Oddly enough this Caitlin tidbit was right above a picture of Steph Curry, who she’s often compared to in basketball.

Although my Hawkeyes didn’t win the national title, the ladies championship game drew about 5 million more viewers than the men’s final. Ha! Keep pursuing your dreams Caitlin. I’ve never watched a WNBA game but plan on watching this year. My sincere hope is that Caitlin keeps playing her exceptional game and viewership is through the roof…

We’ll miss you too…

Dateline: Iowa.

The flyover state (not hardly) famous for corn, soybeans, lean hogs and the best in the world beef. Pure Midwest. I was born and raised in a small Iowa town, (mostly Dutch) in the northwest corner. As was the Hubs and never thought we’d live elsewhere.

My little corner of the world was a bit isolated. Surrounded by farms and corn fields (always convenient, hidden and secluded for ‘parking’ when dating in high school), but miles away from any city. Sioux Falls was 45 minutes, Sioux City-an hour.

Never gave it much thought but it wasn’t easy to root for a professional sports team. The closest were in Minnesota, St. Louis or Chicago. So all Iowans did the next best thing and supported collegiate sports. The most popular to choose from were the Iowa State Cyclones and University of Iowa Hawkeyes. These 2 schools were (are) supported by the masses.

When we moved from the Missouri River to the Mississippi River the Hawkeyes in Iowa City were our top pick which was about 50 miles away. Hubs attended most home football games while I preferred basketball.

Here’s a revelation. After my last birthday, I have lived in Michigan for more than half my life. Sigh. We assumed we’d move back after a couple years, but the years zipped by. With our adult children and grandchildren within an hour of us, this is where we belong. My 37 years living in Michigan hasn’t changed how I feel though. My heart belongs to Iowa. Always & forever.

There’s much I’ve embraced in Michigan. The Great Lakes are the absolute best. If I’ve not been within sight of one of the H O M E S (Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie & Superior) lakes for a spell, I get a terrible hankering to see waves of freshwater lapping. Michigan’s weather is better. Summers aren’t as hot or humid as Iowa, winters not as cold or windy. Michigan’s got numerous professional sports teams to choose from. Tigers, Red Wings, Pistons and the mighty Lions! (Including Iowa alumni Sam Laporta and Jack Campbell) All about an hour away.

While our kids (who were 16, 11 and 7 when we left Iowa) were easily swayed towards various Michigan college sports, Hubs and I were not. We tried, we really did, but a couple disastrous games only strengthened our appreciation for the Iowa Hawkeyes. Absence indeed made our hearts grow fonder. One of the reasons we chose to move to Michigan was staying in B10 country (soon to be Big 18-yikes).

With the addition of the B10 network years ago we haven’t missed many Iowa games. With the addition of streaming services it’s a bit trickier for retired folks on fixed incomes, but we just prioritize what’s important (and affordable) for us.

Then along comes Caitlin Clark. We didn’t hop on her bandwagon as a freshman or even a sophomore, but as her popularity and court prowess grew, we started following. We love that she grew up in Iowa and chose to play for the Hawks. I’ve been watching basketball for decades and have a grandson who’s playing his senior year at Cleveland State. He’s a starting guard (like Caitlin) and nobody appreciates a no-look pass or an awesome assist more than this grandma. Their court IQ is phenomenal. Cleveland State games are on ESPN+ so for Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) basketball season (4 months) we subscribe. Many of the lady Hawkeyes games were on Peacock instead of B10 this season which drove people nuts. We simply ordered Peacock at $5.99 a month to watch the games, then we cancel. Less than the cost of one pizza. Not a big deal.

Caitlin is a cute, dimpled, lanky, fiercely competitive brunette from West Des Moines who routinely put up shots near mid-court with amazing accuracy, often appearing off balance but that’s just one of her signature shots. She’s been zipping through her senior year, knocking off long held basketball records, including assists, and her famous-one-logo-3-point-shot-at-a-time.

Caitlin has not accomplished this feat by herself. She’s part of an immensely talented team including Kate, Hannah, Gabbie, Molly and the rest of the ladies. Plus coach Bluder, her staff and trainers. It’s much more than just Caitlin. It takes a village. And I hope they go far in the tournament.

Personally I wanted Caitlin to come back next season for her last year of eligibility (Covid waiver) but she announced last week she’s going to the WNBA this spring. I get it. She has numerous sponsors (Nike, Gatorade, State Farm) in the NIL (name, image, likeness) which she’ll probably keep plus add others and there’s a strong chance (a given more likely) she’s headed to the Indiana Fever (Caitlin’s had half the country at a fever pitch all season, nothing new there) where her boyfriend, Connor McCaffrey just happens to live and work.

Caitlin’s been much more than a scoring and assist machine. She is the face of women in sports. When the Iowa Hawkeyes played in Nebraska, the game sold out, same with Michigan, Wisconsin or Maryland. Fans, (and not all of them diehard Hawk supporters) line up for hours ahead of time, forking out big bucks more often spent on the most popular concert venues. Every time the Hawkeyes are on a network channel, viewership is off the charts. Caitlin is the woman young girls aspire to emulate. After the game is over and she’s spoken to reporters, she walks over to the hordes of kids and adults waiting patiently and starts writing her name on jerseys, faces, shoes, signs from her young fans who admire what they just witnessed that she’s accomplished. She may be an exhausted, sweaty mess but she does this every home or away game. She wants young girls to love the game of basketball.

So here’s to you Caitlin. I’ve got my #22 t-shirt ready for the B10 tourney and beyond. We’ll be rooting for you loud and proud. Thanks for giving us so much entertainment and enjoyment this season. I wish you tremendous success in the WNBA. Break some ceilings and new records. Go Hawks!!!

I met her decades ago, right after we moved to Michigan. She was living with my neighbor, 2 houses away for most of her life. She looked kinda frumpy. Mildred (my new neighbor, definitely not frumpy) said she had received Millie from a relative out east when were both very young. By the time I got acquainted with them, Mildred was in her early 70’s so I assumed Millie was a few years her senior.

Millie was hanging out on the patio, catching a few indirect rays, lounging on an uncomfortable wrought iron table. Maybe that’s why she looked ill at ease. She kinda slumped to one side like she was trying hard to keep her balance (story of my life sista).

For the next 20 years (7 of those almost daily when we were neighbors) I watched as Millie languished in and out of different seasons of her life. She didn’t require much from Mildred, thus Mildred did not give her much attention. When the weather dipped below freezing, Millie was brought inside by Mildred’s faithful helper Pam where she sat on a coffee table, facing south, overlooking her summer spot on the patio while we both endured another miserable, endless Michigan winter. (I feel ‘ya on this one too).

When we hit the 20 year mark, Mildred was reaching the end of her long, fruitful life (but Millie was still in her prime). After Mildred passed away her family asked if I’d take Millie! (They seemed unconcerned with my dismal history of killing house plants), although Millie was conflicted by their decision.

I’m here to tell you Millie absolutely thrived for 8 years in North Muskegon. She was as shocked as me. One of the keys to Millie’s successful life was our front porch where she spent her summers. The porch faced north and had a roof so she was never subjected to extreme heat or sun. She loved it out there although by my calculations she was outnumbered by spiders 3 million to one. She didn’t seem to mind. She loved lake living.

That all changed in 2015 when we moved in with Shannon for 6 weeks while we worked on a new (old) house we had just bought (near our kids). I plopped Millie and several African violets on Shannon’s outside front entrance which was cement and semi-covered. The weather was still warm, and I promptly forgot about Millie. She might have tried to reach out to me but I was too busy and distracted. When it was moving day Millie was tucked in the back of the Jeep and hurriedly unpacked on the floor behind some big boxes in a bedroom where she stayed for weeks. I did remember to water her and the violets every week but never really looked at them.

After new flooring was installed, I was ready to find the plants a permanent home I noticed a couple of my violets were dead. Then I took a good look at Millie. She didn’t look right. On closer inspection she was sitting in a big puddle of water although I gave her only a sip every week. She must have gotten soaked a few times while outdoors and I never noticed.

A childhood classmate, Marlys Gayer and I had recently hooked up through Facebook (one of the few perks I love), so I sought her advice about my century old plant. “Neese, she’s literally drowning and everything below the surface is rotten! You must clip off several green ends, dump the soil, wash the planter, buy new succulent soil, some fertilizer and plop those ends in various spots about an inch deep. Water sparingly. She’ll be fine.”

Marlys gave me this advice 8 years ago. Since then Millie has done very well. When her growth spurts were noticeable, I started new baby plants, (see I don’t even know what that’s called). I’d just wop off a a couple inches of several green ends (fronds?) and stick them in soil and voila, a new baby Christmas cactus was born. I brought a few back to Iowa so Marlys (and other friends and family) would have offspring of the dear plant Marlys saved (in spite of my ineptness).

Millie is not an actual Christmas cactus. She blooms around Easter and Thanksgiving. Oftentimes she has blooms galore on one side, and stark naked of any buds on the other. She definitely marches to the beat of her own drummer, which reminds me of my Iowa friend Marlys who’s had some tough years recently. Recurring breast cancer, serious kidney issues, yet she remained optimistic, upbeat and full of faith.

Unfortunately, we lost Marlys this spring. I remember a post that the news of her last test results were not good and she was going back to the specialist to review her treatment options. A few days later she was gone.

About 3 weeks ago I spotted my first bud on Millie and wondered if this blooming season was going to be small and petite, lopsided or gang busters. Since that first tiny appearance, she has produced buds everywhere, showing off in her own unique style what this Thanksgiving was gonna look like. She had buds on top of buds, often in triplets, hanging on the ends with the promise of vibrant red color to come. This was Millie’s opportunity to show her eternal gratitude to my friend Marlys for saving her for me. Miss you Mar…

When we moved to Michigan in February of 1987, we bought our rambling ranch from a widow named Stella (who lived next door). She was in her upper-80’s and still sharp as a tack. She had bought the house for her step-daughter who had recently died of cancer.

Since we moved during the winter we didn’t know what kind of yard we had. Our lot was an acre and had an overwhelming amount of trees. Thirty-eight to be exact. Michiganders love their trees. We’re from Iowa where there aren’t many trees, just crops, hogs and cattle (to feed the world). As soon as the snow started melting Stella stopped John after work and told him emphatically to get our lawn in better shape. Hahaha, it was her property the month before. Luckily Hubs has always been anal about his grass and the war on weeds so that was his goal too and he started immediately.

Stella and I regularly had tea together and I often brought her whatever we were having for supper. She said it wasn’t much fun to cook for one when you’re getting close to 90. But Stella was weary from multiple home ownership, so she ended up selling her house about 18 months after we moved in. She moved to a fabulous independent living facility a few miles away and reached her upper 90’s before God called her home. But in those 18 months I learned a lot from (and about) Stella.

Stella had a ‘way’ with plants. Our homes were very similar but her picture window was much bigger than ours. This window almost went to the floor. She had several different height shelves close to the window which was filled with house plants. Boston ferns, ivy, peace plants and oodles of African violets, every color you could imagine. They were just gorgeous. One of the first things Stella mentioned when she came over to visit is my lack of house plants.

I’ve never been good with plants or gardening. I don’t enjoy digging in the dirt and think less of weeding than having a root canal. I kill house plants and have never found annuals very appealing (although I like landscaping, trimming unusual shrubs and trees). If you’re gonna live in my yard, you’d better come up on your own every year and not bring too many weeds with you.

Being a retired teacher, Stella made it her goal to teach me to love, nurture and grow indoor plants. Ugh. I was one of ‘those problem students’ who made her life difficult but she was up to the challenge. She gifted me with a couple African violets. “Put them in the north window, water once a week but don’t use cold water. Fertilize every couple months, and try not to physically touch them very often, they don’t like it.”

Since 1988 I’ve been sharing my house with plants-because of Stella. Not gonna lie and say it’s been smooth sailing and I’ve never killed another house plant but it’s been a rare occurrence. She gave me the gift of turning one of my thumbs green, and I’m still grateful to her.

I’ll always be perplexed about plants and their healthy growth around me (I don’t know what I’m doing but they seem to like it here-and me in spite of it). Somehow I’ve managed to keep a century old (I’ve only been her caretaker for 20 years) Christmas cactus thriving (seriously she’s been on death’s door step twice-because of over watering). I left it outside for the summer when we moved and stayed with Shannon for a couple months and didn’t pay attention. She was so waterlogged I had to trim 20 green ends and start over. Since that near fatality I’ve started a dozen plants (and gifted them to friends and family) from Milly, just in case.

During these plant filled, happy years I’ve never experienced the odd phenomenon that’s happening. Right now there’s more than a dozen plants sharing our space and of those 15, I’m ‘mom’ to 8 African violets. All eight are blooming. At the same time! I’ve never had that happen before. They’re in different rooms but spread the word somehow (probably through the Internet, the moochers) that it was time to be united and show off. I moved them to the table for a family reunion (several are offspring that Hubs separated and replanted for me). Every time I see all these tiny flowers I’m reminded how kind my neighbor was to encourage me towards growing some houseplants. Thanks again Stella. Bloom on…

If my life were summed up in 3 words, this is it (no, not those 3 words, the following three). Lather. Rinse. Repeat. This says a lot about me. Not very interesting, but pretty much describes this deaf loner.

I consider myself a fair cook (we’ve got to eat supper every night, right?) and a bit better than middle of the road baker. I wasn’t born with a knack for either one when Hubs and I eloped in 1969. But by 1975 our family of 4 (kid #3 would wait another 4 years before completing our sum total) could count on a decent supper. But much more fun than cooking I had learned how to bake a variety of breads, cinnamon rolls, frosted cakes, scratch pies (crusts too) and cookies of all makes and models (thanks Betty).

After I acquired some cooking and baking skills I realized I enjoyed making things involving steps, sometimes several. When I baked one pie it was darn good, but if I made 8 apple pies that day, each subsequent pie turned out better than the last. Why is that? My pie crusts got thinner, (the only part of my pie making that didn’t gain) sliced the apples more uniformly, crimped crust edges, more precise. All the steps in pie baking became routine. I could feel when the right amount of water/flour had been added for perfect crusts or bread dough.

I’m positive repetition is the reason I love canning. Doing the same thing over and over (which sounds incredibly boring). Jams, jellies, bread & butter pickles, beets, applesauce, salsa, meat, are all part of the many steps needed to complete canned goods. Buying, preparing fruit and vegetables, making syrups or brine, hearing the lids ‘pop,’ wiping down jars, labeling, washing and putting away the equipment. All part of the process.

Besides the steps involved, most of the recipes I call ‘favorites’ don’t include multiple, easy-peasy layers. You know the kind of bar recipe I’m talking about-some kind of crumb/cookie mixed with a bit of melted butter patted in the bottom followed by instant pudding/milk mixture, cool whip layer, sliced bananas/fruit, including drizzled syrup, more cool whip with maraschino cherries dotting the top. Just not me, although I have a couple similar recipes I’ve used for years.

Here are 2 I’ve been making for decades. Seven layer bars: melt a stick of butter in a 9 X 13 pan, sprinkle on top 1 cup of graham cracker crumbs followed by 1 cup each of chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, nutmeats and coconut. On top of this drizzle one can of sweetened condensed milk and bake for 30 minutes. Literally takes 5 minutes to throw together. Not cheap but if you’re in a hurry this makes a satisfying, tasty bar. But scratch banana or pumpkin bars take about the same amount of time (not counting the buttercream frosting when they’re cooled), taste heavenly and are a fraction of the cost of the 7 layer bars.

My other quickie recipe is “Dirt,” not cheap either. I usually make in a plastic flower pot. Oreo cookie crumbs on the bottom, a mixture of cream cheese, butter, instant pudding, powdered sugar, milk and Cool Whip, alternating layers, ending with “dirt” on top, adding gummy worms and silk flowers. I much prefer scratch recipes though when deciding what I want to serve like German chocolate cake, rhubarb bars or banana cream pie with homemade filling made on the stove.

I’m sure there are throngs of folks who haven’t experienced hardship in their finances/lifestyle during the last 3 years. We are not among that group. There has been a significant decline in how far our money is stretched lately. I’m observant and track prices of the items like groceries/gas/utilities we use.

While I wasn’t actively seeking employment to help out I applied for a job last fall. After the interview I was hopeful and enthusiastic. Part time, baking for a restaurant. It’s taken some getting used to because it’s not way I’ve made baked goods my entire adult life and I’m a very old dog learning new tricks. Very old. And slow. The first couple months were highly stressful and I made mistakes. But the stress has been good for my diet (I lost several pounds).

There are definite perks to this job. I can set my own hours, early or later in the day-doesn’t matter (but you guys know I don’t sleep well and wake up at the butt crack of dawn). I work in a well equipped, good sized kitchen with lots of windows and a great view. The oven’s exhaust is unbelievably noisy but my new hearing aid has a feature to mute most of the noise yet I’m able to hear the oven’s timer. My work week is usually 3 days, 5-7 hours long. Each of these days consists of 6 dozen muffins and 6 to 8 pies. There are 7 varieties of muffins and 18 different pies. Of the 18, 3-5 are more popular than the rest so I make them a couple times a week. The rest are on a rotation and scheduled usually once a week.

The best part of my job? Working by myself. Absolutely. Never having to ask, “beg your pardon? What did you say? Sorry, couldn’t hear you? Excuse me, what?” Long as my arthritic hands, chronic back issues and left knee replacement holds off, I’m gonna keep working. Although my work day varies, it’s just more repetition. Something I’m very comfortable with. After several months it’s just like the rest of my life. Lather. Rinse. Repeat…

Before we moved from North Muskegon in 2015, John and I discussed what features we wanted in our next home. For 21 years we lived in a large 2 story house on a lake (which didn’t interest us much anymore). We wanted something smaller on one level. I was ready for a condo but Hubs still enjoyed yard work and was not willing to give that up. Sigh. But beyond living fairly close to our 3 kids our list of ‘must haves’ wasn’t extensive.

Raising three kids during the first 30 plus years determined what we required in house size, location and school district that benefitted the needs of our three kids (we didn’t always make the right decision here either-but we tried) so the wants and needs for the 2 of us wasn’t something we’d ever experienced before. Hubs envisioned a few acres outside of town which included a pole barn where he could refurbish an old car or truck. That scenario didn’t appeal to me at all. He’s the social butterfly and enjoys gabbing with all the neighbors. Me, not so much. I’m not antisocial but dealing with a profound hearing loss for the last 25 years has inhibited friendships and conversations.

I thought we were destined to live within the city limits in an older neighborhood but that wasn’t the case. When the realtor showed us the 4th or 5th house on that hot August day I had no idea where we were exactly (and we had lived in this city for 7 years 22 years ago). A large, well established neighborhood with long streets, smaller homes and lots. Houses built during the 1960’s, mostly bi-level or ranch style.

The house had been repossessed and needed updating but I liked the layout, yard and garage. The front door was purple and the storm door was hanging on by one screw. It had blown open so many times there were a couple shards of glass clinging to the frame but the rest covered the ground. Yikes. The neighborhood looked quiet and middle class-like us.

With some elbow grease, gallons of fresh paint, new flooring, appliances we moved right before Halloween and it’s been our cozy home (cozy-polite term for a tad too small, yet still sufficient) for the last 7-1/2 years. New landscaping, green-weed-less-yard (he’s anal about the yard and shrubs) added another garage, new central air, water heater-ok everything but the furnace. And since I made the mistake of mentioning it, that too has probably been jinxed now.

The neighborhood is exactly what we thought since first time we drove through it. Quiet. But we’ve definitely noticed a pattern in the transience of the folks who move in and out. I’m talking about a dozen homes closest to us, 6 on our side of the street and six across from us. Of those 12 houses 2 of the owners have been here longer than our less than 8 years. That just blows me away! A couple of the homes have changed hands more than once.

I don’t think more than a couple owners are in the age group between 45-60. If you move on our street there’s a high probability that you’re either retired or just starting out. Rather unlikely you’re 42 with 3 kids. This is a neighborhood of starters and enders (you guessed it, we’re in the enders category).

This rang painfully/joyfully true a couple of months ago. Jessica, our neighbor to the east told us last fall she was expecting a baby in late March. Yay! Our neighbors, Jeff and Cindy across the street (who moved here when they were newlyweds in the mid 70’s raising 3 kids in their house) told us 18 months ago that Jeff had early onset dementia (they’re younger than us by a few years).

This winter Jeff started slipping. Couldn’t remember his way home when he walked the dog and had trouble coming up with words when carrying on a conversation. He loved John’s 1962 Studebaker pickup and enjoyed going for a ride, so he and Hubs went out for breakfast and drove around a bit every couple weeks. Suddenly Jeff didn’t want to go eat out anymore, he couldn’t read the menu and didn’t have an appetite.

As we headed home after a short trip to Mississippi, (thanks Pat & Jeff) trying to beat the much publicized ‘ice storm’ in late February, Cindy texted that Jeff hadn’t eaten in several days, was sleeping most of the time and Hospice had been called. The day after we got home, the storm hit with a vengeance, knocking out the power for 48-72 hours in our neighborhood. Jessica and Cody were heading to the hospital to deliver their baby 3 weeks early and Jeff & Cindy’s family were sitting in utter darkness, literally and figuratively as Jeff’s life was ending. (Later we learned had Consumer’s Power been aware of Jeff’s impending death they would have provided their home with a generator).

Within a couple days we lost a good friend across the street and gained a tiny baby boy next door. The sad and happy circle of life…

For 5 years we had been living in our first (and last) lake home on Muskegon Lake, about a mile from Lake Michigan by water. A quiet cul-de-sac at the bottom of a steep hill which originally held 5 homes and some extra lots. The back of our house faced the lake with downtown Muskegon on the opposite shore. Our view from the front was an older neighborhood straight up the hill or the park due east with soccer fields, a baseball diamond and shelter house.

We were enjoying most aspects of life on the lake except for ‘Shack City’ which appeared on ice (without an invitation) every January. From that day forward I longed for the coveted day in mid-March when the solid ice broke up and returned to liquid form. We added a massive sea wall to stem the loss of land which ironically included a bonus. The influx of 100’s of snowmobiles on the ice who routinely zipped through our backyard-on and off until our shoreline was filled with bowling ball sized rocks. Unless they wanted considerable damage to their machine they had to find another place to exit off the ice. Win-win for us!

I’m not sure of the exact date but it was around Memorial Day in late May. We had a wicked spring storm that knocked out the power for a day. When it was restored I caught up the laundry, cooked a meal and things were back to normal-for less than 24 hours. Early the next morning we were hit by a massive storm. Torrential rain and unbelievable winds around 100 mph. They called it a ‘straight wind’ storm and the damage to our small town was significant.

This was two months after I made the decision to get healthier and lose weight. And I was committed. Walking 5 miles a day, eating better, (tough because I worked at McDonald’s and still love their fries and sausage biscuits to this day). The storm started right before dawn and knocked out the power again. But it was light out and warm enough so I put on walking clothes and headed up the hill and west.

About a mile from home I noticed a huge branch on the sidewalk ahead of me so I veered onto Ruddiman and continued walking. My nifty little iPod was cranking out crazy tunes to keep my butt moving. A few seconds later a utility truck stops right in front of me and a guy hops out to get my attention. I took off my headphones and he yelled, “Lady, what are you doing out here? Those are live wires on the sidewalk and road. It’s not safe for you to walk. Go home and don’t get close to any wires!”

Dang, that was harsh, but I took his snarky advice and trudged back home. Hubs had heard strange noises during the storm and was in the back yard inspecting the house. The wind had knocked out several under eaves and he was picking them up off the lawn. I followed his upward gaze. “Holy cow, that’s pretty high up. Who are you gonna hire to put those back up there?” “No one, I’m gonna do it.” “No you’re not!”

Which of course he did. Probably the scariest thing he’s ever done and that included his friends holding him upside down by his legs over a railroad trestle on Highway 18 so he could spray paint RV 66. But then he had been 17 and omnipotent. A couple months before the storm Hubs celebrated birthday #50. The tracks that kept the under eaves in place were damaged so he decided to rivet them in place-very near the top of a 20 foot ladder on our 2 story house. He still thanks God for keeping him safe through that.

By day 2 after the storm most of the power had been restored in North Muskegon-but not for the folks residing in the cul-de-sac at the bottom of the hill. We grilled supper or ate out but stayed in the house because we had a gas water heater and could shower.

But I was fretting about my freezers (which were full of meat and fruit pies) when my amazing McDonald’s boss/owner Mark told me I could use the walk-in freezer at the restaurant to store my foodstuff until we got power back. It was 7 long days before the power was restored.

Since that storm 25 years ago I have acquired a healthy dose of fear about losing power again for any length of time. Others might say my fear leans more towards irrational, illogical, unrealistic or implausible. They are entitled to their opinion as am I.

I have been a quantities shopper since I’ve had a spare 20 dollar bill in my wallet. I keep my freezer filled with supper options depending on what I’m craving ribs, shrimp, steak, chicken, pork chops or a beef roast. And I still ‘stew’ about losing power. Since our move 7 years ago I’ve periodically zhanicked (Dutch slang for whined) about buying a generator as Hubs nods in agreement. Lo and behold last fall he quips, “found the generator I want. It’s on sale, I’m heading to Chelsea.” (Thank you Jesus)

Not been without a couple hiccups getting it ready to run our house should the power go out. The generator rolled over Hubs as he was unloading it (he said it’s quite heavy and rolls rather fast on those little wheels), which required a trip to the ER. Subsequently he can’t lift anything over 5 pounds with his left wrist and later developed water on his elbow which was just drained by a specialist. Then we discovered our breaker box was obsolete and doesn’t supply enough juice so we hired an electrician to install and upgrade a new Square D box while waiting 2 months for Consumers to kill the power, then coordinate with the city inspector to approve the electrician’s work and sign off on it, which meant a day without power in December. Part of the irony of having a generator ready to run the house but unable to do the job until receiving Consumers’ and the city’s blessing.

Finally in mid-December we were ready for a natural disaster. Yay! (Should I really be celebrating that)? John filled multiple 5 gallon tanks of gas and periodically starts the generator. Two short months after the necessary improvements we were hit by a massive ice storm. We lost electricity at 7 pm on a Wednesday but didn’t get the generator out immediately in case the power was out for a short time. After an hour Hubs slid the generator near the deck and started it. Lights, furnace, (and most importantly, my freezer happily humming again). We lost the internet so had no TV but every other comfort of home. Our electricity was out for 48 hours but the neighbors across the street were without for 72. They brought their phones and tablets here to charge. Hubs brought them thermos’ of coffee every morning and I made them a pot of soup for supper. Our granddaughter, her boyfriend and 2 cats stayed here for several days because their house 8 miles away was without power a couple days longer than our neighborhood.

We were surprised at how much noise the generator generates. It’s loud! This spring Hubs is gonna vent it out of the garage so we can leave it in there and the noise level will be substantially lower. Was it worth the money and hassle? For my peace of mind? Ab-so-lute-ly…

Hubs got a beer making kit from his favorite son-in-law for Christmas. The large box sat on the counter in the pantry since that December day. “Dude, what’s the hold up here?” “I’m torn. I got issues.” Oh my stars, here we go. We’re diving into the background on his “issues,” which occurred over a half century ago in 1969.

Johnny Wayne and I were having some serious conversations about what exactly the future held for us. I was 18, he was 21. I had boundary issues concerning my folks. I was a belligerent, selfish brat trying to make my own decisions but failing miserably when it came to opposing mom & dad on anything but there I was on the cusp-of-the-rest-of-my-life.

The line in the sand on their part was the elimination of Johnny from my life on a permanent basis. This was one of their several semi-successful-mostly failed attempts on their part to ‘encourage’ their wayward daughter to seek a path of less/no resistance where mom and dad’s opinions about how I lived my life were concerned.

Meanwhile Johnny and I were devising the ultimate secret plan which would culminate in the fall. This is what played out during the rest of our summer of ‘69. We were staying on the ‘down low’ because many of our friends in Sioux City were from our hometown (60 miles away). None of them would ‘out’ us intentionally but a mere slip of the tongue by one of them when talking to family and the whole of Rock Valley proper would in on our plan. So we told NO ONE. Until we needed help pulling it off.

One of ‘those’ friends had just graduated from college and landed his first teaching job in South Sioux City, Nebraska. Not enough time for a summer job, zero income, no where to live, so Johnny says, “Dale, come stay with me. I’ll pay for everything until you get paid and find a place of your own.”

I was living in a boarding house with several young women and working a variety of shifts at a nursing home. John worked a combination of days and nights at Channel 4, so the new roomies could not go out very often. Which was good since they could ill afford to blow a wad of money neither of them had. Many nights were spent with a six pack of Hamm’s (from the land of sky blue wa-ters) sitting on the front porch and Dale strumming his guitar.

Out of boredom they came up with the clever idea to make their own beer. Elton, a mutual friend had often reminisced about the beer his dad brewed in Oklahoma. The process would take weeks and give them something to do (and drink). So they called Elton, who called his dad and relayed the recipe to the Iowa guys.

They bought a new plastic garbage can, mixed up the ingredients and stuck it under the kitchen sink. After a few days threw in an alcohol thermometer to see when the brew could be bottled. Zero, zilch, nada on alcohol content a couple weeks later. Called Elton back and asked for remedies to register some booze in the beer. Elton called his dad who suggested tossing in a couple apples so fermentation could get a jumpstart. The boys threw in a large bag of apples. A couple days later they walked into foam filled kitchen. A sticky mess, but registering a high alcohol reading. Hauled the can downstairs, removed the alcohol infused apples and bottled their beer, anxious to try some.

Later when they were asleep one of them woke up to loud popping sounds. Bottles of beer were exploding in the basement. Not just popping the cork but shards of glass and beer everywhere. They decided to move the intact bottles to a metal tank, immersing them and running cold water continuously. (Aren’t you glad you didn’t own this place or paid the water bill)? Couple weeks later these yahoos could get a buzz on after one bottle of beer. (Good grief, what was I getting into)?

This is one of Hubs favorite stories involving his best friend Dale, who passed away unexpectedly 2 years ago. I’m guessing John felt disloyal with the thought of brewing beer without him. Hubs finally read the beer instruction manual (several pages long, in minute detail, unlike the lackadaisical recipe via Elton years ago) and together (I’m a poor substitute for Dale and wouldn’t drink a beer for less than a thousand bucks-prepaid-in cash) but it was kind of fun, hops and yeast everywhere. I think Hubs can finish his beer project without me. Oh, and the secret plan commenced on September 22, 1969 when Johnny Wayne & Neese eloped in Elk Point, South Dakota with Dale and a complete stranger as our witnesses. So much fun spreading the news to our parents. Yikes…

I didn’t grow up on Campbell’s soup but my childhood home was never without a variety of cans either. It was a quick fix if I came home for dinner (noon meal in Iowa speak) instead of eating hot lunch at school (we lived a block away). School lunch hours were not an hour (they lied) and it took too long to bake a chicken pot pie or Swanson’s Turkey TV dinner, my favorite, which was reserved for Sunday’s-after-church-dinner when mom worked weekends.

No microwave, had to use a saucepan on our gas stove. I was partial to 3 varieties, Chicken Noodle, Vegetable Beef and my favorite, Bean with Bacon. (The chicken noodle and vegetable beef were both guaranteed to contain 3 ‘red hot’ sized morsels of meat per can. This has been verified numerous times by my quality control department-me. However no bacon was ever documented but the smokey pork aroma wafted upward as the can opener did its job).

I don’t remember if there were other brands of canned, condensed soups at the Koster’s Market but if there were, mom was loyal to Campbell’s. She loved casseroles (dad, not so much) and used condensed soups as the agent that held/brought everything together. The cook book she used most often was from Western Christian High School. I swear every other recipe (other than cookies and cakes were made with some kind of canned cream soup). But mom was funny about what flavor soups she used too.

She never used Cream of Mushroom soup, not even in Thanksgiving green bean casserole. She thought the mushroom taste was overpowering and substituted Cream of Celery or Cream of Chicken in everything. Ok, guess who has 2 cans of Cream of Mushroom in the house while storing 6-8 cans each of-Cream of Celery & Cream of Chicken? (I am my mother’s daughter after all).

Canned soups weren’t eaten very often because mom excelled at homemade soups, using dried navy beans or whole peas after soaking those little rocks overnight in (melted pristine white snow collected from our backyard) with a ham bone or pork hocks. Chicken soup and Vegetable beef rounded out her rotation of winter soups on our menu. We never had chili (although my dad loved it) and tomato soup from scratch or a can has never crossed my lips (and I love, love tomatoes) which is kinda weird.

I’ve been pretty lucky (blessed) with decent health my whole life. It’s rare when I don’t feel pretty darn good physically, but I’ve been under the weather for a few days. Something I caught from the Hubs who brought it into this house last weekend from Detroit. Not Covid, not upper respiratory, just achy limbs, muscles, nauseous tummy and hurting head. I slept Thursday and Friday away, another oddity for the gal who generally gets 5 hours a night. To let you know how lousy I felt, I fell asleep during the Iowa Hawkeye game Thursday. Well we were getting shellacked by Purdue, but still. I did manage to stay awake through my grandson’s Landon’s Friday night basketball game (on TV) which ended up being a nail biter (we won and he had a good game).

My normally over-zealous appetite has been missing in action. I drank a half a cup of tea on Thursday during the time frame I managed to stay awake. While John was eating I went into another room and covered my face with a cloth napkin to avoid the smell of food. Nothing sounded good, even after my stomach started complaining about being ignored and empty too long. There seemed to be a metallic taste in my mouth-blech. But Friday I had tea with a slice of toast and a small bowl of soup (pea-my only homemade left) and didn’t feel as bad. Saturday morning coffee smelled good again. By lunch I felt hungry but the homemade soups in the freezer consisted of chili-egg drop-or clam chowder, umm that would be a sure-fire no on all three (those are Hubs favorites, not mine and how did I get so low on my soups? I usually keep a supply on hand).

So what could I eat? Grilled cheese sounded kinda good. I haven’t made one in a long time, and I keep Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup on hand for Hubs. Again something I’ve not eaten in years. With that plan I headed to the kitchen.

Threw the soup in a cup into the microwave and fried a grilled cheese. After 15 minutes of diligent searching I managed to find the 2-3 microscopic pieces of chicken (one might have split in half) in my can of soup so I didn’t get cheated there. Made sure I ate them both although it was hard to tell, they slid down easily with the salty broth. The grilled cheese tasted good with a couple sips of my first Diet Pepsi in 3 days. Kinda disappointed in the soup. Hubs was equally disappointed when he saw I left over half of it.

By Saturday my appetite was back and I was feeling well enough to spend time in the kitchen. It seemed criminal to use a 12 dollar roast for a pot of soup but the days of a boneless chuck roast for $2.49 a pound are long gone and I was craving Vegetable Beef Barley. M’m M’m good…